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featureless with two metal flues rising about three feet above roof level. The cover of one of the flues had been removed. It lay on the floor a few metres away, a SOCO dusting the metal edge with a large floppy brush. Pendragon could see blood smeared across the bright metal.
    ‘We’ve found plenty to go on up here.’ She pointed to a large pool of congealed blood. It had dried at the edges and some had seeped into the concrete. A trail of mud and blood ended at the flue and all around were flecks of red. ‘From a first look at the blood-spray pattern, I’d say the victim was hit at least twice.’
    Pendragon nodded. ‘The pathologist said the same thing.’
    ‘I think the attacker came on to the roof from the stairs.’ She led the way to the edge of the roof and they looked down on to the courtyard they had just crossed. From here they could see into the neighbouring properties. To the right, three shops fronted the main road, each with flats above and small gardens behind. To the left stood a high wall. Just visible behind that stood a single, derelict property taking up the corner with Globe Road. Immediately behind Jangles, on the corner of Frimley Way, was a construction site.
    ‘So the murder took place up here?’ Turner said.
    ‘Definitely. Follow me.’
    She took them back down the stairs, across the yard and through a gate. The alleyway beyond had been cordoned off. They could see a row of green council refuse bins, a dry mud path, brambles and weeds. A random line of red flags snaked its way through an opening ahead. The flags were numbered and had been stuck into the parched soil. In some of these locations they could see smears of blood, black against the mud. The opening led on to a narrow lane. At the end of this stood a tall mesh fence with barbed wire running along the top. A gate opened on to the construction site. It was unlocked, the chain and padlock hanging limp.
    ‘As you can see, we’ve found traces all along this path. Plenty of blood, hair, flakes of skin. But as it’s a building site, you’d expect at least the last two of these. No footprints,though, the ground is too hard. We’re still looking for fingerprints, but nothing so far.’
    She picked a route across the hardened mud avoiding the flags and the ground close to them. A few steps on, they had reached the edge of a vast, roughly hewn pit criss-crossed with dirty planks supported by a framework of scaffolding. More red flags could be seen where the ground fell away. They followed her down a slope into the pit and along three planks, sidestepping more flags, until they reached the edge of a trench cut into the bottom of the pit. Piles of freshly turned earth lay all around. A cluster of flags had been stuck into the ground here.
    Two SOCOs were hard at work. One was photographing the bottom of the trench; the other was on his knees, poking at the soil with a small trowel. The officer with the camera stopped work as they approached and Dr Newman stepped into his place, waving over Pendragon and Turner to see something.
    The crouching figure straightened up and stepped aside as the Head of Forensics squatted down.
    ‘This is the beginning of the trail, DCI Pendragon. There are several signs of a struggle – crumbled soil and scrapes.’ She pointed to one side of the trench. ‘And then there’s this.’ Turning, she pointed to the ground.
    They could see a small white object. Pendragon crouched down to take a closer look.
    ‘It’s a metatarsal, a finger bone, from the fourth or fifth on the right hand, I believe.’

The Venerable English College, Rome, January 1589
    My name is Father John William Allen and my story begins in January, the Year of Our Lord, 1589.
    History records many troubled eras. But for one such as I, a man of deep faith, these, I am sure, are times as bad as any in human reckoning. As I write, war rages between Catholics and Protestants, a war that has its roots in a schism created by the demon Luther