Wednesday continued

Peter played nervously with his now-empty bottle of Magners cider and smiled at the barmaid the other side of the bar. The barmaid had asked for proof that he was over eighteen and Peter had produced his ID card declaring him to be 'Peter Milner', but, as he thought to himself, it should apparently read 'Peter Cutler'. Did he really want to meet this unknown man? He had spent many months and quite a bit of money in his attempt to trace his birth father, but now, with a lump in his throat, he wasn't quite sure that it hadn't all been a big mistake.

His mother had been rather vague as to who he was. The only thing she was certain of was that he had a tooth missing, knocked out in a brawl outside a nightclub in Blackpool, where the two of them had met some nineteen years ago. She knew he was called Gary, and she thought he had said his last name was 'Cattle' or 'Kettle' or something like that, but as she had only spent a few hours with him, mostly on the beach at night, she couldn't be quite sure. He had been just twenty and had said that he worked for a printing firm in Birmingham. The Salvation Army had taken up the challenge and, though the printing firm had gone out of business, had found records of the few employees that had worked for them on the date when, Debbie Milner had said, with a surprising grasp of arithmetic, she enjoyed her night of drunken passion under the North Pier at Blackpool during a girls' weekend away from Midsomer. The only possible candidate was a Gary Cutler, now a long-distance lorry driver living in Scunthorpe.

Debbie had subsequently married Jim Milner, a respectable accountant living in Badger's Drift, and had only told Peter that Jim was not his real father when Peter was sixteen. Peter had been quite an unruly child, but had grown into a young man with a keen interest in outdoor pursuits, of which his parents approved, though they were never quite sure where he often spent most of the night ― outdoors, he had assured them, looking for badgers.

Peter looked at his watch. Ten to two. He was still early. He looked at the three other men standing at the bar or sitting on bar-stools. Only two were approximately of the right age, the third being well over forty. One was completing a crossword in the Causton Echo and the other was listening to music through headphones, occasionally nodding up and down in time with the beat. Peter felt like asking them to open their mouths. But no, the single-page handwritten letter he had had forwarded to him had said that Gary would be wearing a blue tie, and neither of these two were wearing ties at all. It had also said that he would be at the bar of The Feathers, on the London Road, Causton, at two o'clock, which is why he discounted the twelve or so singles and couples who were sitting at tables round about. Perhaps he wouldn't come at all? Though he had said he would be passing through Causton about that time on his way from Basingstoke to Scunthorpe, after delivering a load of electrical goods for one of his company's clients.

He looked at his watch again. It was now two o'clock. The tension was almost unbearable. He smiled once more at the barmaid, realising that she was really very pretty, with tousled hair and a curvaceous body. Normally he would have been chatting to her by now, but on this occasion...

'Haven't seen you in here before,' she said, taking the initiative.

'No,' said Peter, gulping. 'I'm waiting for my father.'

'That'll be nice for you,' said the girl, in what Peter took as a put-down.

'I haven't met him before,' explained Peter desperately.

'Haven't met your dad before? Go on, you're having me on,' said the girl, with her elbows on the bar, leaning towards him. Now she was obviously teasing him. 'You seem to have finished that Magners pretty quick.'

'Oh ― I'll have another one. Please,' and he gave a short nervous laugh.

While the girl was attending to his order he glanced down the bar and noticed that another man had come in and was waiting to be served. This man was wearing a badly-fitting suit, as though he was not used to wearing suits, and had a blue tie round his neck. Peter's heart raced and thumped in his chest. There was no turning back now.

'Excuse me,' he said, calling over to him, 'but are you...?'

'Peter?' asked the man, staring at him. 'I see you're wearing your Black Sabbath T-shirt, then?' (for the only distinguishing feature that Peter had said he would wear was a retro T-shirt with the distinctive Celtic cross design of the legendary rock group).

