By late afternoon the mist had thickened into something almost tangible. It lay in the close like a thin soup, blurring the lines of the gravestones and softening the crisp edges of carved tracery. The Cathedral’s great tower rose above it, a darker shadow against a bruised sky.

John Lomas pulled his coat tighter and quickened his pace. His police hours were notionally finished; he had an hour before Evensong, and Barker had made it abundantly clear that tardiness would not be tolerated. The notion of being rebuked twice in one day—once in the station, once in the stalls—did not appeal.

As he crossed the close, the sound of voices drifted towards him from the lee of the Chapter House. Two men, one higher, one lower, both in that tightly controlled register which suggested an argument force...

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