Lucy stood up stiffly. ‘Sister … I have some rather pressing business, I’m afraid.’

The ex-nun nodded sagely, and she too made to stand. ‘Of course.’

She smiled as she pulled on her cloak and picked up her satchel. She wasn’t being sarcastic. This was one of the disarming things about her: despite everything, she still radiated charm and civility. Even with the occasional admonitions, her attitude throughout the short interview had mainly been one of gratitude that a police officer had found time for her.

Lucy showed her out into the front waiting room. ‘I’ll come and find you,’ she said. ‘It won’t be tomorrow – I’ve got too much on, and I’ve got Friday off. Over the weekend, maybe?’

‘Of course.’

‘Where will you be? St Clement’s Avenue, is it?’

‘That’s my usual haunt, child.’ The ex-nun opened the front doors to leave.

‘I’m serious, Sister,’ Lucy said. ‘I’ll come down there and look you up.’

But the ex-nun was already walking away along Tarwood Lane, her robes flapping behind her. She waved one-handed, without looking back.

Briefly, Lucy was discomforted by the thought of the woman travelling all the way back to St Clement’s Avenue alone and on foot. Even if she got there safely, St Clement’s was one of the most dangerous neighbourhoods in the borough. But that was Sister Cassie’s life all over: the streets, the darkness, the isolation – she was no stranger to any of it. Besides, Lucy had more important things to do at present than offer rides to hobos.

Such as once and for all squashing a very nasty, very self-confident little bug.

Chapter 4

Lucy drove back to Wellspring Lane at speed. All the way, three sentences replayed themselves over and over through her head.

I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the thin end of the wedge.

If they’re prepared to do this, what else are they up to?

Those first two, courtesy of the laconic Joe Cullen.

Completely unconnected with the original complaint …

That latter the homespun street-wisdom of Sister Cassiopeia.

It was now very late, past midnight, so though Wellspring Lane was at the extreme southern end of the borough, away from most residential districts and edging onto the famous Chat Moss, there was almost no other traffic on the road. Lucy got her foot down nevertheless, concerned that the search of Mahoney’s premises might be approaching its end.

She was only just in time, bouncing her Suzuki Jimny down the rutted track to the farm cottage, swerving at speed around the abandoned vehicles there, and seeing Malcolm Peabody and three other constables outside the building, next to what looked as if it was the last divisional van on site. They were still in protective clothing, but even as Lucy arrived, gloves were coming off and the press-studs down the fronts of overalls being plucked open.