'Yeah,' said Peter with his quick nervous laugh, feeling the sweat suddenly start to pour out of him. He had got up and approached the stranger as if in a trance. He wasn't sure whether to shake hands, or hug him, or do anything at all. In fact he did nothing at all. Was this really his father? He had a weather-beaten face and crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, although he was only thirty-nine, as the passage of time since Peter's conception had made clear, but he had a twinkle in his eyes which Peter thought he recognized in himself. Then he laughed a nervous, short laugh, and Peter was certain. The left canine tooth in his upper jaw was missing.

'Shall we sit down at a table?' suggested Gary.

'Oh ― yes,' said Peter, suddenly remembering his second bottle of Magners, which he now scooped off the bar, to the bemusement of the barmaid, whom he completely ignored.

They found a table and Peter sat down, but Gary suddenly remembered where he was : 'Drink!' he said, and went back to the bar again to order a pint of best from the by now rather disgruntled barmaid.

While he was away Peter tried to analyse his feelings. He was immensely relieved to meet his father at last, disgusted at how old he looked for his age, dismayed that he was only a long-distance lorry driver, angry at him for never having shown up in his life so far, and ecstatically happy to have found him at last, all at the same time.

His father returned with his pint and sat down slowly. 'I ― er― um, I'm sorry that... you know.' He took a long draught of his beer, seemingly having trouble in expressing himself.

'Oh, that's alright,' said Peter quickly and confidently.

'Your mother … has she been looking after you OK?'

'Oh, couldn't be better,' said Peter, with his short laugh. He thought that he should have added 'dad', but the word came strangely to him, as if from a foreign language.

'She's married now, isn't she? So you've got a proper dad?'

At this tears welled up in Peter's eyes. 'Well,' he said, his earlier confidence evaporating, 'he's alright. In fact he's very good to me. And to mum.' He felt miserable.

'And I'm married, too.' This was a surprise to Peter, who looked up at him sharply. 'Not quite like your mother,' said Gary, as if to reassure him. 'But still, she's pretty good. And we've got a daughter.'

'Really?' Peter wanted to hear more.

'Cathy, she's called. Pretty little thing. A couple of years younger than you, she is.'

'So... I've got a half-sister,' said Peter, trying to work it out.

'Well, I suppose you have.' Gary scratched his ear. 'Though she left home a couple of years ago and I don't know where she is exactly.'

Peter stared at his father.

'We did get a message ― last thing we heard she was down this way, at the Midsomer Uni in Causton, doing some arty course. But when we tried to contact her it all went dead. They said she'd dropped out of college and didn't know where she was now. I reckon she's been led astray. You haven't been led astray, have you, Peter?' Gary sounded concerned for his son for the first time.

'Of course not,' said Peter, his mind whirring.

'What are you drinking?' asked Gary, noticing that Peter had by now drained all of his second bottle. The atmosphere between father and son had thawed considerably, and Peter felt comparatively relaxed, though the cider might have helped.

'Magners,' he said. 'Thanks, dad.'


'How did she take it?' DCI John Barnaby asked Jones, as he leaned backwards in his chair and stretched out his legs, putting his feet on his temporary desk.

'Not well,' Jones sighed, 'I had to get someone to take her home.'

'But she identified the body?'

'Yes, she did. But when I told her that her husband didn't commit suicide after all, but was murdered instead… Well, she nearly fainted. Couldn't get much sense out of her. But apparently it was not unusual that her husband should be out late while she went to bed. They even have separate bedrooms because of their very different sleeping habits. So, she was at home asleep, unaware of anything. Poor woman…'

'What's to do next then?' asked Barnaby, giving Jones a requesting glance.

Before Jones could answer Barnaby called out to Desk Sergeant Angel, who was passing the door.

'Yes, sir?' Angel looked in.

Barnaby picked up the plate he'd borrowed from Mrs Olsen and held it out to Angel. 'Could you see that someone takes this down to one of the jewellery shops and gets it valued?'

