“Folk usually do. Time enough then to start bothering your head with God.”

Well, at this moment she didn’t need to bother her head. AD was the son of a priest and had interviewed parsons before. Who better to cope with the Reverend Michael Curtis?

They turned into Balaclava Gardens. If there had ever been gardens, all that remained now were occasional trees. Many of the original Victorian terraced houses still stood, but number 2, and four or five houses beyond, were square modern red-brick dwellings. Number 2 was the largest, with a garage to the left, and a small front lawn with a central bed. The garage door was open and inside was a dark-blue Ford Focus with the registration W341 UDG.

Kate rang the bell. Before there was any response, she caught the sound of a woman’s voice calling and the high shout of a child. After some delay there was the sound of keys being turned and the door opened. They saw a young woman, pretty and very fair. She was wearing trousers with a smock and was carrying a child on her right hip while two toddlers, obviously twins, pulled at both sides of her trousers. They were miniatures of their mother, each with the same round face, corn-coloured hair cut in a fringe and wide eyes which now stared at the newcomers in unblinking judgement.

Dalgliesh took out his warrant card. “Mrs. Curtis? I’m Commander Dalgliesh from the Metropolitan Police, and this is Detective Inspector Miskin. We’re here to see your husband.”

She looked surprised. “The Metropolitan Police? That’s something new. We do get the local police round from time to time. Some of the youths from the high-rises cause trouble occasionally. They’re a good crowd—the local police, I mean. Anyway, please come in. Sorry I kept you waiting but we’ve got these double security locks. It’s awful, I know, but Michael has been attacked twice in the last year. That’s why we had to take down the sign saying that this is the vicarage.” She called in a voice totally devoid of anxiety, “Michael, darling. Someone from the Met Police is here.”

The Reverend Michael Curtis was wearing a cassock with what looked like an old college scarf wound round his neck. Kate was glad when Mrs. Curtis shut the front door behind them. The house struck her as cold. He came forward and rather absent-mindedly shook hands. He was older than his wife, but perhaps not so much older as he seemed, his thin, rather stooped frame in contrast to her buxom comeliness. His brown hair, cut in a monklike fringe, was beginning to grey, but the kindly eyes were watchful and shrewd and when he grasped Kate’s hand his grip was confident. Bestowing on his wife and children a look of puzzled love, he indicated a door behind him.

“Perhaps in the study?”