“And look here.” Slade lowered his torch a little. “That mark carved on his chest. The same as with that German antiques dealer who got killed around Christmastime.”

Harper only nodded to herself, thinking. It bothered her, this. The dead Mormo, the tortured Mormo. What was Iago playing at, after all? The warlock had been a coward of the first water. He would have grassed on his mother at the slightest hint of a threat. What had Iago thought to get out of him this way?

The rays of police torches were arcing and crisscrossing all around the church interior now. Areas of char and ruin, piles of rubble, fallen beams stood out beneath their circles of illumination. The faces of saints and patrons frowned from the walls and windows as the light touched them, then slipped back into obscurity.

Beneath the swiftly sweeping shadows, Bernard sat in a front pew, his head hanging, his hands hanging down between his knees. A nurse sat beside him, washing the swollen bruise on his brow. DI Pullod stood over them both another moment. Then he moved away, and came to join Harper and Slade beneath the cross.

These three turned their backs as two crime scene men came forward to tend to Mormo’s descent. They stopped by the chancel rail. Pullod glanced at Harper quickly, embarrassed. He looked only at Slade as he spoke, but Harper understood he was sharing the information with her.

“We’ve had a sighting of the black Mercedes,” he said in a low tone. “One driver, it looks like. Your boy confirmed the license number.” This with a half-nod towards Bernard, though he looked only at Slade. “They lost track of him in Mordern, but it sounds like he’s heading south along A24. We’ve got roadblocks up. We’re sure to find him.” Now he did turn directly to Harper. “We’ll run you and your lad over to hospital. I’ll go down to Mordern myself, see what’s what. All right?”

Harper frowned, shook her head. “He won’t go.”

“He?”

“Bernard—to hospital. He won’t go. He’ll walk out, get in his car, and drive wherever he thinks he’ll find Iago.”

“He’s in no fit state to drive.”

“Yes,” said Harper. “That’s why I suggest you give us a lift.”

Pullod and Slade exchanged a glance. Slade rolled his eyes.

“You say he’s headed south,” said Harper thoughtfully.

Pullod nodded. “That’s right.”

The door to the crypt opened now. Lester Benbow—the scarred man—was led out between two large patrolmen. His wrists were pinned in cuffs behind his back. His face was smeared with blood. His eyes peered out of the mess, rolling, murderous.

When his gaze lit upon Bernard, the scarred man bared his teeth.

Bernard raised his head. Looked unsmiling at Benbow. Nodded.

Harper watched the scarred man being led away up the church aisle.