For some reason Paul smiles. “I’ll get Forensics to check him for traces of accelerant.” He starts to leave and then stops again, looks up at the smoking church. He has an intent look in his eye, almost . . . worshipful. Only, if Tyler had to put money on what it was this man worshipped, it wouldn’t be the church so much as the fire that almost consumed it.

“What is it?” Tyler asks.

Enfield snaps out of his reverie. “Oh, nothing. I was just wondering when all this was going to end. With all these extra fires we’re pretty stretched. One more serious incident and . . . Well, best not to think too much on that.” He smiles and heads off in the direction of his colleagues.

As soon as the fire officer has left, Doggett is there, appearing at Tyler’s shoulder as though he’s been waiting for his moment. They watch silently as the paramedics continue their work on Rabbani. One of them breaks away from the pack and runs toward the ambulance.

“Do you think she was the target?” Doggett asks.

Tyler shakes his head. It’s too ridiculous. What could she have to do with any of this? But then, why was she here in the first place? Doggett motions for him to follow, and they move toward the church door. Water is still cascading from the ruined roof, and one of the fire officers tries to keep them back. Doggett argues but it’s a glance and a nod from Paul Enfield that gets them through.

Doggett points down to the ground.

Tyler kneels to examine the flagstones. There are traces of blood. “Someone hit him with something while he was locking up.”

“They dragged him.” Doggett points to the flattened grass at the side of the path. “Felbridge was tall, but not particularly bulky; any number of people could have managed it. Any number of people.” Doggett taps him on the shoulder and points back out to the road.

Tyler stands up again and scans the crowd.

Doggett nods. “Like I said. It’s the bleedin’ Village of the Damned. I’ll get Daley and a couple of the lads to film them.”

But Tyler can already pick out a number of faces from the crowd. There’s the solicitor, Michael Denham, his arm wrapped tightly around his daughter’s shoulders. They both look shocked, ashen and gray. Not far from them the old gardener, Wentworth, is leaning on a rake and staring at them intently. As soon as Tyler makes eye contact he looks away and shuffles a little further into the crowd. He isn’t the only one watching, though. Paul Enfield is talking to the young lad from the church, Barry. But he, too, keeps glancing over at Tyler. And the vicar’s wife, Jean Thorogood, who may well be in shock but has yet to shed a single tear. She is being comforted by friends and neighbors but seems to be listening to none of it. Instead she stares at Tyler. There’s a man in a butcher’s apron, splattered and crusted with dried blood. Gerald Cartwright’s old cook, Carol Braithwaite, with several members of her extended family. Half the village must be here, or more. All of them staring at him, waiting for him to do something. Or accusing him of not doing more sooner. The only one who isn’t here is Oscar.