Rat Poison by Margaret Duffy Page B

her.’
    â€˜Or I could play the alcoholic, junkie, psychopathic cop with a long tongue that zaps people around the ears like that alien who wears his innards on his head in Farscape ,’ Patrick muttered after a short silence, throwing himself down on to the sofa.
    â€˜OK, delete all the above and just go after him.’
    â€˜As me.’
    â€˜Yes, as you, the man from SOCA.’
    â€˜But not in character as a lean, mean, gunning machine?’ he asked sadly, very much tongue-in-cheek.
    â€˜There’s very little difference. Just forget the hair gel and leave off that confounded belt with the skull buckle.’
    He went into a reverie and I left him to it to deal with domestic matters, wondering if I had just written myself out of the job.
    â€˜I might take your advice,’ Patrick said at just before eleven that night, coming into the bedroom. ‘But there’s something else I want to do first. It’s really important to  . . .’
    The rest of what he was saying was muffled as he pulled his open-necked shirt over his head. Most men undo a few more buttons first.
    â€˜Say that last bit again,’ I requested.
    He delved into a drawer and unearthed a dark blue sweatshirt. ‘Find out what’s going on at the pub.’
    I stared at him. ‘Do I take it you’re going to break in?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜What, now? ’
    â€˜In around an hour’s time.’
    â€˜You don’t need me to list the consequences if it all goes wrong.’
    No, and he did not need reminding that he was a cop now and should have a search warrant; that his MI5 days, when he had not needed one, were over and it would probably be the end of his job with SOCA, etc., etc .
    â€˜ Are you coming with me, or not?’ Patrick asked in the manner of one who had asked the question before and received no response.
    Oh, God, the headlines in The Bath Chronical :RECTOR’S SON AND DAUGHTER-IN-LAW CAUGHT BREAKING INTO VILLAGE INN. Or: AUTHOR ARRESTED FOR PUB BURGLARY – ‘SHE ALWAYS WAS A BIT ODD,’ SAYS NEIGHBOUR.
    â€˜Are you doing this mostly for Matthew?’ I asked.
    â€˜Yes, I suppose I am.’
    â€˜We may as well hang together,’ I said.
    At least he and Katie would be immensely proud of us.
    There is a gateway in our garden wall that leads directly into the churchyard which has provided a shortcut for the incumbent and his family for several hundred years, initially so they did not have to mingle with potentially verminous villagers in the lane. It was to be very useful to us tonight as it was vital that no one saw anyone acting furtively in the vicinity of the rectory and the Ring o’ Bells. Between both properties is a road and the larger-than-average village green and we would not set foot on one inch of it.
    It was around midnight as we went through the gate but the church clock would not strike the hour as it had stopped and was awaiting repairs. Patrick led the way and I did not follow right on his heels in order not to cannon into him should he stop suddenly. It was up to me to fend for myself and not trip over any of the gravestones, which was fairly easy to begin with as there is a path that leads around the side of the church to the main door. Before we reached this we struck off across the grass and progressed more slowly and carefully. There was no moon but as often happens in high summer it was not quite dark and the worn stones seemed almost to possess an afterglow from the brilliant sunset.
    We came to an older area, the original part of the graveyard that dates back to the Middle Ages, most of the burial sites now just grassy mounds. Then the boundary wall, much higher on this side, reared up before us. There is a gateway here, too, that I knew had once led into glebe land but these days this is the gardens of private houses with a public footpath running between them. Not many people use it now but the ancient iron hinges