Murdering Ministers by Alan Beechey Page A

Tapsters.”
    â€œFinished with the Tapsters,” Piltdown echoed. He looked up suddenly. “Sorry, Ollie, what? You want to come round later?”
    â€œIf that’s all right. We didn’t really get much of a chance to talk the other evening.”
    â€œYes, that’s okay,” Piltdown said distractedly. “Whenever you like. I’ll be in.”
    Oliver’s desire to catch up with his old friend was genuine, but he also felt he owed the minister an explanation and an apology. He suspected that when the editor of Celestial City had selected Piltdown’s church for the forthcoming article, he had not explained that the piece was going to be satirical. Despite the possibility of disappointing Ben and the certainty of annoying Geoffrey Angelwine, Oliver had more or less decided to abandon the assignment, unless Nigel Tapster proved to be the Antichrist and so a worthy target for the ferret’s scorn. But was Piltdown in the forgiving vein? Oliver wondered, as the minister stood awkwardly in the street, his face and collar yellow under the streetlamp.
    â€œPaul, I don’t mean to pry, but are you all right?”
    Piltdown frowned again and blinked several times. “I’m sorry, Ollie. No, there’s nothing wrong. Nigel and I just had some words, if you must know—a few doctrinal differences. It’s probably my fault, I may have let those comments last Sunday rankle a little. I think I need to cool off.” He smiled weakly. “Come around later. I’ll be fine by then.”
    He turned abruptly and headed off down the street without looking back. Oliver approached the Tapsters’ front door, realizing that he had forgotten to ask Piltdown for directions to the manse. He could hear loud music, which did not break off after he rang the doorbell. He tried the bell again, but the music finally stopped when he resorted to a loud rattle of the knocker. A moment later, Heather Tapster opened the door and ushered him into the hall.
    â€œWe didn’t get to meet the other evening, Mr. Swithin,” she said pleasantly, taking his coat. “I’m so glad that my husband’s words made you want to learn more about our witness and our ministry with the young people. Perhaps you may become a regular visitor yourself? You’re always welcome to our prayer meetings, or to join us for private prayer and spiritual fellowship.”
    Heather paused in her expert evangelism and Oliver had his first opportunity to see her close up. She was a little older than him, clearly attractive, but either oblivious or contemptuous of the fact. Not only did she wear no makeup, but she didn’t seem to use the remedial cosmetics that would have reduced her skin’s oiliness and eliminated the small outcrop of pimples on her forehead. Her long brown hair was unstyled and hung limply on either side of her head, as if she had delegated its care to gravity.
    â€œI’m afraid Nigel is currently occupied,” she continued, having given Oliver a similar mute appraisal, which for some reason broadened her smile. “The Reverend Piltdown paid us a surprise visit. But you’re welcome to join us in the living room until Nigel’s free.”
    Oliver became aware of a thin teenager standing in the doorway to the front room. He was about fourteen, with reddish hair and a face that reminded him of somebody he’d seen recently. A battered Fender Stratocaster hung on a strap around his torso, and a coiled red wire trailed into the room.
    â€œI just passed Paul on the street,” Oliver informed her.
    Heather looked surprised. “Really? I didn’t hear him leave. But then Billy and I were practicing for the Nativity play and we do tend to get a little enthusiastic. I wonder why Paul didn’t pop in to say good-bye? That’s very rude, especially for a minister of the church. And where’s Nigel in that case?”
    As if in answer, a toilet