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fulsome tribute that he deserved without any input from the rest of the family.”
    “So you wouldn’t be at the wake either?” Swift concluded with obvious disappointment.
    “No. I didn’t even know there had been one.”
    “It’s Mary I feel sorry for,” Maud took up her theme. “She’s lost her parents and now a brother in the space of two years. She did so much for the chapel – arranging the flowers, seeing the place was kept clean, helping to organise the bring and buy sales. But I saw her yesterday and she seems stronger than ever in her faith. God moves in mysterious ways.”
    “Yes, I’ve noticed with all religions,” Amos commented, “the women do all the work and the men have all the authority.”
    It was a tactless and inconsiderate remark to two people who had willingly helped.
    “I think you’ll find that we Methodists have led the way in the ordination of women,” Newbiggin said tartly.
    Amos would not have made his remark had he not felt that they had reached the natural end of the interview and he regretted letting Maud’s reference to God’s mysterious ways annoy him.
    “Many thanks for your time,” he said.
    Newbiggin and Maud looked miffed and did not reply.
     
     

 
     
    Chapter 16
     
    Detective Inspector Paul Amos and Detective Sergeant Juliet Swift returned to Lincolnshire police headquarters to ascertain what progress, if any, had been made in determining the cause of death and whether any new leads had emerged.
    Amos’s heart sank when he saw David, the Chief Constable’s press officer and general factotum, waiting in his office in a highly agitated state. David’s presence meant only one thing: a summons from on high from Chief Constable Sir Robert Fletcher himself. The more agitated that David was, the worse mood Sir Robert would be in and the worse the tongue lashing would be for some perceived but not necessarily warranted shortcoming.
    However, David sank into a relaxed equilibrium the moment he saw Amos, which was undoubtedly a good sign. The inspector had found favour for once in his last case, which had been settled to the Chief Constable’s satisfaction with no adverse publicity for the police. Even so, he approached David cautiously. Interviews with Fletcher had a habit of backfiring.
    “Ah, Inspector Amos,” David exclaimed with a beam as his quarry was still only halfway across the CID room. “Out doing more sterling work, I understand.”
    This was meant to be friendly and ingratiating; Amos found it patronising and irritating. David either ignored or failed to see the inspector’s look of disdain. All that mattered to the press officer was the approval of the hard-to-please Chief Constable, and that was clearly forthcoming at the moment.
    “Sir Robert would like to see you,” David said blithely. “Better nip up there smartish while you’re still in the good books,” he added with a theatrical wink.
    Amos suspected a trap but that would be far too subtle for David. In any case, it was better to face whatever music there was, whether it turned out to be the Funeral March or Ode to Joy , and get back to the case in hand.
    At least Fletcher’s latest public relations craze, tackling drug taking among teenagers, was still running its course before he inevitably tired of it and moved onto another social issue. He was always at his most irritable when a new campaign was approaching its launch.
    As Amos entered the Chief Constable’s office through the already open door, he was greeted with an enthusiastic: “Ah, Paul, there you are. Come in, come in, have a seat.”
    So it was to be Beethoven with his Ode to Joy rather than Chopin, composer of the Marche Funébre , giving the musical direction. The use of a first name was indeed a cast iron indication that all was well; a seat was an almost unheard of approbation.
    Only as he entered did he realise that Fletcher was not alone. A rather stunning blond woman, at least 25 years younger than Amos, was