As arranged, Anselm met DI Armstrong on the steps of St Paul’s.
‘Coffee?’ asked Anselm.
‘No, thanks. How can I help?’
Anselm could not but note the perfunctory, professional courtesy.
‘I would like to speak to Victor Brionne.’
‘So I’m told.’
‘It’s important.’
‘You said as much last time. “In the interests of justice, in its widest sense”, I think you said:
‘I did.’
‘That’s not what happened in the courtroom.’
‘I know’
‘Father, don’t you think your meddling has done enough damage? There’s a chance that rubbish from Victor Brionne could lead to an acquittal. Are you aware of that?’
Anselm blazed with humiliation. ‘I promise, I had no idea what he was going to say.
‘Your promises are not entirely straightforward, I’m afraid.’
‘But this time I know what I’m doing. Before I was in the dark.’
‘As was I, and still am. I don’t want to be enlightened. Here’s the address and telephone number.’ She handed him a piece of paper. It had been written down in advance.
‘Thank you.
‘Father, I’m sorry to say this but I’m giving it to you not because I trust you, but because it’s a matter of public record. He’s in the telephone book.’
Anselm put the note in his pocket, his head bent, unable to face his accuser. When he finally did so, DI Armstrong had already turned around. He stood, emptied, watching her walk down the steps away from him.