I told Nigella not to think like that. I was sitting at my breakfast bar, idly pretending to work. It was a sunny Sunday morning that promised to turn sweltering later in the day. Kennedy was half-heartedly chewing one of his toys at my feet, and the cats were nowhere to be seen. Off pillaging and murdering, I assumed.
My laptop in front of me dinged with a new message update.
Ollie: And now the vicar is dead? You didn’t half choose a wild place to live.
I chose to ignore the tone of the message and replied that he wasn’t dead, merely justnearlydead.
Ollie: Have the police got any leads?
Not as I know of. But they don’t often tell me those things.
Ollie: I saw your man on TV this morning talking about it.
This grabbed my attention.Which man?
Ollie: Posho I met at the party back a few months. The blond.
The irony of Ollie calling others posh.
“Apparently, Guy was on TV this morning talking about it?” I blurted out to Nigella, interrupting her telling me about Delia Crocker’s cataracts.
“Oh, yes, of course he was.BBC South West.”
I found the page and opened it.
VICAR LEFT FOR DEADread the headline. There was a short blurb underneath:Dorset Police are investigating the motive of an attack at St Candida Church in Lilbury, which has left one man in hospital with critical injuries that are thought to be life-threatening. Local sources have confirmed the man as Jethro Fulford, 44, who has been the parish vicar in the local area for several years.
I pressed play on the video. Scenes of the cordoned-off church were followed, naturally, by a mention that this was where Arabella was murdered a few months previously.
“Arabella Sweet was a barmaid at a local pub and daughter of the businessman Miles Sweet. Her alleged killer, Tarquin Scott, is imprisoned awaiting trial after being caught while he was trying to kill two people who were witnesses to his purported crime.”
At least they didn’t mention me by name. Odette popped up on screen. “Local residents are shocked,” said the voiceover from the reporter.
“This isn’t the sort of place where this happens,” said Odette. “It’s because we have lots of people from London moving down here, and they’re bringing their drugs and crime connections with them. There’s Arden Forrest, for instance; he was dating the man who killed Arabella, and some around here think he was in on it.”
“Arden Forrest, the writer?” the reporter asked.
“Yes, Arden Forrest. That’s F-O-R-R—”
Guy popped up on screen alongside Riz. “Local resident and Conservative Party candidate in the Central Dorset by-election, Guy Frobisher, agrees. He was joined byLabour Party candidate Riz Patel to call for more community policing in the area.”
“Riz and I both agree that swinging cuts to rural policing has seen crime rise in these areas, and we want this to be looked at,” Guy said.
Riz nodded. “Both Guy and I are fully agreed on this. Robust community policing must be in place to stop tragedies like these from being allowed to occur.”
I shut the laptop. Well, at least the near death of our vicar had brought the Left and Right together again. Nigella was still talking.
“Riz and Guy are running a meeting tonight outside the church, a sort of vigil cum community watch thing. I think Roz is making sandwiches.”
My doorbell rang. “Gotta go, Gella.”
“Come tonight. I’m heading over with the boys about seven.”
“I’ll be there.”
I hung up and made my way to the door, unsure of who I’d meet. But it definitely wasn’t the person I got.
“Guy, how nice to see you.”