'Of course, sir. Is it urgent?'

'Not particularly, but within a day or two perhaps?'

'Sure, sir. I'll get back to you as soon as we know anything.' Angel took the plate and walked out.

Barnaby turned to Jones again. 'You were saying..?'

'I guess there's not much to do other than going through the case files of the previous burglaries again,' Jones let out another deep sigh. 'The forensics report from the church gives zip zero to go on. Our only hope is that Gail can come up with something from the videos.'

'Hmm, I get a nasty feeling about this, don't you, Jones?' Barnaby wrinkled his forehead and looked at his sergeant. 'If the burglar had sprung out and bashed Singer on the head and then run off, I would've thought it quite normal, if you get my drift? But to commit a cold-blooded execution… It doesn't fit the pattern…' Barnaby let the unfinished sentence hanging in the air.

'Of a common burglar,' Jones filled in, 'No, I see what you mean, sir. But with all this vandalism in the other burglaries perhaps we're dealing with a complete loony who really hates the Church for some reason?'

'Perhaps,' said Barnaby as he let his feet down onto the floor again and opened the first case file. He looked up again at Jones: 'Talking of burglary, even though we have a murder to solve, could you get in touch with the vicar and ask him what was stolen from the church?'

Thursday

Gail sat in Causton CID's computer room, where they had advanced machines for analysing films, sounds etc. She felt quite uneasy about the task she had ahead of her. Jones had told her what to expect and the mere thought of it made her already present nausea grow even stronger. But it had to be done. She fixed her eyes on the screen and started the film.

She ran through the film slowly, changing between the different camera angles, looking for something that might give a clue to who the figure in black was, but it was impossible to tell.

It could be a man of medium height or a tall woman. The black outfit made it hard to get an impression of the body size. It was a slender person, but that was about it. She tried to enlarge a picture of the murderer's eyes, but the camera shot was too far away at those brief moments when the murderer was facing the camera. The enlarged pictures she could get were too pixelated to even reveal the colour of the eyes.

When Gail came to the part where Eric Singer was standing on the chair, crying and begging for his life, the nausea overtook her. She didn't make it further then the door where she had to throw up in a waste-paper basket. She sank down on the floor with her back to the door and tried to calm her breathing. 'Was it going to be like this?' she thought to herself. 'For how long..?'

She wiped the sweat off her face before she went to the ladies' room to have some water and clean up the waste-paper basket.

On her way back she left the basket in a broom cupboard and made a detour to the canteen to get a cup of tea.

Back at the screen she went over the film several more times without finding anything. She was just about to give up when something flashed before her eyes. Slowly she reversed the film, adjusted the focus and played it back again at maximum slow speed. There it was!

When the murderer threw the rope to Eric Singer, a small strip of skin showed between the sleeve and the glove. Suddenly Gail's tiredness was all gone. She began to adjust the focus even better and to enlarge the picture even more. There was something on the skin that was visible.

When the largest picture she could get without it being all blurry came up on the screen, Gail froze and felt like a huge belt was tied around her chest, pressing harder and harder…

On the wrist was a tattoo of a symbol. The symbol was in the frame of two bees much in the shape of a vagina framing a sword pointing upwards. A symbol Gail knew only too well…

Her heart pounded with a scampering pace. What was she to do? She told herself to calm down and to make sure of it she went for another cup of tea.

'Bugger!' There in the corridor stood Jones and she couldn't take another route, because he had already seen her.

'Aah, Gail. Found anything yet?' He looked at her with his usual kind smile.

'No… not yet, but I have another hour to go I reckon. That's why I brought some tea,' she said, showing him the cup. In her mind she cursed herself. 'Why make a number of a cup of tea? I mustn't let him get suspicious.'

'Right,' said Ben, 'you look as if you could need it. You do look awfully pale, Gail. Sure everything's alright?'

'I'm fine, thank you,' said Gail as she passed Ben and hurried back to the computer room.

