“Sarge?” He stood outside in the graveyard, after telling the firemen he was seeking a stronger radio signal, but glad to be out in the fresh air.

“Sierra four-five, this is Whisky tango. Did they no’ teach you radio technique at that police college, PC Lamb? Over!”

The sergeant’s lugubrious tone helped to calm his nerves. He took a couple of gulps of air, glad that he’d managed to keep his breakfast down. “Sorry, sarge. I’m at St Cuthbert’s. There’s been an accident. Over.”

“Thank you, Sierra four-five. We’ve already been notified that there has been an incident, that’s why you were sent there. Can you provide a level of detail above the obvious? Over.”

PC Lamb frowned at his radio transmitter. He could imagine the sarge doing a whisky tango. Feeling more upbeat he continued, “It’s the minister. Looks like the bell came down on top of him. Over.”

“What’s his status? Over.”

PC Lamb had seen his status and it wasn’t good. “He’s dead, sarge, he’s a dead ringer.” Why had he said that? Something told him the sarge wouldn’t appreciate his humour. “Over.” he added quickly.

“Your career will be over if I hear you say that again. Secure the scene. We’ll have to send in the DI. Just wait there and keep anyone not wearing a uniform out of the church. Over and out.”

PC Lamb clipped the transmitter back into place on his uniform and began herding the more inquisitive members of the public out of the graveyard. He spotted the young woman reporter from the local paper, waving her phone at him as she approached. His mood lifted; they’d shared a few drinks just the other evening and he thought he might be in with a chance. He straightened his back in case she took an impromptu snap and wondered if he could get the words bell and end into the newspaper report without incurring the sergeant’s wrath.

VI
SUNDAY 11:43

Corstorphine stood in the shattered doorway of the bell tower, surveying the damage wrought by a 575kg cast bronze bell falling 30 metres. Parts of the minister were still recognisable, those arms and legs that protruded from beneath the bell. He went to scratch his head, remembering belatedly that he was wearing a safety helmet, and his arm fell back uselessly at his side.

“Jesus!” Frankie’s offering had little to do with the sanctity of the scene. “Have you seen the timber?” Her hand pointed at an upended oak beam, buried in the dust and rubble, the exposed end pointing back up the tower. It had been sawn almost completely through, just a ragged line of torn timber paid testament to the point at which the tensile strength had failed.

Corstorphine nodded. “That’s not what bothers me.” She frowned at him, puzzled, then followed his line of vision to see what he was focussed on. The rubble-strewn ground was covered in a fine layer of white dust, plaster turned into clouds where the ceiling immediately above their heads had been pulverised. It took her a while to see what concerned him, then she saw it – a fragment of a gearwheel, too small to be part of the bell-ringing mechanism. The similarity to the gearwheels they’d collected at the Hanging Tree was clear.