‘I’m not going over there,’ he said, voice tautening. ‘Just so you’ll have a clearer field of fire. You going to do me, you’d better do it here.’

The taller bandit glanced at the shorter one. Unspoken agreement passed between them. He looked back and shrugged. ‘Okay …’

Chapter 27

By origin, Lucy’s family were Church of England. Her mother, Cora, during her stripper days having considered herself an outcast from such things, was now cheerfully reconciled with the religion of her youth, and attended services on a steady basis. However, Lucy hadn’t been to Church for quite some time, probably not since she’d left school, and she was even less familiar with the Roman Catholic Church of St Clement, which stood on Hudson Avenue on the southern edge of Hatchwood Green – and this was despite it having received considerable police attention during recent years.

It was a sad aspect of the modern age, Lucy told herself as she drove over there.

As recently as her own childhood, churches, even if they were located in poor inner-city districts like this, had tended to enjoy the respect of those living around them. It had been no exaggeration to say that most were once left unlocked twenty-four-seven despite the silver candlesticks on their altars and the poor-boxes in their porches.

Unfortunately, but perhaps inevitably, all that had now changed.

St Clement’s had certainly suffered more than its fair share of vandalism and break-ins in the twenty-first century, which, wedded to its allegedly declining congregation and a story that it was now under consideration by the diocese for closure, was an especially melancholy story.

When Lucy got there, it was a surprisingly large building, a tall, narrow, red-brick structure with a steeple, but it looked shabby. The brickwork had eroded and two of the arched stained-glass windows above the main entrance were boarded with plywood. She walked up a short, paved path, passing a noticeboard so scabrous with mildew that the list of Mass times was indecipherable, and, rather to her surprise, found the main door unlocked. Fleetingly she was encouraged by this, thinking it reassuring that the church still tried to provide the haven and sanctuary it had always intended.

Unless it was just that there was nothing left inside St Clement’s now worth stealing.

She entered properly via an inner door, the heavy clunk of which echoed through the spacious building. Inside, at first glance, the nave was empty, but in contrast to the exterior, very neat and tidy: candles flickered in niches or at the bases of handsomely painted statues of saints; hymn books and orders of service were stacked at the ends of each pew; a noticeboard adorned with children’s paintings was attached to the wall behind the baptismal font.

Lucy strolled up the central aisle, approaching the main altar, which was dressed with autumnal bouquets comprising roses and lilies, but also twigs, berries and pinecones.