She stayed in the computer room until she was sure Barnaby and Jones had gone home for the day before turning off the equipment and going home herself for another sleepless night.


John lay in his bed looking at the ceiling. It was hard to get to sleep as he went over the brutal murder of Eric Singer in his mind, over and over again. They had spent the entire day talking to people living close to the church, but no one had seen anything. They also waited for Gail's analysis of the film, but these things took time. John knew that. He decided to think about something more pleasant.

Tomorrow was Friday. After work he'd take the train down to Brighton. It would be good to spend the weekend at their home, which Sarah would stay in until she had finished term.

The house they had bought in Midsomer was nice enough, but so far all John had was a bed, an electric kettle and instant coffee. Life could be more luxurious!

He longed for both Sarah and Sykes. It would be good to have a nice meal, a glass or two of the red wine they both liked so much and a night in their comfy bed, with a naked Sarah beside him… And in the morning a cooked breakfast and then a long walk with Sykes. John's eyelids got heavier as he dozed off to these pleasant plans.

Friday

'Is this my new morning routine?' Gail Stephens said out loud to the image of herself in the bathroom mirror, as she washed her face and began to brush her teeth to get rid of the nasty taste of vomit. She studied herself. She looked pale and gloomy. Better not spare on the make-up today, she decided. She didn't want to attract any more attention from Ben's observant eyes.

At least she had made her mind up. And what a plan she had made. Yet another lie. What a fantastic way to start the working relationship with her new boss. But she couldn't afford to tell the truth, not now with her application for the sergeants' course about to be decided.

She shivered at the thought of speaking an untruth, but at least the essence of what she was going to say was true. Gail had decided she had to set the DCI and Ben off on the right track. The risk otherwise was too great that somebody else might discover the same thing as she had. No, she'd tell them the essence of the truth, she'd just have to leave out some bits and pieces.


'Come in,' Ben's voice was loud and clear through the shut door to his office.

Gail stepped in and asked: 'Is the DCI around yet?'

'Yes, he was at the coffee machine just a minute ago. He'll be here shortly. What is it? Have you found out something?' Ben looked at her with anticipation.

The loud footsteps of John Barnaby's size 13 were heard approaching. Gail waited as he entered the room and sat down.

'Gail's got something, sir,' said Jones excitedly.

'Aah, good. Well then, what is it?'

Gail told them about the video and how she had found the tattooed symbol on the murderer's wrist.

'But that's great. Good work, Stephens!' Barnaby munched cheerfully on his doughnut and looked really pleased that there was some progress at last. 'Do we know anything about this symbol?'

Gail swallowed hard. Telling the first part had been the easy bit. It was all true. Now came the hard part where she had to navigate through some lies and a grain of truth. 'Well, as a matter of fact we do.'

Both Barnaby and Jones sat up straight and gave their full attention to Gail's words.

'I thought the symbol was familiar. You know how I've always been a bit interested in ancient history and religions…' She nodded towards Ben hoping that he would be eager enough to confirm it, even though she had never once mentioned the subject to him. His eagerness made him swallow the bait and he confirmed with an 'Unh-hunh'.

'So I did a bit of research,' Gail continued, 'and did some googling and found that the symbol is for 'Maeve', one of the old Celtic fertility goddesses.'

'Strange,' said Barnaby, 'but at least it can't be a very common subject for a tattoo, can it?' He looked between Stephens and Jones alternately.

'Wait, sir, the best is yet to come. There is a Celtic society here in Midsomer…'

'Yes, but that's hardly hot news, is it? I mean there are historical societies dipping into Celtic, Roman and Anglo-Saxon history all over the country,' interrupted Barnaby, sounding disappointed.

'Only…' Gail paused for effect before she delivered the real news, 'the society here in Midsomer isn't a historical society. It's more of a Celtic church, actually worshipping the old Celtic gods in general and the goddess Maeve in particular.'

