None the Wiser E-Book

Rachel Amphlett

• Herausgeber: Saxon Publishing
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

What if some secrets were never meant to stay buried?When a parish priest is brutally murdered in cold blood, a rural community is left in shock – and fear.New to the Vale of the White Horse, Detective Sergeant Mark Turpin discovers the murder bears the hallmark of a vicious killer who shows no remorse for his victim, and leaves no trace behind.After a second priest is killed, his broken body bearing similar ritualistic abuse, the police are confronted by a horrifying truth – there is a serial killer at large with a disturbing vendetta.As fear grips the once tranquil countryside, Mark and his team race to uncover a tangle of dark secrets and lies before the killer strikes again. In doing so, Mark finds out that the truth is more twisted than he could ever have imagined…None the Wiser is the first book in the Detective Mark Turpin series from USA Today bestselling author Rachel Amphlett."Fast paced with vivid characterisation and clever twists – this is another winner” Adrian McKinty, bestselling author of The Chain and the Sean Duffy series"A terrific start to a new series" Jo Spain, bestselling author of With Our Blessing and The Confession

Leseprobe

None The Wiser

A Detective Mark Turpin novel

Rachel Amphlett

Copyright © 2020 by Rachel Amphlett

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. While the locations in this book are a mixture of real and imagined, the characters are totally fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Contents

Reading Order & Checklist

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

About the Author

Missed a book? Download the FREE Official Reading Order and Checklist to Rachel Amphlett’s books here

Also available in audiobook

Chapter One

Seamus Carter dropped to his knees.

His voice was little more than a murmur, rising and falling with the rhythm of the prayer.

Exhaustion threatened, and he tried to take strength from the subtext, a momentary sense of calm easing the guilt that had gnawed away at him for days. He kept his eyes closed in meditation a while longer, savouring the tentative peace that enveloped him.

No-one would disturb him.

He was alone – the pub that stood on the other side of the boundary wall with his church had a live band playing tonight. He had heard the thumping bass line as he had been praying, and none of his parishioners were likely to visit at this time of night.

Easing himself from a kneeling position, he genuflected as he gazed up at the wooden crucifix above the altar, and then bowed his head in a final, silent prayer.

Seamus blinked, his trance-like state leaving him as soon as he moved away from the altar.

Despite his efforts, the self-loathing remained, and he scowled.

It wasn’t meant to be like this.

He stomped along the aisle towards the vestry, reached into his pocket for a bubble pack of antacids, then popped and swallowed two.

His thoughts turned to the Sunday morning service, and the uplifting sermon he was struggling to write.

The events of the previous week had shaken him, and he needed to excuse his fear.

Addressing the congregation would be a tincture, a way to soothe the wound that had been opened.

Crossing the remaining length of the nave, he pushed through the door to his office and sank into the hard wooden chair at his desk. It faced the wall, a plain wooden cross above his head.

The room had no windows, which he preferred. The setting enabled him to meditate upon his words as he crafted carefully phrased sentences to spread the word of his God.

He tapped the trackpad on the laptop, and, as the screen blinked to life, he manoeuvred the cursor over the music app, selected a compilation of violin sonatas, and closed his eyes as the music washed over him.

He smiled.

Two years ago, the church cleaner had entered the room and emitted a sharp, shocked gasp at the loud trance music emanating from the computer. After he’d calmed her and tried to convince her that, often, his best sermons were written at one hundred and twenty beats per minute, she’d continued with her dusting, although she’d eyed him warily. He’d resisted the urge to educate her musical tastes further with the progressive rock of 1970s Pink Floyd.

Seamus read through the words he had typed an hour ago, and frowned. He deleted the last sentence, cracked his knuckles and then stabbed two fingers at the keyboard in an attempt to convey the thoughts that troubled him.

Perhaps in sharing his own foibles, he would find retribution.

The stack of paperwork at his elbow fluttered as a cold breeze slapped against the back of his neck, and he rubbed the skin, his eyes never leaving the screen.

He would check all the doors and windows before leaving tonight, but now he had found his flow, the sermon was almost complete.

A shuffling noise reached his ears before he became aware of someone standing behind him, a moment before a rope snaked around his neck.

Seamus lashed out in fear, shoving the chair backwards. Terror gripped him as the noose grew taut.

A gloved hand slapped his right ear, sending shards of pain into his skull, and he cried out in pain as his assailant moved into view.

