In the violet, green and grey offices of the Church Memorial Trust an old, wizened man leaned back in his chair and humphed. Jerry Alderton had been around. Seen around. Lived around. His secretary, familiar with a grunted beckoning, was at his side in an instant. She was a reliable assistant. More legs than brains but Jerry liked it that way.
'Sugar, you know that vacancy in Nailsea.'
'Why sure. The papers came in today. I put them on your...'
'I got them. I got them. Thing is honey. You know we get a whole heap of dishevelled, badly-written mumbo to read here?'
'If you say so.'
'That's right. I do say so. But this. This is the tops. This is, quite possibly, the truest parish profile I ever darn read. One thing bothers me. I've seen coffee stained papers before. Creased and crumpled pages. Even the odd rogue booger. But what's this? This red stuff all over the accounts page?'
'Accounts are meant to be black aren't they?'
Jerry looked at her legs long and hard to distract himself from her stupidity.
'Sweetie. Get it analysed.'
She scrammed before he ran out of confectionery with which to name her.