Pop Goes The Weasel by M.J. Arlidge

Author:M.J. Arlidge [Arlidge, M.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Women Sleuths, Crime, Crime Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers, Literature & Fiction, Women's Fiction, Detective, Espionage, Murder, Murder & Mayhem, Mystery & Detective, Mystery & Suspense
ISBN: 9781405914956
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2014-09-10T23:00:00+00:00

56

St Stephen’s Baptist church reared up above her, grey and austere in the spitting rain. Churches were supposed to be places of refuge, warm and welcoming, but Helen found them cold and dispiriting places. She had always felt she was somehow being judged by them and found wanting.

Her mind was still reeling from her discussion with Emilia, but she wrenched it back to the task in hand. She had stewed on their conversation for too long and was nearly late as a result – she had had barely five minutes with DC Fortune before haring up the path – and she could hear the organ music swelling up inside. Slipping quietly into the building, she seated herself in a pew at the back. From here she would have a good view of everyone who attended. It was surprisingly common for murderers to attend the funerals of their victims – serial killers in particular seemed to relish the feeling of power as they watched the body being buried, the vicar intoning, the black-clad mourners clinging to each other. Helen scanned the female faces – was their killer sitting somewhere in this church?

The service ground on, but Helen barely took in the words. She had always quite enjoyed the high style of the Bible, she liked to let its ornate phraseology wash over her, but in terms of their content the words might as well have been in the original Greek. The lessons seemed to conjure up a world that was totally alien to her – an ordered, divine cosmos in which everything happened for a reason and in which Good would prevail. There was a level of reassurance in it that Helen could never swallow – the random madness and violence of her world seemed at odds with the cosy catch-alls of religion.

Still, she couldn’t deny that for many the church and its teachings were a comfort. That was very much in evidence now. At the front of the church, Eileen Matthews was surrounded by fellow worshippers, literally being held up by family and friends. The laying on of hands is meant to create a religious rapture in the receiver but also has the very practical purpose of keeping the weak and the vulnerable upright – and so it was proving now. As the chanting increased and the fervour grew, Eileen started to babble. Quietly at first, then louder, strange non-words flying out, her accent changing from south coast to something foreign. She sounded Middle Eastern, a touch Jewish perhaps and distinctly medieval – a torrent of guttural nonsense phrases flew from her mouth as the divine spirit entered her. Helen had seen speaking-in-tongues before on TV, but never in the flesh. It was odd to witness – it looked more like possession to her than rapture.

Eventually the frenzy subsided and the male members of the congregation guided her back to her seat, allowing Helen a chance to examine the female faces front on as they returned to their seats. She realized with a jolt that she was the only single woman there.

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