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replied. ‘You better come downstairs and have a look.’
     
     
    The size of the chapel surprised him. The fact of it lurking invisibly in this nondescript house. Smoke obscured the far edges, the nave, altar and rood screen. Firemen were rushing around putting out small blazes erupting in corners and niches. Weir spoke to one of his colleagues, nodding rapidly, then turned towards Carrigan.
    ‘They heard something moving in there.’ He pointed to a line of confession booths against the far wall, their metal frames hissing sibilantly.
    ‘They heard something?’
    Weir nodded. ‘Yes. A thump.’
    Carrigan looked in the direction of the booths. There were three of them, now reduced to skeleton remains of metal and charred timber. He stood and listened but there was only the crackling of the rapidly cooling wood, the hiss and sputter of dead fires. The firemen had stopped what they were doing and were all gathered around him. He took a step forward and carefully opened the door to the first booth. A pocket of trapped smoke burst out, momentarily blinding him. He went over to the second booth and tried the door but it was locked.
    ‘Anyone got a penknife?’
    Weir passed a small folding knife over to him and Carrigan carefully ran it through the gap between door and frame, unlatching the lock. He turned and handed the knife back to Weir. He pulled the handle but the lock snagged and caught and the door jammed. Carrigan was about to give it another yank when something moved inside the confession booth, thudding against the door.
    The sudden weight and pressure made Carrigan jump back. They all watched the door of the second confession booth with held breath and unblinking eyes but there was no further sound nor movement. Carrigan took a step forward and gripped the handle so tightly that he could feel his own pulse throbbing through his fingers as he waited for whatever it was behind the door to move again. He could hear Weir talking behind him but not what he said. He could feel the pressing weight against the door and he gently turned the handle and gave it a sharp pull. The jammed lock broke and the door swung open.
    It came tumbling out with a breath of charred meat and bitter smoke and landed hot and wet in his arms. The smell instantly filled his mouth and nostrils. He stumbled back but the body clung to him fiercely, the weight not much more than that of a small child’s.
    He resisted the urge to rip his hands free and slowly got to his knees and lowered it onto the floor. He got up and quickly wiped his hands on his trousers. He felt like he was going to be sick, his forehead blazing and stomach churning as he forced himself to focus on the twisted remains lying at his feet, a slippery figure curled in on itself like a broken question mark.

5
    He’d missed his morning coffee. As he sipped his glass of water, he looked out at the sea of faces gathered in the main room of the CID building. Flashbulbs popped and stuttered, making him squint and blink, as reporters found their seats for the morning’s press conference.
    It was the worst possible way to begin a case. Carrigan had wanted to start the day with an initial briefing to his team but Branch had been waiting for him in the incident room. The press conference had been set up last night on ACC Quinn’s express orders. Quinn now sat to his right on the podium, the Met logo draped behind him, Branch flanking Carrigan’s other side.
    Carrigan took another sip of water, feeling everyone’s eyes on him. His head raged with pain, his stomach flip-flopping like a rollercoaster. He hadn’t got drunk for a long time but he’d got drunk last night. In the living room, in his favourite armchair, watching the cars outside his window ignite the darkness. He’d fallen asleep and dreamed of his mother trapped in a burning church, strapped to her bed, slowly disappearing into herself and into time, and woken up dishevelled and dream-haunted and itching to get back to