By P. D. James
Whilst the quiet Little sacristy of St. Matthew's Church turns into the blood-soaked scene of a double homicide, Scotland backyard Commander Adam Dalgliesh faces an fascinating conundrum: How did an upper-crust Minister come to lie, slit throat to slit throat, subsequent to an area derelict of the bottom order? Challenged with the research of against the law that looks to have never-ending explanations, Dalgliesh explores the sinister net spun round a half-burnt diary and a violet-eyed widow who's pregnant and whole of malice--all the whereas hoping to fill the space of common sense that joined those disparate males in vivid crimson demise. . . .
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First within the Kurt Wallander sequence. It used to be a senselessly violent crime: on a chilly evening in a distant Swedish farmhouse an aged farmer is bludgeoned to demise, and his spouse is left to die with a noose round her neck. And as though this didn’t current adequate difficulties for the Ystad police Inspector Kurt Wallander, the demise woman’s final observe is overseas, leaving the police the single tangible clue they have–and within the procedure, the fit which can inflame Sweden’s already smoldering anti-immigrant sentiments.
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Additional info for A Taste for Death (Adam Dalgliesh Mysteries 7)
The original tenants had been replaced by the transients of the city, the peripatetic young, sharing three to a room, unmarried mothers on social security, foreign students; a racial mix which, like some human kaleidoscope, was con-tinually being shaken into new and brighter colours. Those few who did attend church found a congenial home with Father Donovan at St Anthony's with its steel bands, car-nival processions, and general interracial bonhomie. None of them ever knocked on Father Barnes's door.
He wondered whether it was the beginning of age, or one more sign that this case was going to be different. 76 He went back into the church, sat down in a chair in front of a statue of the Virgin. The huge nave was empty ow. Father Barnes had gone, escorted home by a police constable. He had been readily helpful about the mug, identifying it as one Harry had often had with him when he was found sleeping in the porch. And he had tried to be helpful about the blotter, staring at it with almost painful intensity before saying that he thought that the black markings hadn't been there when he had last seen the blotter on Monday evening.
That Paul Berowne, he was an MP wasn't he? Resigned or something. ' 'What was he doing in the Little Vestry, then? ' It was too late now to take refuge in discretion. 'He didn't. He was just someone I knew. I gave him the key. He wanted to spend some time quietly in the church,' he added in a vain hope that a confidence so dangerously close to intimacy, to his job as priest, might flatter her, might even silence curiosity. ' 'In the Little Vestry? A funny place to choose. Why wasn't he on his knees in a pew?