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denounce his faith.’
    Dryden felt the old antagonisms rise. ‘Which is admirable, is it?’
    Martin nodded, not hearing. ‘Do you want to know why they crucified him?’
    ‘I suspect you are about to tell me, Father.’
    ‘They crucified him because he refused to let them twist his words. They were actually anxious to avoid the spectacle of a crucifixion, so they offered him a way out – a form of words. He wouldn’t take it, he said the words of Christ were sacred.’
    Dryden swallowed hard. ‘I’m doing my job.’
    Father Martin shrugged, happy to have hit his mark. Dryden drew heavily on the cigarette and let it drop to the grass, where the sizzle was audible. ‘I could walk with you,’ he said.
    Father Martin smiled. ‘As you are so interested, Mr Dryden, perhaps we should visit the ruins of St Vincent’s?’ Dryden returned the smile but felt manipulated, beaten, and in a curious way, as he followed Father Martin across the Fen, a victim too.

7
    Out on the peat the soil was silent, the usual trickling of water petrified by the permafrost. Dryden’s battered brown leather shoes were still dry when they got to the ruins, a lonely landmark it took them ten minutes to reach. A single snow flurry came and went, leaving the peat peppered with unmelted flakes of ice.
    The orphanage had stood on a low island of clay in the Black Fen reached by a one-track drove which ran beside a deep drain. The building itself had been surrounded by a wall topped by iron spikes, now punctuated by falls of rubble. The entrance gates had long gone but over them a wrought-iron frieze held the name still.
    The Catholic Orphanage of St Vincent de Barfleur.
    Dryden nodded, unnerved by Father Martin’s brief excursion into Catholic history, and wondered out loud why it had been closed down.
    ‘Orphanages were out of fashion, and the Church’s reputation was hardly pristine. Numbers fell, too far in the end. The diocese tried to sell the building, it’s still trying to sell the building, but it’s been closed for a decade, more.’
    Dryden looked at the priest’s profile, the jutting Gaelic brow in contrast to the weak nose. He’d guessed he was close to retirement age – perhaps sixty or more. The black cassock beneath the heavy overcoat made him look more substantial than he was.
    They skirted an outer fence of wooden stakes and barbed wire which had been thrown up to provide some security.One of the fenceposts had taken root, a tree now the height of two men.
    ‘Good God,’ said Dryden, stopping and running a finger along the sapling’s bark, regardless of the blasphemy.
    ‘Yes,’ said Martin, the face brightening for the first time, the birthmark less visible now the priest’s skin had reddened with the cold. ‘A poplar. The posts must have been very green; it’s taken root. A little miracle…’
    Dryden returned the gaze and the smile vanished.
    They were in the shadow of the building now and, out of the blinding low-slung rays of the sun, Dryden could see it clearly for the first time. The floorplan was a letter H, and only the forward two wings were, in fact, in ruin. The rest of the house had been secured with corrugated iron over the downstairs windows and doors. It looked like a workhouse: functional architecture with the single flourish of the grand doorway over which stood a marble canopy on two pillars, one of which was bending outwards alarmingly. Ivy, now white with ice, had colonized the façade.
    ‘I didn’t realize it was so big,’ said Dryden. ‘How many boys?’
    Martin crunched out a cigarette on the flagstoned courtyard. ‘Twisted words, Mr Dryden – our lawyers were quite specific. I should say nothing.’
    Dryden held up his hands. ‘No notebook. I’m just trying to understand.’
    Martin nodded. ‘I’ve read your stories, Mr Dryden. I detect a marked sympathy with the alleged victims.’
    ‘A Catholic education, I’m afraid. It leaves scars,’ said Dryden, struggling to keep the