Black mask, black sweatshirt, black jeans.

‘There’s money in the box in the filing cabinet over there. My wallet is in my trouser pocket.’

Before he could recover from the shock, his right wrist was fastened to the arm of the chair with a plastic tie.

His left fist flailed, then Seamus cried out as he was punched in the balls, all the air rushing from his lungs in one anguished gasp.

He panted as his left wrist was secured to the chair, and tried to focus his thoughts.

‘What do you want?’

The words dried on his lips as he heard the warble in his rasping voice, the unsteadiness that betrayed the lie.

Eyes glared at him from slits within a black hood, but no words came.

Instead, the figure moved behind him.

Bile rose in his throat as the rope tightened under his Adam’s apple.

‘Help!’

His cry was instinctive, desperate – and useless.

Restricted by the rope around his neck, his voice was little more than a croak, broken and shattered.

He twisted in his seat, nostrils flaring as he tugged at the ties that bound his wrists to the arms of the chair.

He couldn’t move.

He gagged, struggling to swallow.

Without warning, the rope jerked, forcing his chin towards the ceiling and burning his throat.

A single tear rolled over his cheek as a wetness formed between his legs, heat rising to his face while his attacker crouched at the back of the chair, securing the rope.

He had known it would come to this, one day.

The figure said nothing, and edged around his body, peering into his eyes before raising a knife to Seamus’s face.

A gloved hand gripped his jaw, forcing his mouth open as the priest panted for air.

The blade traced around each eye socket, millimetres away from his face.

I don’t want to die.

His eyes bulged as the knife moved to his cheek, his plea little more than a whimper.

Seamus gagged at the rope cutting into his neck, fighting against the pressure in his lungs.

I can’t breathe.

A searing pain tore into his tongue, slicing through sinew and tendons before the knife flashed in front of his eyes, blood dripping from the blade, and, as Seamus’s body convulsed, the figure before him began to speak.

‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…’

Chapter Two

Jan West aimed the key fob at the car, and only relaxed once she saw the indicator lights flash.

The area had developed a reputation for petty theft, and given the car wasn’t hers to start with, she wasn’t prepared to take any risks. Nor was she prepared to pay the extortionate parking fees demanded by the local council for what would be a short stay.

She turned away from the vehicle, slipped her keys into her leather handbag and buttoned her woollen coat while making her way across the cracked surface of the car park.

Pushing through a gap next to the barred metal gate, she swore under her breath as she slipped in mud-flecked gravel that had congealed next to the verge due to the number of dog walkers who used the route on a regular basis and had churned up the rudimentary path.

She regained her balance, throwing her arms out to her sides, and hoped to hell no-one she knew had seen her. She glanced over her shoulder but the car park remained deserted, save for her vehicle. Peering at the mud clinging to her month-old black suede shoes, she groaned and tried to wipe off the worst on the long grass beside the path. Her eyes fell to her wrist, her watch catching the weak sunlight.

‘Crap.’

She could have saved time and cut across the middle of the meadow to the river that twisted and turned its way through the market town, but one look at the boggy earth and she decided she’d take the long way around.

The narrow gravel path soon disappeared, making way for a grassy route worn away by walkers, the stench of rotten vegetation pungent on the damp morning air.

She stood to one side as she spotted a pair of brightly clothed men jog towards her, eyeing them warily as they drew closer and removing her hands from her pockets.

Their heavy breathing sent faint clouds of vapour into the air, and one of them nodded to her as he passed before he set his focus back to his route, several steps ahead of his companion.

The two figures receded into the distance, and Jan noted that instead of going through the gate to the car park, they continued towards an archway under the stone bridge that spanned the river further downstream.

To her left, the backs of a row of cottages flanked the meadow, the landscape a bleak contrast to the busy main road the buildings faced.

She peered over the low wall into the different gardens, taking in the rubbish bins, children’s toys discarded haphazardly, and brightly coloured laundry hanging out to dry on washing lines.

Raising her gaze to the clouds tumbling overhead, she thought it a little optimistic of the residents to expect anything to dry that day.

The noise of traffic reached her ears, the narrow bridge over the river adding to the morning congestion problems, despite having been widened three times over the centuries. The market town simply wasn’t designed for the number of cars, trucks, and people that descended on it every day.

When she reached the end of the row of cottages, she turned right and began to follow the towpath, with the river to her left.

