‘Until what?’

The priest thought of the homeless man who had been burned alive outside the church only days before.

‘Nothing of any interest to you. There was an incident, that’s all.’

The priest was unsettled, suspicious. Was the re-emergence of Nicholas Laverne connected with the murder? Was the man sitting across the kitchen table, only feet away from him, somehow involved in the death of the homeless man? The victim no one could place. The man without identification, or history. Burned to death in the porch of the church. His church. The church where Nicholas Laverne had once listened to confession and given absolution of sins. From where the Church had exiled him as a traitor, a liar, the Devil’s recruit. Excommunicated because of his exposing of a scandal, his complete rejection of the Christian faith and, worse, his abuse of the Host at Mass …

Father Michael remembered it as though he were watching it take place before his eyes. Nicholas had been hounded for going to the press, but although barred from the Church, he had entered their neighbour church, St Barnabas’s, one day and made his way to the altar rail. Father Luke had been giving Mass and had looked at Nicholas in horrified disbelief as he knocked the wine and wafers out of his hands, the red wine spotting his white and gold vestments as the congregants fled to the back of the church.

It had been an unholy sin.

The old priest closed his eyes against the image. Nicholas had then left, shouting at the top of his lungs, white-skinned with fury. A madman. No, not a madman … But now he was back, a decade later, and what had he become in the meantime? the priest thought uneasily. A murderer?

‘What is it?’

His mouth dried as Nicholas stared at him, unblinking. ‘What are you afraid of?’

‘You, Nicholas,’ the old priest replied. ‘I’m afraid of you.’

Two

Paris, France

Sabine Monette glanced at the phone once more, her hand hovering over it. Should she ring him? Should she? Why not? But then again, why risk it? She pulled on her coat and walked out into the street, skirting a motorbike propped up against the kerb.

For a woman in her late sixties, Sabine moved quickly, her posture erect. Widowhood suited her, the death of Monsieur Monette providing her with money without benefits. How sad, her friends told her, to be alone. Without a man, in a cold bed. Sabine put on a show of sorrow to please them, but relished her release from wifely tedium. Monsieur Monette had been irksome in the main and to live alone was a glorious indulgence. There were no irritating reminders of male vanity, aftershave unsuitable on sagging skin. No haemorrhoid cream in the bathroom. No newspapers thick with finance and thin on gossip. No tiresome denials of affairs. No wheezing, dry coughing in the moments before sleep.

Monette had had few good points, but dying was his masterstroke.

His demise had left Sabine free to pursue her obsession with the arts. With enough money to invest in Dutch painting, she had amassed a limited, but prestigious collection of Bruegel and Bosch, fighting off dealers and established collectors. In her secluded château outside Paris, she hung her trophies, ensuring their safety by the addition of alarms, intruder lights and dogs. In this cosy little blister of plenty, Sabine could have lived out her days in peace. But then something happened that changed everything.

Madame Monette became a thief.

Three

London

Working late at the office, Honor rubbed her temples to keep herself awake then turned back to the file she had been reading. It was a dry case about fraud, a subject she loathed but one which would ensure the long overdue promotion she had been promised. If she won this case, she would become a partner at the law firm. After eleven years. After harassment, bigotry and prejudice. After long days and longer nights in the office she had come to know better than her flat. But it would be worth it to get her name on the bloody door. Yes, it would all turn out to be worth it.

Or then again, maybe it wouldn’t.

Standing up and looking out on to the street below, she checked her watch and frowned. Ten thirty at night – no wonder she wasn’t in a relationship. What man would put up with hours like this? Her husband certainly hadn’t. Perched on the edge of her desk, Honor turned a framed photograph around to face her. She should put it away. After all, who had a photograph of their brother on their desk? But then again, her brother was all she had.

And she didn’t even have him now. Not unless he reappeared. He was troubled, abusive, uncontrollable. Made himself into a nuisance. Yes, Honor thought, you certainly did that. Made yourself into a bloody nuisance asking all those questions. And getting no answers for your trouble …

Her mind went back to their childhood. After the car accident that killed their parents, the three of them – her and her two brothers, Nicholas and Henry – had been taken in by their unmarried uncle. David Laverne was a man who had made a fortune in plastics and retired to the countryside with a selection of old 78 records which he played at full volume. It hadn’t mattered when he was alone, but when three children arrived unexpectedly, David found his self-imposed – if noisy – seclusion breached. Henry, aged sixteen, was not too much of a shock for him; he was responsible and old for his years, even professing an interest in the vintage 78s and the overgrown vegetable garden. But Nicholas, at fourteen, was a loose cannon.

It was down to Honor to become her brother’s willing apologist, because Henry seldom took Nicholas’s side. Shortsighted without the glasses he avoided wearing, Henry soon assumed a paternal role over his younger siblings. Clever and talented, charming by instinct but mean when ignored, Henry made Nicholas appear even more of an outsider and as the years passed Henry grew to despise his younger brother’s recklessness and teenage lasciviousness. Everyone knew Henry was earmarked for success, Nicholas’s dark nature and appearance the flip side to his classy charm.

Honor had loved both of them, but Nicholas she found fascinating. So she had covered up for his misdeeds, lied for him, made excuses for him, soothed their exasperated uncle when he came close to having Nicholas put into care. All through their growing up Honor had been a constant: an admirer of Henry and a protector for Nicholas. But I wasn’t really the nice kid everyone believed I was, Honor thought. Fraud, she mused, glancing back at the file on her desk. We’re all frauds really. All pretending we’re something we’re not.

‘You are here.’

She looked over at the door, where a man stood watching her: Mark Spencer, slightly senior to her, wanting to get personal. And failing. ‘Like to go for a drink?’

‘Can’t. I’ve got to finish this.’

‘But I’ve just heard something gross, and I have to share it with someone,’ Mark went on, moving his stocky little body further into her office. ‘Some down-and-out’s been burned alive. Only a couple of streets from here. Outside a church.’

‘Jesus. Who was it?’

‘No one knows, but the security guy told me he’d been hanging around for the last few weeks. On his uppers, sleeping rough apparently.’

He slid further into Honor’s office, facing her full on so that she wouldn’t notice his bald spot. Thirty-five, due to be a slaphead at forty. Using fibre powder to colour in his scalp. No one told him it left residue on the back of his collar when he sweated.

‘How old was he?’

Mark shrugged. ‘Not old, not young. Who knows? They look older when they’ve been sleeping rough. He just dossed down in the church porch and someone made a firework out of the poor bastard. Christian charity, hey?’Mark paused, ready to try his luck again. ‘Sure about that drink?’