desk. ‘There’s creamer and sugar on the tray,’ she said to the priest and he thanked her. Nightingale looked back at the newspaper. There was one photograph of Ben Miller, the boy who had beaten leukemia, standing with his parents ‘So how did they know the little girl has stigmata?’ ‘Good question,’ said the priest. ‘The little boy saw the bandages on the girl’s hands. And he said she told him about seeing the Virgin Mary. But we’ve made our own enquiries and from what we have discovered, the wounds are genuine and she is still bleeding from her hands and feet and from a wound in the side. The stigmata sites.’ ‘And what’s your interest? Why is the Vatican so concerned?’ ‘Because it could well be a miracle,’ said the priest. ‘And we investigate all miracles. Especially those that involve the appearance of the Virgin Mary.’ He stood up, took one of the coffee mugs, and sat down again. ‘And for that you hire a private detective?’ The priest smiled. ‘Generally we do the research ourselves. But this case is unusual in that the family are refusing to speak with us.’ ‘Sounds as if they don’t want any publicity,’ said Nightingale. ‘Who can blame them?’ The priest held up his hands. ‘Absolutely, it’s perfectly understandable. But we would still like to know if this is a genuine miracle, or something else. In a case like this it’s sometimes more advantageous if we use outside help.’ Nightingale nodded. ‘You said you’d made enquiries?’ ‘We’ve managed to get a look at her medical report. She sees a doctor on a daily basis. The doctor changes her dressings and takes a blood sample. We’ve managed to get a look at her blood tests and everything is fine. Liver function, cholesterol, blood sugar. She’s a fit and healthy twelve-year-old girl. Except for the fact that she’s bleeding.’ ‘So it’s a miracle?’ The priest chuckled. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’ Nightingale pulled a pack of Marlboro from his pocket. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ ‘Not at all,’ said the priest. ‘It’s one of the few vices we’re allowed.’ ‘You smoke?’ The priest grinned. ‘Like a chimney.’ Nightingale took a cigarette for himself and offered the pack to the priest. The priest took one and Nightingale walked around the desk to light it for him. ‘She has the stigmata,’ Nightingale said as he dropped back down into his seat. ‘That’s a sign of Christ, right? The marks left from the nails when Jesus was crucified and the wound in the side where he was stabbed with a spear.’ ‘Do you have any idea how many cases of stigmata the Vatican investigates every year, Mr Nightingale?’ Nightingale shook his head. ‘Well over a hundred. All around the world. And then we have sightings of the Virgin Mary, angels appearing, vegetables that look like Christ, the face of Jesus in damp patches on ceilings. Do you know how many of them turn out to be miracles?’ ‘I’m going to guess that the answer is none.’ The priest smiled tightly. ‘And your guess would be right. None. There are no miracles, Mr Nightingale, at least not involving civilians. That is now how the Lord God demonstrates his presence in the world. In every case we have ever investigated, the stigmata has had another explanation.’ ‘So you think she’s faking it?’ The priest shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. It could be psychosomatic. The brain is a very powerful organ and can affect the body in ways that we barely understand. Or it could be the parents doing something to her while she is asleep. Or forcing her to wound herself.’ ‘Why would they do that?’ ‘In the past we’ve had parents who want money, or fame, or just to be noticed. But usually in these cases the parents are keen to get as much publicity as possible. These parents won’t let journalists near the little girl.’ ‘Which means what?’ The priest shrugged. ‘Maybe they’re in for the