The waters had receded considerably since the early spring floods, although a pervading stench of damp assaulted her senses as the earth continued to dry out. She eyed a swan as it floated past. It glared at her disdainfully before paddling off towards its mate that bobbed about on the water near the opposite bank.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned her attention to the row of boats further up the towpath.

Modern cruisers dipped and rose on the water alongside brightly painted narrowboats, the creak of ropes on moorings breaking the silence. As she passed the boats, she kept her senses alert while her eyes roamed over the different shapes and sizes.

She glanced over her shoulder, but no-one followed.

She slowed and pulled out a scrap of paper from her pocket, and then lifted her gaze and squinted towards the boats, realising the one she sought was at the far end of the row.

‘Bloody typical.’

She shoved the paper back in her pocket, cursed the mud that was clinging to her shoes, and rummaged in her bag.

As she approached the last narrowboat, she ran her gaze over the dull blue paint around the windows and the worn timber gunwales.

A figure stood on the stern, coiling a rope, his head bowed as he worked. Dark curly hair lifted on the breeze as he turned away from her and threw something on the deck, a soft thud reaching her ears.

He wore a navy sweatshirt and jeans, his feet covered by boots that appeared to have seen better days. The sort that Scott would call his “gardening boots” whenever she suggested throwing them away.

Before she could open her mouth and call out to him, a dog barked. A split second later, a dark shape launched itself from another boat at her.

‘Hamish, no!’

The man’s voice carried across to the animal too late to save the hem of her trousers. Muddy paw prints soon peppered the charcoal-grey material, and she groaned.

‘Come here!’

The dog trotted off towards the narrowboat, the man’s voice sounding more amused than cross to her ears.

He straightened as she drew near, a frown creasing his brow while he kept his fingers looped through the dog’s collar.

‘Can I help you?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Detective Sergeant Mark Turpin?’

‘Who are you?’

She held up her warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Constable Jan West. There’s been a murder, and the guv needs you at the crime scene.’

Chapter Three

‘Why rent a boat, not a house?’

‘There was nothing else available at short notice. I figured I’d rent it for six months while I scout around for something more permanent.’

Mark moved through the narrow wooden cabin, shedding his walking boots and sweatshirt while trying to continue the conversation with the detective constable.

He could hear her on the other side of the minuscule window, hovering on the shallow deck while she waited, her heels clomping on the wooden surface every few seconds as her shadow passed across the net curtain.

‘I’d never have thought to rent a boat,’ she said.

‘It was easy. I made some phone calls, introduced myself to a few of the regulars at the marina in town, and signed the lease three weeks ago.’

‘Why don’t you moor closer to town? It’d be easier to get to.’

‘That’s the whole idea. It’s not easy to get to. I need peace and quiet.’

He balanced on one foot and removed his jeans, knocking his elbow against the timber-panelled wall before opening the single cupboard that served as his wardrobe and tugged a pair of black trousers off a plastic hanger. The movement sent it clanging against the back of the wardrobe, echoing off the walls.

‘Won’t it be cold in the winter?’ said Jan. ‘I can’t see a chimney like your neighbour’s boat has.’

‘It’s only temporary. I plan to move into a house before it gets too cold. Anyway, lots of people live on narrowboats, don’t they?’

A shirt hung over the back of a chair next to the window, and he snatched it up, holding it to his nose for a moment.

It would have to do.

‘What about all your stuff?’

‘Storage place on the outskirts of town.’ He grimaced. ‘Costs a fortune.’

He hopped about, pulling on a pair of smart black boots he’d found on sale in a shop in Oxford prior to his formal interview. That done, he reached out for a jacket he’d left lying on the duvet, and made his way along the main cabin while he secured a tie under his shirt collar, past the boxes that lined the seats each side and filled the galley, and pushed open the door.

Jan was standing with her back to him, tying her mid-length brown hair into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She turned at the sound of the cabin door closing and dropped her hands to her sides, green eyes appraising him.

‘Ready?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

She jerked her attention over her shoulder to where Hamish was on his back in the grass, his tongue lolling. ‘You should keep your dog under control, by the way.’

‘He’s not my dog.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He turned up on the towpath one day and jumped on board. I’ve got no idea where he’s from.’

‘Hasn’t anyone been looking for him?’

‘No.’ He leapt from the deck in one long stride.

‘Oh.’ She reached out to steady herself as the boat rocked. ‘That’s sad, isn’t it? What sort of dog is he?’

