Alighting from the airport express train at Rome Termini, Lottie’s skin tingled with anticipation. It was a mild evening under a light sprinkling of rain. She put her watch ahead to reflect the one-hour time difference.

Stepping on to a cobble-stoned street, she crossed the road. She’d never been in Rome before but had studied the map on the train, memorising the directions to her hotel. Straight ahead, then left and she should be beside it. And she was.

She stood in a small piazza facing the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore. Its magnificence halted her. Bells rang out the sixth hour and the square came to life, as pigeons flew from picking damp crumbs on the cobbles to soar into the grey sky.

Entering the hotel foyer, she was immediately blinded by the incredible marble floors and walls. The male receptionist greeted her.

‘Buongiorno, Signora.’

Lottie loved his accent and wished she could converse in Italian. Confirming her reservation, he presented her with a key.

‘It is our deluxe room, Signora. Elevator to the fourth floor.’

‘Grazie,’ Lottie said. At least she knew one word in Italian.

At the end of a white marbled corridor she found her room. Compact, clean and welcoming. Silently, she thanked Father Joe for finding this place at short notice when she’d texted him from Dublin Airport. And, he insisted on paying for it. Out of diocesan funds, he said. She didn’t argue.

She opened the window and the sounds of Rome swirled around outside, then settled into the room. The scent of aromatic coffee rose up from the espresso bar below. The view across the rooftops filled her with excitement. She’d love to see the sights. Not this time though.

The shower was a struggling stream of tepid water. She persevered and emerged energised. Dressed in her brown jeans and long-sleeved cream silk shirt. In front of the mirror, she opened the top two buttons and let the collar hang loose. That’s better, she thought, before buttoning them up again. She checked her watch. Father Joe would be waiting for her.

The narrow winding streets carried her deep into the heart of old Rome. Cars honked, mopeds sped by and sirens wailed. As the drizzle cleared, she eventually exited the maze of cobbles to see St Peter’s Basilica across the Tiber, shimmering in the glow of streetlights. She crossed over a bridge and made her way into Vatican City. Checking the streets against the directions on the text message, she turned a corner and saw him.

‘Inspector Parker, welcome to Rome.’

‘Great to see you,’ she said and held out her hand, surprised she’d found him so quickly.

He grabbed her in a bear hug. She felt a hot flush race up her cheeks. He released her and held her at arm’s length.

‘You’ve lost weight since I saw you last. Working too hard. And those bruises look worse.’

Lottie grinned. ‘Don’t be daft, you saw me a couple of days ago.’

‘I’m glad you came,’ he said. ‘I want to show you all of Rome. You’ll love it.’

‘I’m here to work,’ she warned. ‘I’ve only a few hours.’

‘Enjoy it while you’re here,’ he said. ‘A quick tour of the basilica, before it closes?’

She knew she should get down to business straight away, but she also wanted to see the building.

‘Okay, but let’s not delay.’

As she walked by his side, he pointed out exterior architectural features before guiding her up the steps and through the security check.

‘Wow,’ she said, catching her breath.

Inside was as splendid as the outside; incense filled the atmosphere. They swept up and down the impressive aisles. Lottie was drawn to Michelangelo’s Pietà, its polished stone gleaming under spotlights, behind protective glass. The Virgin, her face sorrowful yet resigned, as she held her dead son in her arms. Lottie thought of Adam and how she’d embraced his body as he cooled in death. She hoped she’d never have to hold her son thus. A gasp escaped her mouth and Father Joe put his hand on her shoulder.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she whispered.

‘Magnificent,’ he said.

They left the basilica and walked along narrow laneways, stopping after ten minutes in front of a fifteen-foot-high wooden door. Father Joe refused to answer her questions along the way, telling her he was bringing her to the source of his find. He pushed an intercom button. A grainy voice answered in Italian and the door creaked open.

A narrow vestibule lay before them with a fountain commanding the centre, surrounded by prancing stone cherubs. Numerous stairways meandered up to apartments. It reminded Lottie of Gregory Peck’s abode in the film Roman Holiday. She half-expected Audrey Hepburn to pop her head over one of the staircases.

A door opened two floors above them and a rotund, five-foot man, dressed in a flowing black robe, took flight down the stairs, a string of Italian emanating from him in a melodic tune.

‘Joseph, Joseph!’ he said, wrapping his arms around Father Joe.

‘Father Umberto. This is Detective Inspector Lottie Parker,’ Father Joe said, extracting himself from the embrace. ‘The Irish detective I mentioned to you.’

