She was exhausted Dr. Patterson had given her some capsules, and yesterday they'd turned her into a zombie. Despite all John's attempts, she had refused to take them today. She wanted to be able to think clearly, but it didn't seem to make any difference. The same confused thoughts and fears haunted her brain. Casey. The air line. The broken connector. She had got out of her car, gone into Casey's room and found the air line separated. Surely she would remember if - if she had -?

  She shivered. It was as though there was a compartment in her mind that she could not reach. She had been in her car and then she had been on the floor in Casey's room holding the two separated bits of air line. Some space in between was locked in that compartment. The same compartment that contained something that had happened with Miles Van Rhoe. She had been running and then Miles Van Rhoe was sinking to the ground with a cellular phone sticking out of his eye. And still no one had said a word about him. Every time she mentioned his name to John, he blanched and changed the subject. Yesterday she had rang Van Rhoe's office and spoken to his ice-queen secretary, who told her that Miles Van Rhoe was out of the country.

  If he was away, abroad, he must be all right, mustn't he?

  But she still felt that John was trying to protect her from something - or, as she suspected more strongly, was trying to hide something from her. The truth?

  What truth?

  Was John playing for time, just keeping her sweet? Helping Mr. Sarotzini? Were they going to come for Verity today, tomorrow? Next week? When?

  John had met with the lawyer, Elizabeth Frazer, on Tuesday. When he'd come home, he said there was nothing they could do because any action they took would involving serving papers on Mr. Sarotzini. Elizabeth Frazer hadn't said anything about that to her.

  Had John been lying?

  Maybe her parents were in on this too? On all their visits to the clinic, she'd repeatedly told them exactly what had happened that pre-dawn morning in Casey's room - at least, as much as she could recall - and although they had nodded convincingly, she had caught those glances between them, those furtive, fleeting moments of eye contact.

  And, sometimes, in her darker moments, Susan wondered if there had been another reason why they glanced at each other. Did I do it? Had I flipped?

  Am I insane?

  Her mouth was parched. Her lemonade stood on the grass beside her, but she was too tired even to reach down for it.

  The constant stream of visitors was wearying. For the past three days it had been just like in California; and it was much the same mix of people, mostly middle Europeans but others too. All were unfailingly polite: they came to pay their respects, left their gifts and departed. Even so, mistrustful, Susan sat in vigilant guard by the cot throughout every visit.

  Verity had received so many gifts that they were starting to have problems over where to put them. Two of the spare rooms were already at capacity. She heard the doorbell ring. Must be after two: the visitors never came before then, as if observing the courtesy of allowing her the mornings to herself. John could deal with them, or the nanny. She drifted into a troubled doze.

  John had the entire contents of his golf bag spread out on the hall floor in an endeavour to find his swipe card for the clubhouse locker room. Late for his game, and in a filthy mood, he opened the front door and saw an overweight but distinguished-looking man in a business suit with a raincoat over his arm, perspiring heavily. He reminded John of someone, and then he realised who: the actor Robert de Nifo.

  "Good afternoon," the man said, in a gentle, cultured voice. "My name is Doctor Freer. I was a friend of Fergus Donleavy."

  "Ah," John said. The man didn't look like a medic. "Yes. Very sad, that. Terrible."

  "It was, it was quite terrible," Freer said. "Tragic. He was a fine man, remarkable intellect. Formidable."

  John wasn't in the mood right now for eulogies. And he'd always thought Susan had been a bit too fond of Fergus Donleavy. "Is my wife expecting you?"

  "No, no, I just called, on the off-chance. I hope it's not -?"

  "Susan's resting at the moment. She's very tired."

  Freer tried not to show that he was pleased by this news.

  "Would you like to come in? You're welcome to wait, but I don't want to wake her."

  "Well, if it's no trouble?".

  John glanced at his watch. One twenty. He had to get going. He went through to the garden and signalled for the nanny. "Caroline," he said as she came hurrying in, "Doctor Freer's come to see Susan. He'll wait until she's woken up. Could you look after him?"