‘I don’t know. A mongrel, I suppose – a bit of Schnauzer, a bit of terrier, and a bit of something else.’

She didn’t answer, and when he glanced over his shoulder, he noticed she had climbed off the boat and onto the towpath, a look of unease on her face.

‘Aren’t you going to lock it?’

‘No, it’ll be fine. Lucy next door will keep an eye on it for me.’

He bit back a smile as she cast a glance at the narrowboat next to his, its decorations of wind chimes, bright flowerpots and hanging baskets contrasting strikingly with his own boat.

After a moment she shrugged as if she couldn’t care less if his home got broken into because he’d ignored her advice and preferred to let a hippy guard it.

‘Come on then. They’re waiting for us.’

He inhaled the aroma of wet earth as they walked along the grassy bank, his ears picking up the faint splash of a vole entering the water at the sound of their voices.

Concentric circles appeared on the surface of the water a moment before bubbles escaped, and he noted with interest the faint outline of a trout as it made its way across to the other bank.

He had hoped to take advantage of another week off work to get used to his new environment and settle in, but it seemed a killer had other ideas about his brief sabbatical.

‘You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?’

He glanced at Jan, to find her glaring at him. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘When are they going to give you a mobile phone?’

‘I don’t know. I wasn’t meant to start for another week. I suppose I’ll get kitted out with everything then. Why?’

‘Well, it’d be easier getting hold of you. No-one could find your personal number.’

He reached out with his hand to steady her as she slipped in the mud. ‘Didn’t you grow up in the countryside around here?’

Her mouth quirked. ‘Is it that obvious? No, I’m a city girl – sort of. I moved up here from Exeter when I was sixteen.’

‘Tell me what you know about the murder,’ he said. He dropped his hand once he was sure she wasn’t going to fall over, and then let her walk on ahead as the path narrowed.

She began to move away, and called over her shoulder.

‘It’s a priest, apparently. Killed in his own church. Pathologist and CSIs are already on site.’

‘Location?’

‘Upper Benham. Do you know it?’

‘Not well. I only arrived here recently. I know the towns and larger villages around here, but you’re going to have to bear with me while I learn the smaller ones.’

‘You were based in Wiltshire before coming here, weren’t you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, it won’t take you long to fit in. It’s a friendly place.’

‘Apart from someone murdering the local priest, you mean?’

He smiled at the snort of laughter that emanated from the detective in front of him.

They hurried along in silence, the long grass smacking against the hem of his trousers and the sound of water lapping against the riverbank receding as they passed the cottages.

Jan strode on ahead, the path narrowing on each side, and he wondered how she managed to walk in the shoes she was wearing, not surprised she was sliding all over the place.

‘Do you own a pair of boots, Jan?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Boots. Might be more suitable than those for work.’

‘Thanks, Sarge. I’ll bear that in mind. I was meant to be off duty today when I got the call. They didn’t tell me my new DS lives on a boat in the middle of the bloody river.’

She stomped off, and he swore under his breath as he hurried to catch up.

‘Who found the body?’

‘The church sacristan. Gave her a right shock, I’ll bet.’

‘First on scene?’

‘Local patrol. They got there within twenty minutes of control getting the triple nine call. Apparently, they’d been on duty all night and were returning to base when it came through.’

‘Catholic, or Church of England?’

She stopped in her tracks and turned to face him, one hand on the metal gate. ‘Catholic, but does it matter right now? He’s dead anyway.’

He squinted through the cool morning sunlight at the boats in the distance, then back to her. ‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Right then. Car’s over here.’

Chapter Four

A gust of wind sent white clouds scudding across a pale-blue sky and buffeted the pool car.

Jan reached out and adjusted the heat setting, the interior of the car warming as the late spring morning developed into what Mark expected of an early day in May.

Apart from the murder of a parish priest.

‘What do you know about the victim?’

His hand shot out, seeking the strap above the passenger door as Jan powered the car around a tight bend. The door mirror clipped a hawthorn bush as they passed and scared a brightly coloured pheasant that ran squawking under a five-bar gate on the opposite side of the lane.

‘Seamus Carter. The church sacristan, Helen, found him. He’s been the parish priest for about fifteen years. He was expected to arrive at the church a couple of hours before the Pentecost service this morning. He’d arranged for her to get there first, so she could check over the flower arrangements and deal with any last-minute food donations for the charity baskets. When she got there, the church was already unlocked, and she discovered his body in the vestry.’

