Harry sat in an anonymous interview room. He guessed the mirror at the end was a two-way job and gave it the finger just in case. Two officers entered almost at once and sat opposite him. One clean-shaven. Youthful. The other had been around a bit. Receding. Worldly tired. Guy carried an evidence tray which he placed beside him on the floor.
'The murder weapon. It had your prints on.' This from the younger. Smart. Keen. Watching for reaction as Harry spoke.
'It was my bread knife. Of course it had my prints on.'
'The bread knife wasn't the murder weapon. Dame'd been dead several hours when she got herself sliced.'
'So I'm in the clear?'
The other cop produced a plastic package from the tray. Harry recognised a leg from one of the church lounge's easily-broken chairs.
'That was the murder weapon?'
'It made a hell of a dent Harry. Broad's going to her grave with a 'Rosebury Stacking Chairs' logo for company. And the other end of that leg has your prints on.'
'I'm the Church Warden, he shouted. I cleaned up. I must have handled half a dozen broken chairs last night.'
'Calm down Mr Johnson,' said young cop. 'We know you're in the clear. Thing is, it has been going belly-up in your church recently. Even your advert for a new Rector. What's this bit...' He fumbled in his jacket pocket and produced a crumpled ad. ''Holy Trinity, Nailsea seeks someone who can sort people out.' That's not going to attract the nice, gentle pastors now is it? What needs sorting?'
'Thing is,' said the stubble-face, ' Someone already sorted things out so much that we gotta get involved. You gonna help us or what?'
Harry struggled with his conscience, a very brief skirmish.
'OK, ' he said, 'Who do you want?'
'Attaboy Harry. Start squealing.'