'Now that's what I call good news,' Ben said, addressing his comment towards the DCI as he felt Barnaby's previous interruption had been harsh and unjust. 'Do we have any more information on this Celtic… cult?'

'Not much, they're rather secretive, no websites or Facebook groups about their activities, but I managed to find out that the person in charge is a Joan Osbourne and here's her address.' Gail held out a piece of paper, which Barnaby eagerly snapped out of her hand, and she hoped they wouldn't ask how she had discovered this information. Of course they didn't, they were like hunting dogs with a scent. All their focus was now pointing forward, to follow the track.


The address Stephens had handed over was to an old and posh estate in outer Causton. The garden was as large as four football pitches behind a high and well-trimmed hedge. A hedge that "naturally" was trimmed by a hired gardener. The surroundings, however, were made up of small houses, built in the 50's and 60's and now owned and inhabited by hard-working middle class families. Probably the big house had once been a large country estate, much of the land having been sold off at some time in the past, so that it was now integrated into an ever-expanding Causton.

Jones parked the car on the street outside the big iron gates, since he could see no driveway up to the house wide enough for a car. Barnaby and Jones walked slowly up to the house, admiring the garden on their way. It was full of beautiful shrubs and flowers and there were several fountains with a number of marble statues. The statues all seemed to be naked and some of them in quite explicit positions.

'Take a look at that one!' Jones' eyes were staring as he tugged at Barnaby's jacket sleeve to attract his attention.

John turned his head and looked straight at a large fountain in the middle of which stood, no doubt about it, a huge phallus statue with water ejaculating vividly out of it. They stood and watched the unabashed creation for a few moments, when Barnaby suddenly realised: 'The fountain pool is in the shape of a vagina!'

'What is this...?' Jones shook his head as they slowly began to walk again.

At the front door they found an entry phone. Jones pressed the button.

'Yes?' A very soft female voice spoke.

'Is that Joan Osbourne?' asked Jones.

'Yes. And who are you?'

'We're from the police and we'd like a few words if we may,' Jones adopted a polite tone.

'The police? What do you want to talk to me about?' The woman sounded surprised, but John thought he could detect a small nuance of amusement as well.

'Perhaps if we could come in…'

'Alright. Just walk through hall, I'm in the sitting room at the end.'

Inside was a long hall with a ceiling at least 12 feet high. They walked slowly, admiring the mahogany panelling. The walls also were adorned with plenty of paintings that owed nothing to modesty but revealed everything. The people on the paintings appeared to be from an ancient time and they were involved in uncensored fertility acts.

'Jesus,' whispered Jones, 'if this was printed in a magazine there would be an age limit for buying it.'

'Or should be,' said Barnaby.

As they reached the end of the hall a woman came to meet them. Barnaby hoped that his gulp wasn't audible. Joan Osbourne was a tall woman, somewhere between 35 and 45, Barnaby guessed, with long, thick blond hair hanging down onto her shoulders. Her eyes were almond-shaped and clear blue. Her cheek bones were high and between them was a perfectly-formed nose. Her lips were 'amorous', which was the best word John could think of, and they framed a broad and tempting mouth. She was an astonishingly beautiful woman, but that wasn't what caught the two detectives' attention.

Over her shoulders she was draped in a transparent poncho-like negligée. Beneath it she exposed large and firm breasts with nipples pointing through the almost non-existent fabric. The belly was flat and her waist was slim, curving out into generous hips that continued down into a pair of long exquisite legs. Her feet were bare. Between the navel and the tiny knickers that barely covered her pubic hair, she had a large tattoo of the 'Maeve' symbol.

Inevitably both Barnaby's and Jones' eyes dropped one floor down and it took them a few seconds to gain the willpower to lift their eyes to her face again.

Joan Osbourne looked at them with an amused smile on her lips. She was used to this kind of male attention. She anticipated their stuttering introductions with: 'Welcome. Please follow me.' As she turned her back on them and began to walk she confirmed that the only thing she was wearing that wasn't transparent was a G-string.

