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can have an exclusive.’
    ‘You have to admire her tenacity. Can you come down to London with me, Sidney?’
    ‘When are you going?’
    ‘First thing in the morning.’
    ‘It’s my day off.’
    ‘Perfect. You’ve got no excuse. I’ll drop you back home. Think of the time I’ve saved you.’
     
    Dmitri Zhirkov was all over the place. He confessed to the murder of his wife, then retracted his story claiming manslaughter, before changing his mind one more time and saying that he was innocent. In his anger and panic he asserted that his wife had attacked him and he was acting in self-defence. Natasha had railed at him, provoked him, told him things about an affair with Madara that he hadn’t thought possible. He was also furious the police had let that bastard Josef Madara escape from custody. Everyone was conspiring against him.
    Natasha had been of unsound mind when she slept with Madara, he shouted, and now he was going mad; driven to insanity by his colleagues. He could not be expected to work with any of them any more. But it didn’t matter what he had done because he would always be a musician. He had talent. It was God-given. Nothing could take it away. Genius, he shouted, excused all sin.
    Sidney wondered how Dmitri Zhirkov had worked himself up into such a state. He had probably confronted his wife about her affair with Josef Madara and the row had escalated in the kitchen, where a block of carving knives was unhelpfully at the ready.
    Only one thought troubled Sidney. When Natasha Zhirkov had first come to see him she had been scared of the missing Sophie Madara rather than her husband. Might Sophie still be involved? Could she have committed the murder on behalf of Dmitri Zhirkov or even have framed him?
    Sidney was in the midst of speculation when a police officer told him that he was wanted on the telephone. He hoped it was not news from home because he was already late and he didn’t want Hildegard to tell him off again.
    ‘Sidney?’
    It was Malcolm, his curate, on the line. His voice sounded distant, almost strangulated.
    ‘Is something the matter?’
    ‘I’m not sure.’
    ‘Is Hildegard all right? Anna?’
    Malcolm Mitchell coughed. He appeared to be choking.
    ‘For God’s sake, man, what is it?’
    ‘You know that man seeking sanctuary?’
    ‘Madara? What about him?’ Sidney asked, realising that his curate was not in the process of being garrotted but his mouth was full of cake.
    ‘He’s back.’
     
    Josef had gone first to the church and then to the police station as he had ‘many things’ he wanted to confess. The police officers had told him of the death of his former lover, Natasha Zhirkov, at which point he had wanted to run away. He had been prevented from doing so by the quick thinking of one of the more experienced sergeants who did not want to witness another of Keating’s tantrums.
    After they had ordered in their mugs of tea and bacon sandwiches, Sidney and the inspector took it in turns to ask Josef about his whereabouts. Had he been to the Zhirkov home? How had Dmitri found out about his wife’s affair?
    Sidney tried to be clear. ‘I think we need to know if either you or your missing wife could have murdered Natasha Zhirkov.’
    ‘How could I have killed her? I was at the police station.’
    ‘Could you wife have done so?’
    ‘She is dead. It must be Dmitri.’
    ‘And do you think your colleague is the angry, murdering type?’
    ‘No. But any man can be made to sin. That is his tragedy.’
    ‘And you are not surprised?’
    ‘If you live with a knowledge of human suffering then you learn to accept fate.’
    ‘But we can take steps . . .’ Sidney said, not wanting to get into a discussion of the nature of human responsibility and the problem of free will.
    Keating tried to be specific. ‘We are fairly sure Dmitri Zhirkov killed his wife. Probably because he found out that she had an affair with you. Were you still involved with her?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You