‘I promised you nothing,’ Conrad replied warningly. ‘Contact me again and you’ll regret it.’

Sixty-Four

Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London

The thud woke him. Grabbing his cane, Father Michael hurried into Nicholas’s room as fast as he could, only to find him on the floor. Concerned, he reached down, but Nicholas pushed him away and clambered back on to the bed.

‘What happened?’

Dazed, Nicholas shook his head. ‘A nightmare,’ he explained, trying to calm his own panic. ‘I thought there was someone in the room, someone coming for me, but I couldn’t wake myself up.’ He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Night terrors, they call them. I used to suffer from them when I was kid, but I thought I’d grown out of it. God, what the hell is happening to me?’

‘Stress. You’re restless and you dream a lot.’ Father Michael poured some water from the carafe by the bed and passed it to Nicholas. ‘You dream a lot. I often hear you cry out.’ He lowered himself into the bedside chair. ‘Can I help you?’

‘No.’

‘You can trust me if you want to talk. We’re old friends, Nicholas. We’ve known each other for years. I know I let you down once, but that’s in the past. Now I want to help you.’ Father Michael’s face was lean, anxious. ‘What’s troubling you? Is it what’s happening now? Or what happened before?’ When Nicholas didn’t reply, he waited. The light from the bedside lamp glowed faintly, revealing a cramped room covered in striped paper from the 1960s, an electric fire secured halfway up one wall. One bar was lit, its red light eerie. ‘Whatever you tell me will go no further.’

‘The past is done with.’

‘No, the past is never done with until we come to terms with it, Nicholas … Do you regret what you did?’

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘I exposed wrong-doing.’

‘You betrayed your Church, your colleagues—’

‘And they betrayed Patrick Gerin and the Sullivan boy!’ Nicholas turned to look at the old priest. ‘A few years ago I went to Ireland to talk to David Sullivan, but he refused to see me. He wrote to me instead and said that I deserved everything that was coming to me.’

The priest was shocked. ‘Why would he say that?’

‘Because I failed, Father. No matter what I did, it was too late. I was too late … Mine was a pyrrhic victory.’

‘Is there nothing else?’

Sighing, Nicholas closed his eyes. He was feeling drained, limp as a glove. The nightmare had disturbed him, along with his most recent dreams. Dreams that were familiar, but altered. Changing, growing malignant, making him doubt himself and his memories. It seemed that all his mind’s silt had been scuffed up, his thoughts polluted. I need sleep, Nicholas thought. Sleep is what I need.

‘Is there nothing you want to tell me?’ Father Michael urged him. ‘Nothing?’

His voice was coming from a long way away. Somewhere beyond the dank bedroom and the meagre fire. Somewhere hidden beneath the old wallpaper and the water casting blurry shadows in the confines of the glass.

Sixty-Five

Honor was just coming out of the shower when the intercom buzzed. Pulling a towelling robe around her, she answered. ‘Hello?’

‘It’s Mark … Mark Spencer.’

‘It’s past ten. What d’you want?’

‘It’s about your brother.’

She buzzed him up, wrapping the robe tighter around her body, her hair wet as she answered the door. ‘Come in and take a seat. I’ll get some clothes on.’

He was about to say don’t bother for me, then thought better of it. Honor wasn’t impressed by him yet. She would be in time, but not yet. His clumsy attempt at blackmail hadn’t worked. It was clear that she wasn’t going to desert her brother, and although Mark knew it would be wiser to walk away, he found he couldn’t. His admiration for Honor was too entrenched. So instead he had decided to become her confidant and win her over that way.

As he waited for Honor to return, Mark looked around the flat. There were many rows of shelving holding hundreds of DVDs and CDs and some worn legal books. At eye level there was a photograph of a little girl. Curious, he touched it as Honor walked up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

He jumped, just as she had hoped he would. ‘D’you want some tea?’

Flustered, Mark returned the photograph to the shelf, ‘Tea? Yeah, tea would be good.’

He was disappointed to see that Honor was now in jeans and a jumper, her damp hair tucked behind her ears. But he had to admit that even without make-up, she was striking. In time they would have great-looking kids.

She was staring at him. ‘Well?’

‘Pardon?’

‘What did you want to tell me about my brother?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Mark said taking the tea she offered him. ‘I found out some interesting information. I thought you should know.’ He paused. ‘I won’t pass this on to anyone else.’

‘No, that wouldn’t be wise and it might be bad for your career,’ she replied shortly, then softened her tone. ‘What is it?’

‘Nicholas Laverne was arrested in Milan for assaulting a woman nineteen years ago.’ He paused, swallowed. ‘He was released and deported. Rumour has it that someone paid the police off.’

Her expression was flat. ‘I don’t believe it.’

Mark handed her a mugshot. It was of Nicholas. Younger, dark-haired, heavier. Handsome. But calling himself Nico Lassimo.

‘Anything else?’ Honor asked.

‘Later he worked for a woman called Sabine Monette in France—’

‘I know about that.’

‘She was killed. Murdered.’

Honor shifted in her seat. ‘Yes, I know about that too.’

‘The police have no idea who killed her.’

‘It wasn’t Nicholas.’

‘No!’ he said hurriedly. ‘I wasn’t suggesting that. But Madame Monette was killed in a very odd manner. I have contacts in Paris.’ He waited for her to look impressed, but when she didn’t he continued. ‘They told me that she had been butchered and that someone had engraved the initials H and B into her flesh.’

Honor was giving nothing away. ‘So?’

‘Well, this is what’s odd,’ Mark replied, fiddling with a messy pile of notes. ‘I can’t stop making connections. You know, getting the pieces to fit. It’s almost a hobby …’ Honor’s face was expressionless as he hurried on. ‘And when I was looking at that murder of the priest again, I found out that he had had the same initials carved into his body – H and B. Someone leaked it on to the internet.’

‘I told you before: the police talked to Nicholas about that, and cleared him of any involvement.’

‘But did you know that the priest had been one of the men your brother accused of abuse ten years ago?’

She stood up. ‘Yes. Nicholas told me about it himself. It’s no secret—’

‘But what about the trouble when he was twenty? Just before he entered the Church? Did he tell you about that? Or was that a secret?’ Mark was struggling to keep his papers in order as Honor watched him intently.

‘It’s here – look.’

He held the paper out towards her and for a moment she hesitated, afraid of what was coming. It was a cutting from Le Figaro, which Mark had thoughtfully translated underneath. It read:

Giles Rodin, 45, has been arrested and charged with forgery. It is suspected that he has been dealing in faked paintings and jewellery. A museum in Germany (name withheld) has admitted to having obtained a piece of metalwork they believed was genuine, apparently dating from the Middle Ages. Enquiries are ongoing.

Rodin was arrested with his associate, Alain Belfon, 56, and Giles Fallon, 43. A younger English man, also believed to be involved, has disappeared.

‘It doesn’t mean it was Nicholas,’ Honor said, handing the paper back to Mark.

‘You said he travelled around, especially in France. He could have been visiting his brother. Henry worked in Rome and in Paris. Nicholas could have been in Paris at the time—’