Barnaby and Jones followed her into the sitting-room, unable to look at anything other than her perfect bottom moving before their very eyes. They managed to raise their eyes just in time as she sat down on a large sofa, facing them again. 'Please, do sit down,' she said as she herself pulled her legs up and adopted a half-lying position.

'This is the sexiest woman I've ever seen. I can die happy now,' went through Ben's head as he searched for the words to begin.

Barnaby realised that for the moment Ben was lost so he began: 'Mrs Osbourne, or is it Miss..?'

'Miss.' was the short answer encouraging him to go on.

'Miss Osbourne, I am DCI John Barnaby from Causton CID and this is DS Jones. We're here to ask you a few questions about what we understand is some kind of religious society you're involved in. A society for the worship of Celtic gods?' Again John just couldn't help himself when his gaze fell down onto Joan Osbourne's breasts as they moved when she shifted position.

She sought eye-contact with Barnaby and helped him to "lift" his eyes up again. She smiled at him. 'This is my home, Inspector, and I do dress as I want… or rather do not dress…' Her smile was spiteful.

'Of course,' Barnaby mumbled.

'You should be glad I'm wearing knickers today,' she said referring to the minute G-string, 'or perhaps you shouldn't..?' She was mocking them, but she did it with a warm and generous smile. 'Now, how can I help you? You said something about Maeve?'


Dave Errol had just returned from his morning shop at the convenience store in Badger's Drift and was laying out his purchases methodically on the kitchen table when he heard a tap-tap-tap on the door. He knew who it was before looking up, but on this occasion Agnes Olsen seemed unusually agitated.

'Vicar!' said Agnes as soon as he opened the door, 'I must speak with you!'

'But of course, dear Agnes, you know you're welcome at any time,' said Dave, 'I was about to make some tea myself. Do come in!'

'This is no time for tea!' said Agnes, rushing in and planting herself in the middle of the room. She turned round to face the surprised clergyman. 'I have committed a mortal sin.'

'Dear me,' said Dave, stroking his chin, 'how can that be?'

'I told the police a lie.'

'A lie? Now, Agnes' Dave held out his arms as if in comfort.

'You don't understand, vicar. They wanted to know what I was doing in St Michael's so late at night. I said I was there to collect my bottle of Brasso.'

'Ah.' The vicar stroked his chin again and approached the kitchen table slowly. He pulled up a chair and sat down, looking up at the distraught lady. 'How is that a lie?'

'Vicar, you know it isn't true. You know why we were there you and I.'

Dave Errol thought for a moment and then said: 'But you could have been there to collect your Brasso, couldn't you?'

'Has it not occurred to you,' continued Agnes, 'that you are as guilty as I am?' She pulled up another chair and also sat at the kitchen table, but at the other end from the vicar. 'I am praying for God's forgiveness for what we have done.'

'Now, Agnes,' said Dave, 'what we have done is not a mortal sin. And, to quote the good book, "let him that is without sin cast the first stone".

'Are you sure of that?' asked Agnes, her tone softening, as if a quotation from the Bible had worked some miracle-cure. 'I mean, that it wasn't a mortal sin?'

'Quite sure,' said Dave with greater confidence. 'I think we should speak no more about it. And now why don't you have that cup of tea?' He got up and went over to the kettle, switching it on. He reached for the shelf above the kettle and took down a small plastic bottle full of white tablets.

'Oh! Well, if you insist…' Agnes seemed to have regained her normal equanimity, much to Dave's relief, but, to be on the safe side, he slipped a tablet into her cup, covering it with a tea-bag.

'This will calm your nerves,' said he, after pouring the boiling water into the cup and stirring. 'It does trouble me, Agnes, to see you so upset. All over nothing.' He handed Agnes the cup in a saucer.

