Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London
Running in from the battering rain, Honor knocked on the side door of the vestry. There was no answer. Again she knocked, this time loudly, thumping the iron knocker up and down. Finally Father Michael answered her.
‘Where’s Nicholas?’ she asked him.
But he didn’t reply and he seemed ill at ease. Surprised, Honor moved past him into the hall, glancing towards the kitchen. Inside sat a man she knew. A thickset man with bad skin. A man she recognised from the photographs Mark Spencer had shown her. Carel Honthorst.
Spooked, Honor stepped back, almost losing her footing as she ran out into the street and made for her parked car. She had just clambered inside when Honthorst caught up with her and tried to wrench open the door with his uninjured hand. Horrified, Honor turned on the ignition and slammed her foot down on the accelerator. The car jerked forward, its wheels spinning, and as it knocked Honthorst off balance Honor swerved out into the traffic, a passing taxi blaring its horn.
One hand on the wheel, Honor reached into her bag for her mobile. At the traffic lights she stopped, glanced into the rear-view mirror, and then phoned Nicholas’s number.
It rang out.
‘Pick up!’ she said frantically. ‘Pick up!’
But there was no answer and the lights changed, forcing Honor to drive on. She knew that there was only one reason for Carel Honthorst to be at St Stephen’s – he was in league with Father Michael. In collusion with the Catholic Church. There was no other explanation. She thought of what Nicholas had told her. About his dreams, the night terrors, the food poisoning, the crucifix he had found in his bed, the one she had only recently remembered giving him as a new priest. All the things she had put down to imagination and paranoia. But she had been wrong. Nicholas wasn’t unstable, he was in danger.
And then his words came back, haunting and damning: ‘When did you stop knowing who I was?’