1. The Policeman and the Vicar

Sergeant Harold Wilson was enjoying a convivial evening with his cronies in The Drunken Horse Inn. By the time his third pint arrived, he was telling them about his brilliance in solving a case involving a miscarriage of justice.

Edith, the elderly mother of The Horse’s landlord, overheard him as she cleared a nearby table.

“Is that you taking credit where none is due, Harry?” she called. “That case was solved by the Bunburry Triangle, and well you know it.”

“Woman’s senile,” muttered Wilson, sufficiently quietly for Edith not to hear. “Scarcely knows what day it is. The Bunburry Triangle – they couldn’t solve The Bugle ’s easy crossword. Idiotic name for a bunch of idiots, two interfering old busybodies and a posh git from London.”

“Interfering old busybodies? I’d like to hear you say that in front of Liz and Marge,” said Steve Turner.

“He wouldn’t dare,” said Dan Bryan, laughing. “They might hit him with their handbags.”

Sergeant Wilson, who had already been on the wrong side of Marge Redwood’s handbag, gave a disparaging snort and returned to his pint.

“You’ve got to hand it to the Bunburry Triangle, though,” said Gerry Metcalfe. “They’ve got a pretty good track record in solving crimes round here.”

Spluttering, Wilson turned on Gerry. “You’re joking! You actually believe all that fake news? Crimes get solved by good old-fashioned police work, not three amateurs completely out of their depth.”

Stung by this disloyalty from his so-called friends, he gulped down the rest of his pint, and announced he was going home, even though it was his round.

He was still in a foul mood the next morning, and it didn’t improve when he turned up at the police station to find Constable Emma Hollis wasn’t there. He belatedly remembered she was off on some training course at headquarters. He would have to make his own coffee.

“Training courses, load of rubbish,” he muttered as he switched on the kettle. “You learn by doing.”

His mood deteriorated further when he found the milk in the fridge had gone off, and he would have to drink his coffee black.

There was still half a packet of chocolate digestives in the cupboard. Wilson dunked one in his mug in a bid to make the coffee more palatable. It helped a bit, so he dunked another, and settled down to read the sports pages.

The computer suddenly bleeped.

He didn’t like the computer. You could press a key and next thing you know, something crucial has gone missing. It was better to let Hollis deal with it; that way, if something went wrong, there was only her to blame. But right now, he didn’t have an option. He heaved himself out of his chair and lumbered over to Hollis’s desk.

The message was from headquarters. It began with the image of a sketch, not one of those e-fit composites that scarcely looked like a person at all, but a drawing that was utterly recognisable.

“Thank you, God,” breathed Wilson, and then chortled aloud at his own words.

There was one man in Bunburry he loathed more than Alfie McAlister. And that was the Reverend Philip Brown. He would never forgive that man for what he had done.

“Gotcha,” Wilson said to the computer screen.

Bunburry’s elderly vicar had made a pathetic attempt to disguise himself, but there was no doubt it was him — the angular face, the deep-set eyes, the mouth curved in a sanctimonious smile. Wilson scanned the information below the sketch. A mean, nasty crime. The vicar would be kicked out of Bunburry with immediate effect, a thought which delighted the sergeant.

Grinning, he shrugged on his jacket and fastened it over his paunch before heading out to the car and driving to the vicarage.

The door to the two-storey Victorian house was shut. Sergeant Wilson pressed hard on the bell, following this up by hammering on the door knocker.

He could hear a voice in the distance: “Yes, yes, I’m coming, just a moment.”

The door opened, and there was the vicar in his usual dark suit and dog collar, not what he had worn to commit the crime.

His expression of mild concern changed when he saw Sergeant Wilson. Guilt? Fear?

“Good gracious,” he said faintly.

“You weren’t expecting me, sir?” the sergeant asked. “I thought you might have been.”

“No – no, I wasn’t. What’s happened, sergeant?”

“I was rather hoping you would tell me, sir.” Sergeant Wilson was enjoying himself. “I wonder if you would accompany me to the station where we could have a little chat.”

“Now?” The vicar hesitated. “I’m sorry, sergeant. I’m quite busy this morning. I could pop in this afternoon if that’s any good.”

Sergeant Wilson puffed out his chest and gave a tight smile. “I don’t think you quite understand, sir. It’s not exactly an invitation. I’d like you to answer some questions in connection with an incident that took place yesterday.”

“An incident?” The vicar frowned. “I haven’t heard about any incident. So I really don’t think I can-”

His gazed shifted from Sergeant Wilson as something else caught his attention. Wilson half-turned to see what it was. Dorothy from the post office was coming up the path. The day was getting better and better.

“Goodness! Sergeant Wilson,” she said as she got closer. “What on earth is going on?”

“I don’t quite-” the vicar began, but the sergeant spoke over him, using his most official tone.

“Mr Brown is helping us with our enquiries concerning an incident at the Mills farm shop.” He grasped the vicar by the arm and began propelling him down the path. “Come along now, sir. The car’s at the gate.”

The vicar stumbled as he was pulled along, but didn’t resist.

“I’ll just pop your post through the letterbox, reverend,” called Dorothy excitedly.

Wilson couldn’t believe his luck. Dorothy was an unstoppable source of news in the village, and before long everyone would know that holier-than-thou Philip Brown was in the frame for theft and vandalism.

“Did you say the Mills farm shop?” the vicar asked from the back of the car as they drove off. “I-”

“If you don’t mind, sir, I’d rather you didn’t talk right now. You should wait until we get to the station, when everything can be recorded. That way, there’s no danger of any misunderstanding.”

No more was said until they were in the interview room. After switching on the recording equipment, Sergeant Wilson noted the date, and the time by his watch, gave his rank and name, and added: “Police Constable Emma Hollis is currently unavailable,” just for good measure.

The vicar, invited to state his full name and date of birth, did so, his voice shaking slightly. “I don’t understand. What’s happening? Am I some sort of suspect?” he added.

“If you wouldn’t mind confining yourself to answering questions rather than asking them, sir. Where were you yesterday, around eleven a.m. to midday?”

The vicar shifted abruptly on the plastic chair. “Yesterday?” he faltered. “Let me think.”

“Come now, sir, yesterday’s quite recent. It’s not that difficult a question.”

“I was– I would have been in the vicarage.”

The change of tense didn’t escape Sergeant Wilson’s attention.

“Would you, sir? And would anyone else have been there?”

The vicar hesitated. “That’s the day for the ladies’ knitting circle.”

“Is it indeed? That’s very helpful,” said Sergeant Wilson, pulling the telephone towards him. “If you can give me the name of one of the lady knitters, she’ll be able to confirm your presence in the vicarage.”

The vicar shifted in his seat again. “They meet in one of the communal rooms downstairs. My study’s upstairs.”

Wilson picked up the receiver. “Give me a name anyway, sir. It’s still worth checking. They might have heard you walking around while you composed your sermon.”

“I– I may have been out while they were there.”

“You may have been out,” Wilson repeated slowly. “Your memory seems worryingly poor, if you don’t mind my saying. Perhaps you should make an appointment with Dr Anderson for a check-up.”

The vicar sat upright, not meeting the sergeant’s gaze. “I was out,” he said.

“Where?”

“Just– nowhere in particular.”

“You can do better than that, vicar,” said Sergeant Wilson, his voice taking on a harsher tone. “Where did you go?”

“For a drive. Around and about.” The vicar swallowed. “I wonder if I might have a glass of water?”

“Later. I don’t want to disturb your train of thought. So, where did you go?”

The vicar bit his lip and said nothing.

Wilson slammed his hand down...