Paul Enfield arrives, surveying the gathered spectators as he walks. Tyler pulls himself up off the ground and tells Barry not to go anywhere; they’ll need a statement. He leaves Rabbani to the experts and meets Paul halfway. Interesting, how he thinks of the man as Paul now, rather than Enfield. A uniformed fireman intercepts Paul ahead of him, and they speak with lowered heads and whispered voices. He’s seen that talk before. Many times. He knows what it means. It never occurred to him to go back, to check if there was anyone else.

He sees the confirmation in Paul’s face before he speaks. “Round the back.”

They walk round the smoking church in silence. Before they can enter, Paul speaks with another uniformed fire officer. The flames are out in the small annex at the back, but the fire is still burning in the church itself. He’s reluctant to let them in but finally relents.

Tyler sees the hands first, curled up into blackened claws. He thinks of Gerald Cartwright’s damaged fingers, and a cooked dog he once saw outside a restaurant in China, laid out on the pavement so the customers could choose their cut. Its flesh was the same mottled collage of black and red, the only difference the large slash of pink where the chef had carved out a portion of its belly for a diner. Its claws hooked into talons, its lips curled back from its teeth. The guy he was traveling with at the time told him a colorful story about the local culture, how the animals were cooked alive so the adrenaline in their veins enhanced the flavor. He never did find out if that was true, but even if it was he could justify it to himself. A different culture. Not wrong, just different. He can accept that intellectually. He can understand it. He looks down at the charred corpse. This he doesn’t understand.

“The door wasn’t locked,” says Paul. Meaning the victim was dead before the fire started, or at least incapacitated in some way.

“The keys were in the front door.”

“It would have been quick,” Paul says. But spoils it by adding, “Comparatively.”

“Who is it?”

“The local vicar, we think.”

Now he sees it. A trace of unspoiled dog collar visible beneath the griddled chin. The Reverend Sebastian Thorogood. Felbridge. Gerald’s old school friend.

There’s an ominous creak above them and something gives. A crash of falling masonry toward the back of the room. They move as one, diving for the door. Fire officers rush forward to grab them and usher them back into the daylight.

Back at the front of the church Rabbani is no longer visible, surrounded now by men and women in fluorescent jackets.

Paul touches his arm. “You saved her,” he says.

“That kid was already here.”

“No need to be modest.”

“No,” Tyler tells him. “I mean, we need to check him out. He was the first one on the scene.”