No one could miss St. John’s Church. It stood on the left of the road, a huge Victorian building with a dominant spire on the junction with Balaclava Gardens. Kate wondered how a local congregation could possibly support this grimed architectural aberration. Apparently it was with difficulty. A tall billboard outside the gate bore a painted thermometerlike structure which proclaimed that three hundred and fifty thousand pounds remained to be raised, and underneath, the words Please help save our tower. An arrow pointing to a hundred and twenty-three thousand looked as if it had remained stationary for some time.

Dalgliesh drew up outside the church and went over quickly to look at the notice board. Sliding back into his seat, he said, “Low Mass at seven, High Mass at ten-thirty, Evensong and Vespers at six, confessions five to seven Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays. With luck we’ll find him at home.”

Kate was grateful that she and Benton weren’t facing this interview together. Years of experience in interrogation of a variety of suspects had taught her the accepted techniques and, where necessary, modification in the face of widely differing personalities. She knew when softness and sensitivity were necessary and when they were seen as weakness. She had learnt never to raise her voice or avert her gaze. But this suspect, if that’s what he proved to be, was one she wouldn’t find it easy to question. Admittedly it was difficult to see a clergyman as a suspect for murder, but there might be an embarrassing if less horrific reason for his stopping at that remote and lonely spot so late at night. And what exactly was one supposed to call him? Was he a vicar, rector, clergyman, minister, parson or priest? Should she call him Father? She had heard all used at different times, but the subtleties, and indeed the orthodox belief, of the national religion were alien to her. The morning assembly at her inner-city comprehensive had been determinedly multi-faith, with occasional reference to Christianity. What little she knew about the country’s established Church had been unconsciously learnt from architecture and literature and from the pictures in the major galleries. She knew herself to be intelligent with an interest in life and people, but the job she loved had largely satisfied her intellectual curiosity. Her personal creed of honesty, kindness, courage and truth in human relationships had no mystical basis and no need of one. The grandmother who grudgingly had brought her up had given her only one piece of advice on religion, which, even at the age of eight, she had found unhelpful.

She had asked, “Gran, do you believe in God?”

“What a daft question. You don’t want to start wondering about God at your age. Only one thing to remember about God. When you’re dying, call in a priest. He’ll see you’re all right.”

“But suppose I don’t know I’m dying?”