DI Stacey Collins has seen the darker side of humanity all too often. A single mum and former child from the grim Blenheim estate, she knows only too well what terrors the world can hold. But even her jaded eyes have never witnessed a crime of such unspeakable horror.

A body, broken and lifeless, is found in the gloom of a London church. Kidnapped and horrifically murdered, young Daniel Wright never knew his tormentor. And it is only the beginning. Soon Collins finds herself both haunted by the demons of her past and battling in the name of innocence itself.

Some angels never find their path to heaven...

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Chapter One

Father Patrick Connelly, the stooped and elderly incumbent of the church of St Andrew's in Peckham High Street, was uncomfortably warm as he hurried along the path towards his place of worship.

The last service of the day was never particularly well attended, this being a part of London where gods other than his were worshipped, especially by the young. Friday night Mass had long seemed – Lord help him – something of a chore after the rest of the day's ministry. It was therefore one of the shortest of the week.

He looked up at the church as he approached. The white stone walls, rendered black by the fumes and dirt of London living, always saddened him, and he found it a relief to get inside, where the rich colours of the Victorian interior and the quiet dignity of the altar would fill him with the inner warmth that had comforted him ever since he joined the Catholic Church. Outside all seemed chaotic; inside was a place of peace.

The key to the heavy front door of the church was pleasingly large and chunky. It was a shame that he had to keep the place locked when it was unattended. While the gangs of youths that roamed the streets were happy enough to let him pass through their territory unmolested – he had no mobile phone and never carried enough money to make him a worthwhile target – they would never be able to resist the temptation of the valuable ornaments within.
 
As Father Connelly inserted the key into the lock, the door swung open. His first reaction was one of horror. Had he really forgotten to lock up again? Eager to check whether his mistake had allowed in any vandals, he headed for the light switches, his footsteps echoing gently off the stone floor. As he flicked on the first switch, the church filled with a faint electric hum and its front section lit up, revealing the ornate splendour. Nothing seemed out of place but there was an unusual odour in the air. It was a strong, metallic smell like nothing he had ever known. Father Connelly took a large lungful and tried to make it out as he continued to turn on the lights.
 
Then something in the centre aisle caught his eye. As he moved closer, he could see that it was a puddle of dark liquid. In front of it was a piece of paper. He bent down to pick it up and immediately recognized it as a page from the Bible. One passage had been underlined in what looked like red ink.

"By the disobedience of one man, many were made sinners."
 
The text only barely permeated his consciousness, for, as he read, a drop of liquid hit the side of his cheek. He instinctively reached up to wipe it away, then stared hard at the sticky red stain that covered his fingers.
 
As he raised his head, another drop of blood fell on to his face.
 
Something was above him.
 
Hanging from the rafters was a body. Apart from the bare feet, which pointed listlessly at the stone floor, it was fully clothed. The face had been horrifically disfigured with deep, diagonal slashes. One hand was missing, and the mouth hung open as if emitting a desperate, silent scream.
 
But it was none of these things that made Father Connelly turn to one side and retch over the wooden pews. It was not the death, or the blood, or the disfigurement that unsettled him so. It was the fact that the corpse hanging there so dreadfully above him was that of a child.
 
'Holy Mother of God,' he whispered to himself, making the sign of the cross with a trembling hand. He turned and ran as fast as his legs would carry him, stumbling occasionally in his robes as he tried to wipe the blood from his face, and screaming for help in a voice that echoed helplessly off the walls around him.