  "Yes, of course, Mr. Carter." She turned to the priest. "Would you like to sit out in the garden?"

  Freer mopped his brow with his handkerchief. "Thank you. If it's no trouble, I would prefer to sit inside in the shade."

  "Of course." She looked at John for instructions.

  "It's cool in the drawing room," John said.

  She led him through. John knelt down again and began hastily to repack his golf bag. He heard the nanny ask the priest if he would like a drink, and the priest, politely, requested a glass of water.

  Euan Freer sat down on a large, comfortable sofa. The young woman came in with a tumbler of iced water. "Can I hang that up for you?" she asked.

  He placed a protective arm over his raincoat, which lay carefully folded beside him. "No, thank you, it's fine." He smiled at her.

  "I'll be outside," she said. "I'll let Mrs. Carter know you're here as soon as she wakes."

  He thanked her and sipped his water. He heard the front door open then close and a few moments later the sound of a car starting and driving off. Then silence.

  He stood up and walked over to the window. A woman in a cotton dress lay sleeping in a lounger - Susan Carter, he presumed. The young woman who had brought his drink was seated at table near her, absorbed in threading cotton through an object, a mobile of some sort. No sign of the baby: it must be in its room.

  Good.

  Scooping up his raincoat he walked quickly into the hallway, then stood still, holding his breath, listening. Trying to be quiet, he climbed the stairs, panting from the exertion as he reached the top and perspiring even more heavily now, his nerves in shreds.

  He stopped and listened. His heart was tugging inside his chest and his throat felt tight. He looked down at the empty hall, then turned and, stared along the landing. It was cold here and the air felt sluggish, as if all the energy was being drained from it. A door was ajar at the far end.

  A voice inside his head told him to forget this crazy idea, to go back downstairs, to leave this house, to make an appointment with the bishop and deal with this via the proper channels.

  And yes, yes, that would be much easier. Walk away. Forget about this. Yesterday, when the plan had been forming in his mind, it had seemed so simple. He had slept remarkably well and had woken this morning with his conviction strengthened and his courage high. But now that he was actually here, he felt daunted.

  And taking a life, any life It was sanctioned, yes, in the Bible, but Closing his eyes, he prayed, "Oh, God, give me strength." Then, as quietly as he could, he tiptoed down the landing, entered the room and closed the door behind him.

  The cold air made him gasp. A vapour trail rose from his mouth. His eyes jumped around, looking for an air-conditioning unit, but could see none. The curtains were drawn and it was dim in the room, but not dark. There to his right, against the wall, was a plain, simple cot, prettily draped in white, embroidered linen, with a small rug in front of it on the otherwise bare floorboards.

  He tiptoed across and peered in, trembling terribly. The baby was asleep, a thin trail of vapour rising from its mouth. How could any baby survive in this cold?

  His heart whipping the walls of his chest, he stared for some moments at the tiny scrunched-up face, so pink against the white sheets. The flame-red hair, the eyes closed, the tiny lips pursed together, the minute fingers of one hand entwined in the loose weave of the cotton blanket.

  It was hard to believe that this was it, this little creature, so sweet and innocent-looking. Except that he could feel the presence radiating from it. He could feel its raw, hideous energy, and he knew he mustn't falter, must not be deflected by any emotion, must not allow doubt to enter his mind.

  His teeth chattering with cold and fear, he started to whisper the words of the Lord's Prayer, so quietly they were barely audible. And as he reached the end of the prayer, he let the raincoat slip to the ground and raised the blade of the stainless-steel knife above his head, gripping the handle in both of his sweating, slippery hands.

  And suddenly he could hear a terrifying hissing. It was the sound of his own blood coursing through his veins.

  It was as if all the valves in his body had been opened, all the taps turned on, and the blood was hurtling through his system. His heart was throbbing, vibrating, shaking on its mountings, sending pains shooting down his chest, his arms, his legs. There was a terrible pain inside his head. His vision blurred. Then, with a clatter, the knife fell to the floor. He let out a small, stifled croak.