The small man leaned up on his toes and brushed his cheek to hers.

‘Umberto,’ he said. ‘Call me Umberto.’

‘You can call me Lottie.’

She followed, as Father Umberto led Father Joe by the hand up the stairs, like a mother bringing a child home from school. A door stood wide open at the top. Squeezing into the room, Lottie was astonished at the number of books scattered everywhere. The small priest attempted to tidy up, hands flapping in a fluster.

‘Excuse me, I no time to tidy,’ he said in broken English. His spectacles appeared glued to his nose, as if he had grown too fat for them. Lottie sat at a mahogany bureau overflowing with paperwork.

The two priests chatted in Italian. Lottie caught Father Joe’s eye.

‘Perhaps we should converse in English,’ he said.

‘Sì,’ the Italian said.

‘Umberto, please tell Inspector . . . Lottie why Father Angelotti went to Ireland,’ Father Joe said.

Umberto was suddenly reticent. His ebullience disappearing.

‘He is dead. It is . . . how you say . . . terrible.’ He blessed himself and bowed his head. When his mumbled intercessions ended, his eyes darted round the room. ‘I know it be bad. I know.’

‘What do you mean?’ Lottie asked. A church bell rang out and she flinched. It might well have been in the room with them.

‘I think . . . he try to cover up. Cover up mistakes.’ Umberto suddenly sat down on the floor. There was nowhere else to sit.

‘Father Umberto is curator of Irish pastoral records,’ Father Joe explained. ‘That is, any files or correspondence sent to the Pope from the bishops, he is responsible for cataloguing and filing them. In recent times some Irish diocesan records have been housed here. His immediate superior was Father Angelotti.’

Umberto pried off his spectacles and his earlier passionate fervour transformed into intense weeping. Lottie stared out through the tiny window to avoid looking at him. Emotional men were not her forte.

‘I sorry. So upset. Angelotti, he my friend.’

Father Joe asked, ‘Can I get you some water?’

‘No, I okay. I cannot believe my dear friend will not come home. It break my heart.’ His shoulders rose and fell as more sobs tore from him.

Lottie questioned Father Joe with her eyes. He turned his head, avoiding her gaze.

‘Can you help us? ‘ she implored Father Umberto.

‘I help, sì.’ He rose to his feet, squeezing his spectacles on his nose. ‘No one can hurt me. Sì?’ He wiped away his tears, attempting to restore a modicum of calm.

‘Why did Father Angelotti go to Ireland?’ Lottie asked, hoping the priest would tell them something worthwhile soon. Time was slipping by quickly and the prospect of losing her job seemed more realistic with each passing second.

‘He get correspondence . . . that is why he go.’

‘Do you have a copy of this correspondence?’ she asked.

‘No. A message. On his phone.’

‘But you must know something,’ she persisted.

The priest sighed, glanced at Father Joe, then turned his attention to Lottie. ‘I no remember when. Summer maybe? He receive phone call from a man. James Brown. He ask for investigation. Into St Angela’s. He say, it sell for small money. He say, Father Angelotti must also look for adopted baby. You understand? My English not good.’

Lottie said, ‘I understand.’

‘Father Angelotti, he spend many hours with the ledgers after that. I know there was more correspondence with this James. December, Father Angelotti, he tell me he must go. He say he make big mistake. He say he must talk to people. To make things right.’

‘What mistake?’ Lottie asked.

‘He say he mix up numbers. That is all he say. He tell me not to ask questions. So I no ask.’

‘Can I show Inspector Parker the ledgers?’ Father Joe asked.

The priest nodded.

‘My dear friend he is dead.’ He paused, then said, ‘I go for a passeggiata . . . a walk. Then I tell no lies when I do not see.’ He pulled on a coat and without another word went out into the night, leaving them alone.

Father Joe stood up.

‘Bishop Connor ordered all the old St Angela’s ledgers to be moved from Ireland to here. It was about two years ago. I’ve no idea why. They’re now stored in the basement. Come,’ he said and opened a door which Lottie thought was a bathroom. It revealed a winding staircase.

‘Surely they should be in a more secure location?’ Lottie asked.

‘This is secure. There’s a multitude of offices like this one scattered all over Rome. Very few people know about them.’

They reached the bottom of three flights of stairs.

A thick wooden door lay open, an iron key in its lock. Lottie looked at Father Joe, and entered the room.