Anselm tried several times to contact DI Armstrong. His calls were not returned, so he left a message – that she should phone him urgently regarding a personal matter. Immediately afterwards he left for London, driven by Conroy. It had been arranged that they would lodge at St Catherine’s, an Augustinian house near the Old Bailey As they passed through the gates of Larkwood, Anselm took a last glimpse of the monastery, its countless roofs folding in upon the other like so many russet wings, and he felt an aching as he’d only known when he used to depart for his old life at the Bar.
The Prior of St Catherine’s provided large iron keys, fashioned, it seemed, in the Middle Ages, and the next morning Conroy set off for the library at Heythrop College. Anselm removed his habit and walked briskly to the court. The Press, burdened by large bags bulging with lenses, were already circling the entrance. The big kill would come after the verdict. For the moment they were taking pot shots at the herd with an intimidating languor. Anselm nipped past, unnoticed, and entered the ancient hall he’d known so well before he was a monk. At a reception desk enclosed in thick glass he asked for either Detective Inspector Armstrong or Detective Superintendent Milby After a long wait a smartly dressed WPC came to see him. She said:
‘I’m sorry, both of them are involved in another case. I don’t think they’ll be here until tomorrow Can I take a message?’
‘No, I really need their help now, it’s urgent…’ He’d forgotten that criminal activity was rarely adjourned during a trial.
‘Can I help?’
‘Well,’ he faltered, ‘I want the home address of Victor Brionne.’
The WPC’s face hardened, as before a crude sham. ‘That is not our job.’ She began to walk away.
Anselm grabbed her arm. ‘I’m not from the Press, really I’m a monk, a priest…’
The WPC turned, casting a sceptical, tired eye over Anselm’s cords and jumper. ‘I’ll take a message, that’s all.’ For a joke she added, ‘All right, Father?’
Once more Anselm left his number for DI Armstrong, saying it was urgent. On his way out he stopped, arrested by the motto beneath a crest on the wall: ‘Domine dirige nos’ – Lord direct us. Dirige, reflected Anselm, the Latin root of ‘dirge’, a lament… and also the first word of Matins in the Office of the Dead.