THE BLUE AND SILVER CAR WASN’T IN THE STREET OUTSIDE Harry’s house. It was almost eleven. Evi pulled out her mobile and checked the screen. He’d left six messages, all before eight o’clock, but she simply hadn’t wanted to speak to anyone until she’d had a chance to think, to talk to someone who wasn’t emotionally involved.

She dialled his number and was invited to leave a message.

Her leg was screaming at her and her spine felt as if she’d been stretched backwards over a rock for hours. She needed medication, she needed to eat and she had to rest. She started the car engine.

When she parked, she tried his number again. No response. She was on her own.

‘I TAKE MY HAT OFF TO BURKE AND HARE,’ MUTTERED HARRY, inserting the crowbar beneath the stone lid of the sarcophagus before leaning on it with his entire weight. The heavy slab moved a fraction of an inch. With the skill developed over nearly an hour of practice, he moved the lid just enough to be able to shine his torch inside.

Nothing. Which was precisely what he’d found in the eight stone coffins he’d managed to open. No bones, no mummified flesh, no shrivelled grave clothes, and definitely no Joe. He’d probably never know when the remains of the long-since-dead clergy had been taken away from St Barnabas’s crypt, but gone they were.

His nervousness had long since evaporated. There really was nothing like building up a sweat for chasing away the willies.

Only one alcove remained a mystery. The very last in line, closest to the rear of the crypt. None of the keys he’d retrieved from his desk drawer had opened the iron grille. When the police had searched it previously they must have used one of Sinclair’s keys. Harry had tapped out rhythms on the ironwork, he’d stuck a wrench through the bars and banged on the two sarcophagi that he could reach, he’d called Joe’s name and had spent at least ten minutes just listening quietly. At last he’d been compelled to give up. Joe wasn’t in the church. He wasn’t in it and he wasn’t below it.

At least now he knew.

Harry crossed the first chamber of the crypt and found the doorway to the second with his torch beam. He was now under his own church, and even close to midnight, some light from the street outside was making its way down.

Harry walked forward. Impressed by his own daring, he switched off his torch. Gradually, vague shapes emerged from the darkness. The streetlights outside were shining through the windows of the church and a fraction of that light was seeping through into the cellar.

How exactly?

He walked over to where the light seemed strongest. Yes, definitely light, a square beam. He reached it and looked upwards. There was a grille of some sort directly above his head. He reached up and tugged. It held firm. He tried pushing and it shot upwards.

Sliding it to one side, Harry heard it scrape along the tiled floor. He reached up and grasped the edges of the hole he’d opened up. His fingers closed around the stone tiles he knew covered the uncarpeted part of the chancel floor. Time to find out how strong his arm muscles were.

Strong enough. One massive push and he was up, looking round. He was directly behind the organ, in the cramped, dust-filled void that often existed behind old instruments. Through gaps in the pipes he could see the pulpit, not four feet away from him.

Time to kill.

‘So this is where you were,’ muttered Harry. ‘Our little friend with the voices.’ Harry lowered himself back down, replaced the grille and made his way out of the crypt. The Fletcher children’s strange friend, Ebba, knew her way around this church, that was clear enough. It had probably been she who’d led him such a dance the day he’d arrived.

Harry locked the crypt, then checked that the main doors of the church were locked and bolted. He used the lavatory at the rear of the building and then entered the nave. Thanks to Jenny Pickup, he and the Fletchers had eaten a couple of hours earlier. He had a travel rug from his car, which he’d parked half a mile down the hill in a quiet cul de sac. He was all set.

When he reached the altar, he lifted the drapes that surrounded the old oak table. The altar had been spread with a creamy damask linen and the rich purple brocade of the Advent cloth. He pushed a couple of prayer kneelers underneath, then crawled in himself. Pulling the altar cloths back into place and the car rug around him, he lay down.

He was in the killing ground. If someone brought Joe here tonight, he’d be ready.

EVI CHECKED HER WATCH. IT WAS ALMOST TEN O’CLOCK, but she could see lights in the first-floor window. She crossed the street and rang the bell. The pain in her leg and back had got much worse during the last hour. She’d been stupid not to take some medication from Steve.

After several minutes, light flooded the landing at the top of the stairs. A dark figure could be seen descending. Evi’s chest started to feel tight. The figure reached the bottom of the stairs. The door opened and for a second the two women just stared at each other.

‘Hello, Gillian,’ said Evi.

Gillian seemed to sway backwards; her eyes couldn’t quite focus on Evi’s. ‘Dragged yourself away from him, have you?’ she said. She’d been drinking.

Evi’s ribcage seemed to have shrunk. She almost had to gulp in air. ‘After you saw me in the church, I came straight down here to find you,’ she said, knowing that Gillian would only listen to conversation that was focused on herself. ‘When I couldn’t, I went to see another psychiatrist,’ she went on. ‘We spent a lot of the evening talking about you. I’m worried about you, Gillian. Can I come in?’

‘No!’ Gillian’s hands shot to the doorframe, blocking the way in, as if words alone might not be enough to keep Evi out.

‘Gillian, there is no intimate relationship between me and Harry,’ said Evi, hearing her voice shake but forcing herself to look the other woman in the eye. ‘We don’t go out together, we don’t spend time at each other’s houses and we certainly don’t sleep together. But he’s been under a great deal of strain recently. So have I. What you saw this afternoon was a mistake.’

Evi stepped forward, tried to smile and failed. ‘I’m not his girlfriend,’ she said. ‘But Gillian, I’m afraid you have to accept that neither are you.’

‘Lying bitch!’

The fury on the woman’s face, more than her words, made Evi step backwards and almost stumble.

‘You’re the reason he changed,’ spat Gillian. ‘He liked me. We were close. He kissed me. Then suddenly he started avoiding me. You were spinning him lies about me, weren’t you? Telling him I’m nuts. You poisoned him because you wanted him for yourself.’

‘I don’t discuss you with…’ Evi stopped. She couldn’t even say that any more. She had talked to Harry about Gillian.

‘You’re pathetic, you know that?’ Gillian stepped out of the doorway, forcing Evi back towards the road. ‘I thought I was bad, but you’re just delusional. Well, listen to some plain speaking for once. He might fuck you if he gets really desperate, but that’s all he’s ever going to want from a cripple.’

‘Gillian, stop.’ She couldn’t deal with this, not now.

‘And he’ll only ever do it in the dark.’

Dancing in the… She was going to be sick. ‘I’ll come and see you in the morning,’ she managed.

‘Don’t bother.’

‘We’ll find you another doctor. I know our relationship has broken down and that’s my fault…’

Evi was talking to herself. Gillian had slammed the door.