‘Just to be clear, which part of the building is the vestry?’

‘At the back. Typically used as an office, as well as a place for the priest to get ready before a service. Haven’t you ever been to church?’

‘Not since I got married, no.’

‘Oh.’

He rubbed his thumb over the space where the wedding band used to be, then shuffled in his seat and peered through the window as she indicated left and powered the car towards the village.

Mark ran his eyes over the sign welcoming them to Upper Benham, then let his gaze travel over the sight of a village green bordered by a post office and a duck pond.

The church tower could be seen above a row of horse chestnut trees.

As the car drew closer, he noted a long wall separating the church from a pub, a stile cut into the stonework so that walkers could access the footpath that bisected the properties.

He was pleased to see that the entrance to the church grounds had been cordoned off by the first responders. Blue and white tape fluttered between two gate posts, and now a small crowd of churchgoers huddled together as uniformed officers corralled them away from the crime scene in order to take statements.

The state of shock was palpable, and officers moved between the men and women that were gathered, notebooks poised to get as much information down as possible from each individual before the parishioners had too much of a chance to talk to each other and clouded their own recall of events.

Jan braked next to a plain white panel van and killed the engine. ‘Shit.’

‘Something wrong?’

She pointed at the sleek black four-door car that had been parked further up the lane from their position.

‘The Home Office pathologist is still here.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

His colleague sighed. ‘She’s incredibly clever, and good at what she does – she just isn’t very patient with those of us with an inability to keep up with her.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Gillian Appleworth.’

Mark emitted a groan.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Jan.

He didn’t answer, and instead unclipped his seatbelt and flung open the door.

Jan at his side, he stalked across the road to where a white tent had been erected. He pushed aside the flap and took two sets of white overalls from the crime scene technician, pulling one set over his suit and stepping into the matching booties while his colleague did the same. After signing in with the police officer who stood guard outside the church entrance, he turned to the detective constable.

‘Have you done this before?’

‘Now and then, if I’m on duty at the time,’ she said, adjusting the hood over her hair. ‘An old lady got bashed in her home about six months ago on the outskirts of Didcot. Not nice.’

‘I hate to say it, but I think this one is going to be worse.’

She paled at his words, but he noticed how she braced her shoulders before following him.

The double doors to the church had been pegged open, providing ease of access to the crime scene investigators and police officers that were milling about.

A familiar mustiness filled his senses as he passed under the porch and into the building.

Dust motes hung in the air, spiralling in the light cast through the stained glass windows. A demarcated path had been set out using tape, and two crime scene investigators worked on the far side of the church. One raised a digital camera, the bright flash illuminating the plasterwork wall as another paced back and forth, his head bowed.

‘Do you know if there was any sign of a forced entry?’

‘The first responders reported that the sacristan said there wasn’t,’ said Jan. ‘There are two entrances into the church, and both were open – the front door we just came through, and a side door that leads out to the car park.’

Mark paused, and craned his neck until he could look at the ceiling above. Lights hung from long cords that dangled from pale oak rafters, the glow from the bulbs casting a soft hue across the large space.

‘So, I wonder if our killer entered the building earlier in the day and waited?’

Jan shook her head. ‘Helen Wilson, that’s the sacristan, said they had a busy day yesterday – a wedding in the morning, and a christening in the afternoon. Once those were out of the way, the priest and the ushers prepared the church for the service that was going to be held this morning.’

‘Are you religious?’

‘Not particularly, Sarge. No.’

‘Then why are you whispering?’

‘I don’t know. Isn’t that what people usually do in churches?’

He turned on his heel and led the way towards the back of the church where two figures in similar white overalls to theirs hovered next to a doorway, their attention taken by the activities beyond.

The nearest turned at the sound of their footsteps, and lowered his paper mask as they approached.

‘DS Mark Turpin. I believe you know DC Jan West. Detective Inspector Kennedy is managing the incident room being established at Abingdon, and I’m attending as his deputy Senior Investigating Officer.’

‘Lucky you. Come through. The pathologist and CSI lead are here.’

The man replaced his mask, and stepped aside to let them pass.

Inside, two identically white-suited figures spoke in hushed tones near the back wall of the room while bending over a chair and a desk, their feet on a raised platform that had been erected.

Mark didn’t need to ask why – a pool of blood had congealed across the tiled floor.

