Helsing looked across the grey expanse of tarmac to the great warehouse-like building which loomed against the dusk. Behind it, crows rose screeching from the skeletal trees.
If he was right, this was the place which the murdered bishop, Abbe Hugh Payens de StClair, had been directing him to with his final breaths, as the ancient cleric lay bleeding to death on the cold flagstones of the aisle of his church, Notre Dame de la Madeleine, secreted down an alleyway on the crowded Ile de la Cite in Paris.
Helsing had cradled the wounded priest in his arms as he died. An obscure message had been left on Helsing's telephone, urging him to make his confession at the Abbe's church at 6pm that evening or dire consequences would follow. Helsing had long fallen out of the habit of confession - his studies into the Qabbalah and gnostic mysticism had convinced him of the fatuity of the confessional sacrament. And yet he had gone, and now events were spiralling out of his control.
He had found StClair already mortally wounded from a knife wound in his chest. He'd noticed that the wound was in exactly the place where in Christian imagery of the crucifixion the centurion's spear was meant to have pierced Christ's side.
He had rushed to comfort the dying priest. St Clair had still had strength to speak a little.
First he had breathily said 'sweet bread of Christ'. Helsing - who had never formally renounced his ordination into Holy Orders - had understood him to be looking for extreme unction, and was about to look for the host stored in the candle-lit tabernacle on the altar when StClair spoke again.
"There's only one safe way to check it out."
The priest's head had then fallen forwards in death.
Helsing had tried for days to understand the dying priest's words. It was a code like no other, but perhaps this was where it was meant to lead him. His eyes rose to the red 'Safeway' sign which stood out against the frontage of the grey building.
Inside, foodstuffs from all over the world were stacked according to some hidden system. First, the fruit and vegetables were piled like cornucopiae near the doors. Helsing picked up a clove of garlic - one never knew when it might come in useful.
The labels on the shelves were carefully coded. Most of the numbers ended in '99'. Further code was concealed in a series of vertical bars on each label.
He looked carefully at the code on each of the shelves. None of it drew him any nearer to understanding what StClair had meant by the sweet bread of Christ.
He had been looking at the codes for twenty minutes when a young woman came up to him. She was blonde with green eyes, about five foot seven, and the badge on her blue blazer said 'Verity'.
Ah, thought Helsing, the name Verity means truth. Could this be significant?
'Can I help you?' asked Verity.
'Perhaps,' said Helsing. 'Who are you?'
'I'm the store detective,' she replied.
'How fortuitous!' said Helsing. 'Perhaps you can help me. I'm looking for the sweet bread of Christ.'
'Hot cross buns, aisle 12.'
Helsing found his way quickly to the aisle. It was numbered after the apostles. StClair - a bishop and therefore successor to the apostles - had been murdered in an aisle. What could this mean?
He walked towards the exit, in many ways as perplexed as when he had entered. What was he meant to do now that he had found the 'sweet bread of Christ'? Was he in danger?
The young woman appeared as he was leaving. She pointed at the bag in his hand with the hot cross buns in it.
'You can't just leave with that, sir. You'll have to check it out.'
Truly the plot was thickening.