Murdering Ministers by Alan Beechey

be fine,” Weed assured him. “You’ve trained her well. Besides, I’ve got something for her to do until we reshuffle the teams in the new year.”
    Mallard studied the nameplate on Weed’s desk. “Who knows about this?”
    â€œJust you and me, for now. I presume you’d like it to look as if it’s your own decision to retire. In fact, I’d like it to be your decision, which is why I’m giving you time to get used to it. Come back the Monday after Christmas and bring in your official notification in writing. For the records.”
    He stood up. The interview was clearly at an end. Mallard pushed his chair back and reached casually for his file.
    â€œCan I take this?” he asked. “For old times’ sake”
    Weed placed a stubby finger on the folder, pinning it to the desk-top. His eyes narrowed, almost disappearing under the shaggy eyebrows, and his face seemed to split and gape again, revealing lower teeth like a line of tipsy snowmen. Mallard had never seen him so happy.
    â€œI think I’ll keep it. For now,” he said. He slipped the folder into a drawer in his desk.
    Mallard shuffled from the room, unaccountably thinking of stinging nettles. And where he’d like to stuff some.
    ***
    It was five-thirty, and almost dark when Oliver stepped out of the Plumley Central Underground Station, tried first to guess the way to the Tapster’s home, and then reluctantly accepted the symbolic castration that went along with asking for directions at a nearby newsagent.
    After several days of procrastination, he had finally decided to pursue Ben’s suggestion and see if an interview with Nigel Tapster would provide some feisty, festive, Finsbury prose. He called the Tapsters and found that the lay preacher would be delighted to meet him on Thursday evening. Oliver was almost looking forward to the meeting. It made a pleasant change after several frustrating hours on the telephone with the manufacturer of his laptop computer, which had stubbornly failed to boot up that morning. He had just exhausted his third service representative, when he noticed that someone had turned down the brightness control on his display, and the computer had been working perfectly all the time.
    The Tapsters lived in a surprisingly large semidetached house on a quiet residential street, which was clearly within walking distance of the church. Certainly Paul Piltdown showed no sign of looking for a parked car as he hurried out of the Tapsters’ front garden, slamming the wrought-iron gate behind him and striding rapidly along the street toward Oliver.
    â€œNice day for a walk, Vicar,” Oliver said cheerfully when Piltdown drew level with him. Piltdown continued to barrel along the pavement for a second, as if Oliver’s comment needed more than one attempt to clear the bar of his attention. Then he stopped abruptly and spun around, frowning.
    â€œOllie, it is you,” he exclaimed. “Sorry, I thought I must be dreaming. You’re the last person I expected to see.” He looked away, and Oliver realized the comment was not motivated by joy. Piltdown began to adjust his clerical collar fussily.
    â€œI’m paying a visit to Nigel Tapster,” Oliver declared. “I presume you had the earlier appointment.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou’ve just been to see the Tapsters?”
    â€œOh yes. Yes, I saw him.” Piltdown thrust his hands into the pockets of his overcoat.
    â€œI’m surprised he didn’t tell you I was coming. I’m planning to interview him for the article—to get the full breadth of Diaconalist belief.”
    Piltdown didn’t react, but studied his feet thoughtfully. Oliver wondered if he was feeling cold.
    â€œLook, I don’t want to keep you,” he continued brightly, “but since I’m here in Plumley, I was hoping I could drop round to the manse later, after I’m finished with the