The room looked as if it had been used as an office for a number of years. Two metal filing cabinets had been placed beside the desk, their drawers unopened. The walls were sparsely decorated. A wooden crucifix adorned the space above them, and a calendar hung from a hook driven into the wall on the right-hand side, its page turned to May and displaying a photograph of the Uffington White Horse above a field of wheat.

Neither person paid any attention to the new arrivals, and remained focused on the task at hand.

Mark cleared his throat. ‘Right, what have we got?’

The figure in the white overalls on the left spun around, the space between the hood and a face mask revealing cool grey eyes that bored into his a moment as he heard her sharp intake of breath.

‘Mark? I’d heard you’d relocated this way.’

‘Gillian.’

‘Oh, do you know each other?’ said Jan.

‘You could say that,’ said the pathologist. She stepped off the platform and gestured to her left. ‘Stay on that side of the room, next to the wall. They’ve finished processing that area.’

Mark led the way, the paper soles of his bootees scuffing over the mottled flagstones.

Despite the animosity between him and Gillian Appleworth, he respected her work ethic and he could see why she was determined to keep a safe distance from where she and the team of CSIs worked.

The slumped body of the priest sat hunched forwards in a plain wooden chair, his back to the room, one arm dangling at his side while the other rested on the table in front of him.

His thin brown hair exposed a pale scalp, a navy wool sweater covering his slim shoulders. Blood covered the wall above him, a wide arc that had hit the wall and splashed outwards, coating a laptop computer, paperwork and leather briefcase – as well as the lower half of the cross nailed to the wall.

Mark frowned. ‘What happened?’

Gillian paused from speaking with one of the technicians and glanced over her shoulder at him.

‘He was attacked from behind – a rope was used to restrain him by the neck while his tongue was removed. The attacker then slit his throat.’

He heard Jan swallow before she spoke.

‘He was alive when his tongue was cut out?’

‘Quite possibly. We haven’t found it yet, so he might’ve been made to swallow it.’

‘Did no-one hear?’

‘No.’ The pathologist pointed at the laptop. ‘This was blasting out classical music when the first responders got here, and apparently the pub next door had a live band last night.’

‘Any fingerprints?’

Another figure clad in white overalls turned and shook his head. ‘We might have some partials, but whoever did this wore thin gloves – enough to mask any prints at least.’

‘What about a weapon?’ said Mark.

‘No sign of one, nor the rope that was used to wrap around his neck.’

‘Definitely a rope?’

Gillian threw him a withering look and cocked her head to one side as she appraised him. ‘The ligature marks are quite distinctive, Detective Turpin. We have photos. I’m sure we’ll be able to tell you the exact kind of rope that was used once we’ve had time to analyse those and retrieve any trace fibres from the wound.’

‘No footprints?’ said Jan.

‘He was attacked from behind. The blood arced away from the killer so, no – no footprints. We checked outside, too, but found no markings on the surface of the car park.’

‘That took a hell of a lot of strength,’ said Mark, and jerked his chin at the priest’s prone body. ‘He’s not a small man.’

‘Factor in anger, blood lust or anything like that, and you’d be surprised what people are capable of. You must’ve seen what people are like when they’re fired up and ready to fight.’

‘Male or female?’

‘I couldn’t comment. However, it took a certain amount of strength to overpower him.’ Gillian gestured to a collection of paperwork that lay scattered around the victim’s feet, as if they had been swept off the desk during a struggle. ‘Looks like he tried to defend himself. There are traces of rope fibres under his fingernails as well.’

‘Fat lot of good it did him,’ said Mark. ‘All right, we’ll let you get on. When do you think you could have your preliminary report to us?’

‘When it’s ready.’

He sighed as the pathologist turned her back on him once more, and then led the way from the vestry, Jan at his heels.

They reached the exit, and he took in a deep lungful of air, keen to lose the scent of blood from his nostrils before he stalked across to the tent and removed the overalls.

He straightened and noticed Jan talking to one of the police constables on the cordon, a smile on her lips as she tossed the car keys from hand to hand.

She noticed him approaching, and broke off her conversation as she headed back towards the car.

‘What are you grinning about?’

She waited until he’d fallen into step beside her. ‘So, Nathan over there says that the pathologist is your ex-wife’s sister?’

He sighed, marvelling at the speed at which news travelled within the police force. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘No kidding.’