  Susan, startled awake by the nanny's shout, scrambled out of her recliner. Panic-stricken, the girl was already running in through the patio doors. Susan followed her upstairs, shouting for John.

  The sight of the closed door deepened her alarm. The nanny sprinted ahead down the landing, hurled it open, then stopped in the doorway. Susan crowded in behind her.

  A man she had never seen before, one of the damned visitors, she guessed, was on one knee, a raincoat spread out on the floor beside him, looking up at them, his face clammy and pallid. Heart in her mouth, she dashed to the cot and stared down. To her relief, Verity was sleeping peacefully.

  She heard the nanny say, in a scolding tone, "What are you doing up here?" The stranger, sounding short of breath, gasped, "I - I'm - so - so sorry I--"

  Susan knelt beside the man, trawling her brain for the first-aid protocols she had learnt, years back. He might be having a heart attack. She seized his wrist, searching for the pulse, and shivered. The room felt cold -maybe it was just shock.

  The man grimaced at her apologetically, and then up at the nanny. "I -just wanted - to see the baby. The heat - it - I -"

  Susan found the pulse and looked at her watch. The pulse was high, racing.

  "I'm all right," he said, glancing anxiously at his raincoat. "The heat. I'm all right, thank you very much, I'm sorry."

  Releasing his wrist, Susan turned to the nanny, who had the back of her hand pressed to his forehead, testing his temperature. "I think you'd better call an ambulance, he doesn't look right."

  He shook his head. "No, thank you, I -" He scooped up his raincoat clumsily from the floor, folded it several times, like a bundle of laundry, jammed it under his arm and stood up. "The heat," he said. "Outside - I made a mistake, didn't realise how warm it was."

  "You feel very cold," the nanny said. "Do you have a heart condition? Blood pressure problems?"

  "No, no problems, nothing important."

  "You'd better come downstairs and sit down for a few minutes," Susan said. "Are you OK to walk?"

  "Yes, yes, thank you, yes, I'm fine."

  Susan led the way along the landing, the nanny flanking behind, and stayed close to him on the stairs, ready to grab him if he looked like falling. She led him through to the drawing room and he perched on the edge of the sofa, holding the raincoat on his lap.

  "Can I get you anything?" Susan asked.

  "No, I -" He glanced round. "I still have my glass of water, thank you." He picked it up with a hand that shook so much, water slopped over the top.

  "Your husband asked me to show him in here," the nanny said to Susan by way of an explanation.

  "Who are you?" Susan asked.

  "Euan - er - Doctor Freer. Did Fergus Donleavy ever mention my name to you?"

  "Fergus?" she said in surprise. "He was a very good friend."

  "Fergus Donleavy?"

  "Yes." He drank some water, the glass clattering against his teeth. "A good man. He's left a very big hole behind him."

  "Are you the professor of theology? And Archdeacon Emeritus of...?" He nodded.

  "Yes, he has talked about you." Her expression softened. "I wanted to go to his funeral, but I - I was away. I was very shocked by his death. It was just so..."

  Freer glanced warily at the nanny, then asked Susan, "This young lady?" "Caroline Hughes, our nanny."

  "Would it be possible, Mrs. Carter, just for a few minutes, that you and I might speak in private?"

  "I'll go up and check Verity," the nanny said, and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  The clergyman looked up at the ceiling and lowered his voice, as if nervous of being overheard. "Mrs. Carter, how much did Fergus tell you about your baby?"

  She sat down in an armchair opposite him. "He came round on the afternoon of the night he - he died." She was silent collecting her thoughts, feeling very lucid, suddenly, far more clear-headed than she had for days. It was comforting to be in the presence of a priest.

  "He was tense, but he wasn't very clear. He told me there was a file on my obstetrician, Miles Van Rhoe, at Scotland Yard - that Van Rhoe was involved in the ritual sacrifice of babies. And that a man with the same name as my baby's surrogate father, Mr. Sarotzini, was a notorious occultist before the war - the devil incarnate, he called him."