'Well… if you say so,' Agnes picked up the cup and took a sip. For the first time that morning she smiled at the vicar, who now stood close behind her. He put his hand on her chest, just below her right shoulder.

'Let the tea do its work and forget all about it,' he said, moving his hand ever so slightly up and down.

'Vicar, you are a great comfort to me,' said Agnes. 'Shall I pop in with some freshly-baked scones later on? You know you like them.'

'I can't wait!' said Dave, a curious look of desire coming over his face, though whether or not it was in anticipation of the freshly-baked scones it was hard to tell.


Barnaby and Jones exchanged glances. The message from Barnaby was clear, he was going to conduct this interview. 'I see you have a tattoo of what I guess is the symbol of Maeve. Do all members of your… society have this tattoo?'

'Not at all,' answered Joan Osbourne, 'many do, but certainly not all of them. It is absolutely voluntary to have one, like everything else in our community. But why are you interested in that?' The spite still played in her eyes.

'A tattoo just like the one you have has turned up in an investigation, and…'

Joan Osbourne's loud and cheerful laughter interrupted Barnaby: 'Oh, I see. Someone's stumbled over someone, with a Maeve tattoo, at the wrong time in the "wrong" place.' She continued to laugh and showed a perfect set of white teeth. 'But surely this can't be a matter for a Chief Inspector from the CID?'

'I'm afraid it's a bit more serious than that. But what we're interested in is if you have any member who carries the tattoo on the wrist?'

'More serious..? I want to know what this is all about before I answer any more questions.' Joan Osbourne's happy smiling face had turned grave, which in no way reduced her beauty.

'If you don't mind,' Barnaby's voice was sharp, feeling he had to take control of this conversation and this woman, who just by changing her facial expression could easily confuse any heterosexual man. 'I'm the one who decides what information you will get and what questions there are to be answered… Is that clear?'

'Alright. Don't get so upset,' Joan Osbourne pouted her lips in a way that probably made many men gasp for air. 'I think we've had one or two over the years with the tattoo on their wrist.'

'Could we have their names, please,' asked Barnaby with a sigh of relief. Finally they were getting somewhere.

'No.'

'What… No..? Miss Osbourne, must I remind you again that…'

'No, as in I don't know!' Now it was Joan Osbourne's tone that was sharp.

'What do you mean you don't know?' Surely…'

Joan interrupted again: 'As in, I don't know their names. I don't even know what they look like. Above the shoulders, that is…' Her face regained its glittering smile.

'Are you seriously trying to convince me that you don't know the identity of the members in your – er – community? I find that hard to believe.'

'Believe it or not, I don't care. Our community is based on free will, but because of the nature of our activities… no, wrong… because of the public's oppressive view of our rituals, all members are anonymous and wear masks. I'm the only exception, but I don't care a toss about public opinion and I am proud of what I am!' Joan Osbourne's face had reddened during her outburst. She glanced challengingly in Barnaby's direction.

John felt his previous satisfaction being punctured like a balloon. But there must still be some way of getting more information out of this extraordinary woman.

'Let me put it this way then, do you have anyone attending your meetings that has the tattoo on the wrist?'

'No… no, definitely not. It must be years since I saw someone with a tattoo on the wrist. Most of our members put their tattoo on more discreet parts of the body. If you see what I mean..?'

Barnaby let out a deep sigh. 'How many years back?'

'I have honestly no idea, Inspector. You see, our members vary over time. Some periods there's been as many as 30 to 40 of us, other periods we've been down on 9 or 10. Some members have been with us for years, others are only in for a short while and then they disappear, some for good while others come back. You see, Inspector, we're not a regular society with membership cards, fees and so on. We're just a loose community of people who enjoy worshipping true love instead of Christianity's hypocritical and oppressive lectures on moral standards.' Joan Osbourne leaned back in the sofa, somewhat taken aback by the force of her speech. As she breathed heavily Jones couldn't help admiring her heaving bosom.

