He watched as Dominique moved out of the seat; he seemed to have trouble getting up at first, something was causing him pain. He hobbled over to the stage and disappeared behind a door. Moments later, the curtain was raised with agonising slowness before Dominique reappeared under it, panting but evidently pleased with his work.

‘Magnificent,’ he remarked, looking around him in awe. Priest shuffled in his seat. A feeling of uneasiness had settled in the pit of his stomach. Something’s wrong. Very wrong, with all of this. ‘I used to love the puppet shows the best, Mr Priest,’ Dominque announced from centre-stage. ‘I loved the way they seemed alive, even though they were just parasites, feeding off the host that was the puppet master. We’ve very much like puppets, you and I, Mr Priest.’

Priest sat back with his arms behind his head and watched the old man cavort around on stage. It was a sad spectacle, seeing him examine every part of the stage with childlike curiosity. He’s lost the plot. ‘I don’t feel like a puppet, Dominique,’ Priest called back. ‘I feel in control.’

‘Ah, and no doubt you are right. You feel in control, as does the puppet. But are you actually in control? I doubt it. No more than I am, anyway.’

‘Tell me about Julian, Dominique. Who’s in control of him?’

Dominique sighed and spread his arms out, looking up at the ceiling in despair. ‘My boy. I love him, Mr Priest, although it may surprise you to hear that. I feed his mother so much money and I make a careful note of his progress. He is my blood, after all. Do not make the mistake of thinking that I do not care.’

‘We found a picture of him, Dominique, at Simeon’s place. It showed Julian standing on a hillside outside your old house in Norfolk, the one you and Alexia left in 1989. Somebody put that picture together and left it for us to find. Was that you?’

Dominique had retaken his position at centre-stage and was staring up to the circle above him and looking for all the world like he might break out into song at any moment. Priest sat up, his heart racing.

‘Who is it, Dominique? Who’s your puppet master?’

*

The owner lugged the bag out of the back of the car before stopping to wipe his brow and admire the entrance to the New Playhouse. The last door on the right was already ajar, which was good. Things were in place.

The owner hauled the bag over the right shoulder and crept in, careful not to make too much noise. The arrival should be five minutes after Priest and Elias but one or both of them might not yet have taken their seats so, for now, a certain amount of discretion was required.