“Nowadays, from the outside at least, it doesn’t conform to what you would expect of a holy house. The windows are cracked and the chimney is crudely pointed. Beneath the patched-up roof, the running boards hang down, rotten and flaking. Out front is a ten-plated Mercedes with a silver fish of Saint Peter on its tail. Thirty-five grand’s worth of chariot. Inside, the House is high non-conformist. On three walls, hand-fashioned quilts hang, and Staffe suspects that this is a place where they clap... happily, where guitars strum all over the hymns. From a back room, a dog-collared man in a red track suit strides boldly towards Staffe. He reaches out with a big hand and beams a yellow-toothed smile. ‘Laurence Hands.’ His shock of russet hair struggles against a damped-down parting. ‘You need not beat around the bush, Inspector,’ he booms, as if addressing a packed congregation. ‘I am here to uphold the law of the land. And God’s law, too.’ ‘Which would you choose – if you had to?’ says Staffe, wondering how the Reverend knows he is police.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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