Andreas nodded, thinking that was some serious money. There looked to be a lot more than souls at stake here.

For the next hour Andreas and Kouros pressed the abbot for every detail he could remember of the past week that touched upon Vassilis in any way, and for a list of anyone with even the remotest contact with the murdered monk. They asked to see whatever files there were on Vassilis, but they proved useless. The background information was forty years old, everything else was praise, and the most recent entry was over twenty years old: a glowing accolade from the archbishop of Greece. Andreas figured whoever was charged with making entries felt there was nothing more to be said, and so no one bothered. Andreas made a mental note to have his secretary dig up what else she could on Vassilis’ past.

‘Yianni, start interviewing the people on His Holiness’ list.’ Andreas looked at the abbot. ‘And, if you have no objection, I’d like to see Vassilis’ room.’

‘Certainly.’ The abbot stood up and nodded goodbye to Kouros. ‘Follow me, please.’

Vassilis’ cell was in a whitewashed building by a pebble and stone courtyard filled with flowers. The building stood on the south side of the monastery and, if his cell had a window on the outside wall, enjoyed a terrific view of the valley below. What Andreas first noticed was the silence. Only birds disturbed the mood.

‘His room is at the far end.’ The abbot pointed. ‘It’s the one with the table in front.’ A photograph of a young, smiling monk sat next to a single white lily on a tiny, square-top table. ‘As soon as I heard, I gave instructions for no one to enter Vassilis’ room until the police said it was allowed. We needed nothing from his room to prepare him.’

‘What time did you learn about the murder?’

‘A little before three-thirty this morning.’