Jessica took another sip of red wine then cupped her hands together on Priest’s breakfast bar. He had his back to her but he was very aware that she was watching him as he rummaged through his cupboards, searching for something – anything – that he could make a meal out of. The television fixed to the back wall was on, the sound low; they were testing more missiles in North Korea. There had been repeats of Dominique’s confession and a statement by Jack Oldham. Priest already recognised Sarah’s spin on the words.

The text she had sent him had been clear enough: Dinner, your place. Tonight. It hadn’t given him any time to prepare something and, by the look of things, his cupboards were pathetically bare.

‘Do you like tuna sandwiches?’ he called back over his shoulder.

She shrugged and continued to challenge him with her stare. He suspected that his panicked attempt to cook her something was also a source of great amusement.

‘Did I ever tell you,’ she said, touching the wine glass to her lips, ‘that women hate men who pretend not to know how to cook or clean because they think a girl would like to mother them?’

Priest stopped and looked back at her. She was smiling. Her eyes were spellbinding.

‘You don’t strike me as the mothering type,’ he observed.

‘No. I’m not.’

‘Then it’s clear that I’m not pretending. I’m genuinely shit at cooking.’

She nodded, like an accord had been reached, before pushing her phone across the table at him. ‘I’ll have Chinese. Beef with green peppers and black bean sauce.’

He took the phone gratefully.

She had listened attentively to the details of his encounter with Karl Jones and the incident at Devil’s Point and the church, raising her eyebrow occasionally and letting the odd gasp escape her mouth. But otherwise, just listening, like any other new story.

He was about to dial but she cut in with, ‘I don’t understand the confession. Why did Dominique just blurt it all out?’

‘Karl had threatened him,’ Priest explained. ‘We found out afterwards that Karl had sent Dominique pictures of what he had done to Alexia. He had made the choice clear: confess your sins and have a clean death or Julian would be next.’

‘Mm. And it made no difference. Jones was going to kill Julian anyway. It was always part of his sick endgame, whatever the outcome.’

‘That’s right, though I think Dominque was ready to spill anyway; the years of guilt had built up inside him. Old age was creeping up on him. He was ready to be judged for what he had done.’

‘He deserves whatever punishment awaits him in the next life. And Jones wanted you to see it all, as long as you could prove to him you weren’t a meddler, by passing his strange test. So you could attest to his work.’