She sees Daley smoking and chatting with a couple of detective constables on the patio, but none of them pay her any attention. Perhaps being invisible to people isn’t always such a bad thing. She hurries through the crowd at the gate, keeping her head down and avoiding eye contact with anyone. Normally she’d get some hassle off Riley and Stuart about not being in uniform, but luckily they’re too busy dealing with the journalists. She sees a break in the crowd, and she’s through and away.

It takes her only a couple of minutes to reach the church. The bricks of the building are blackened with ancient pollution from the city, the pointing crumbling. A cardboard thermometer by the front door proudly announces that the parish restoration fund has reached triple figures. The front door is locked, so she follows the footpath that leads round to the back. At the far end of the churchyard she sees an old fellow bent over tending the graves. The gardener, Wentworth, who Tyler and Doggett spoke to. He looks up at her for a moment and then buries his head back in his work.

She turns toward the church and the small modern extension that leans up against the back wall. Some sort of community center, she guesses. The door is propped wide open, either to let in the pitiful breeze or to let out the interminable heat.

The Reverend Thorogood looks far calmer in his own habitat than when he visited the Old Vicarage the other day. He is seated at a desk, busy with paperwork of some kind. Even though he’s sitting down, she can see how tall he is, wisps of gray at his temples but still relatively handsome for his age. He’d towered over her when he was trying to get information about the body, but she hadn’t let him intimidate her. Of course, she’d had Danny with her then. And her uniform.

He doesn’t even look up until she speaks. “Excuse me,” she says, and winces at the way her voice cracks. Not a good start.

The vicar looks up, frowning. “Yes? What is it, my dear?”

“Constable Rabbani,” she says.

He looks her up and down, presumably confused by her outfit. She delves into the flowery bag in search of her warrant card, eventually finds it, and fumbles as she pulls it out.

“Oh,” he says. “Yes, I see. Well, what can I do for you?”

She steps forward, still holding up her warrant card as though it’s a talisman. “You were at the Old Vicarage the other day. I wondered if I could get a statement from you.” Too weak. Too uncertain.

The frown deepens. “But I’ve already spoken to someone. A detective. DS Daley, is it? I gave him my statement an hour ago.”

Rabbani drops her arm and slips the warrant card back in her bag.