  The priest nodded.

  Then she remembered something else. "Oh, yes, it was strange. We were having lunch one day last year, and he suddenly asked me if I was planning to get pregnant - that thought really seemed to worry him." "And what did you tell him?"

  "I lied - I said no, and that calmed him down. It was a surrogate baby - I don't know if-?"

  "Yes, I know." Freer glanced up at the ceiling again, his mind in turmoil. Should he try again to kill the thing - and then himself?. Did he have the courage? He could go back up there, before they realised what he was doing. He could go into the room, sweep past the nanny, and do it. He should do it.

  Except. He had already failed once. Perhaps that was God's hand restraining him, trying to show him there was another way, a better way. Or perhaps he just lacked the courage. He took a breath and in a voice that was barely above a whisper, said "Susan, did Fergus explain to you what you have here in your house?"

  She frowned, not comprehending.

  "Your baby must have the protection of the Church. And you and your husband."

  "Protection?"

  "We are going to have to work very hard, you, your husband and I. And we will need the help of others. Is your husband a churchgoer?"

  "No. What do you mean "work hard"?"

  Still shaking badly, he drank some more water. "Everything Fergus told you is true, but this is not about protecting the baby from being taken for sacrifice, this is something else altogether."

  "What is it?"

  "I don't think we should talk here. You must bring the baby to me, you and your husband, I want to start by baptising her. We must do it quickly. You have been baptised?"

  "Yes. Please tell me what it is - what's going to happen to her." Again his eyes went up to the ceiling. "I don't know how much the baby can hear. It would be better if you and your husband come to see me. Then we can talk in safety."

  Susan began to wonder about the man's sanity. His eyes were looking wild. "Verity's only three and a half weeks old," she said. "She can't hear you."

  "Never underestimate her, Mrs. Carter. Never make that mistake. Please, always remember that in the years ahead." A few beads of perspiration ran down Freer's face and he dabbed his brow with his handkerchief "Your husband is playing golf?."

  "Yes."

  "He will be back this evening?"

  Susan nodded.

  "I want the two of you to come and see me tonight, alone. Can you do that? Leave the baby here with the nanny. It is very important that we start our work as soon as possible. The baby will be getting stronger every day. She will find it progressively easier to resist." Then, clutching the raincoat to his chest, he stood up.

  There were questions Susan desperately wanted to fire at him. "Please," she said, "Can you -?"

  "I should go," he said, interrupting her. "I don't think my presence here is good. I will help you, but you and your husband must trust me. is - is it all right if I call a taxi?"

  "Where are you going?"

  "Central London - the Brompton Road."

  "There's a local minicab firm who're good, and cheaper than a black cab. Shall I call them for you?"

  "Thank you," he said.

  Susan walked through to the kitchen, and dialled the number off the card on the wall. She felt so sick with fear she could barely give her address when the taxi firm answered. Euan Freer was someone of whom Fergus had spoken highly. Far too highly for her to dismiss him as a crank.

  When she returned to the drawing room he was seated once more on the sofa, his hands together in front of his face, eyes closed, and he was mouthing a prayer. She stood in the doorway, not wanting to intrude, waiting for him to finish, remembering Fergus's disturbed expression at lunch last year, his agitation when she had seen him last.

  The bell rang. Was that the taxi already? So quickly? She went to the front door and opened it. A blue Ford saloon with a roof aerial was sitting outside with the engine running. She turned to fetch the priest, but Euan Freer was already in the hallway, raincoat clutched untidily to his chest. "My taxi?"

  "Yes, I think so."

  He handed her a card, and looked at her imploringly. "This is my home address and phone number. You and your husband will come tonight to see me?"

  She hoped she would be able to persuade John. "I'm not sure what time he'll be back." Then she remembered something. "The nanny- she's going to a concert tonight with a friend. I told her it would be all right."

  "Come afterwards, it doesn't matter. As late as you like. You will come?"