'Miss Osbourne, I really must ask you to think back on those members with a wrist tattoo. Anything you can think of could be of help to us.' Barnaby switched over to diplomatic tactics. 'You see, this is a murder inquiry.'

Joan Osbourne sat up straight. 'A murder inquiry? Committed by someone with a Maeve tattoo? I can hardly believe it…' She looked sad. 'Our faith is all about love.' She ended the sentence as if she had personally been offended if some former member was suspected of being a murderer.

'As I am sure you are aware,' said John, 'there have been several burglaries of Midsomer churches over the past few weeks, with not only theft but vandalism as well. Could any one of your members bear such hatred towards the Church that they would do something like this?'

'No, no, no,' Joan became upset, 'as I said, our faith is all about love. We don't hate anyone, or the Church, even if we do regard their moralising as a bit stiff. On the contrary, I suspect we have several regulars church visitors among us, who believe in combining Christ's message of "love thy neighbour" with Maeve's message of making love.' She paused and then almost whispered: 'Vandalised churches and now a murder? So one of these burglaries must have gone too far and you now think that someone with a Maeve tattoo on their wrist is guilty? I really can't believe it…' There was nothing wrong with the intellect of Joan Osbourne, that was obvious. She had immediately made the connection. 'How? How did it happen?'

When she received no immediate answer she fell silent and, as nothing more had been said for a while, Jones broke the silence: 'I'm afraid that's privileged information at this point, Miss Osbourne, but perhaps you could tell us a bit more what the Maeve…' he searched for the right word, '…cult is about?'

Joan Osbourne lifted her head and woke from her temporary reverie. 'Of course, as I said it's all about love and nothing that we're ashamed of.'

'Why then all this anonymity and masks?' John thought to himself.

'We believe Nature created us to be free creatures enjoying life and the gifts the gods gave us. Maeve shows us the way to enjoy the liberated company of other human beings. The lifelong and coercive habit of marriage is a pure invention by the Church. Man and woman are not meant to only have one partner. Look at all the other mammals!' Joan Osbourne had regained her enthusiasm, now that she was describing something she really cared about.

'What does that mean in a practical sense?' asked Jones.

'We gather once a week in various places around Midsomer, in a wood, that is. We light a bonfire and then we dance out of pure joy to be liberated people. Our dance fills us with healthy pheromones and pumps us up with adrenaline. It is wonderful. You should try it!' She beamed a smile towards Jones, making him consider actually doing so.

'Miss Osbourne, you are aware that nudity in public places…' Jones was satisfied he might have found a method to put some pressure on her.

'…is illegal. Of course I know that. But we meet at private properties, where we have been for ages. I guess my mother must have had quite a few landowners dancing by her side when she gave Maeve the spiritual re-birth she so well deserved.' She continued: 'And if the mood is right and a couple is attracted to one another, they might head out further into the wood…'

'To do what?' slipped out of Ben before he could stop it. He could've bitten his tongue off, because for some reason he didn't want to appear naïve in front of Joan Osbourne.

'Well,' Joan gave Ben a mischievous smile, 'I don't know what they do. I don't follow them. But I know what I do when I find a man that attracts me… or a woman…'

'I think we have a pretty clear picture by now, Miss Osbourne,' Barnaby interrupted before Ben was too far out of his depth. 'That will be all for now and please, do try to think of anything you could tell us about former members. I'm sure we'll be in touch again.'

He rose and signalled to Jones to do the same. When Joan Osbourne attempted to stand and follow them, Barnaby said: 'Please, we'll find our own way out.' He didn't want Ben, or himself for that matter, to be distracted again by Miss Osbourne's minimally dressed appearance.

As the front door closed behind them John and Ben looked at each other and smiled.

'Now that was something out of the ordinary,' Ben spoke.

'Yes, it sure was,' John agreed. He became thoughtful. 'I think we'll put surveillance on Miss Joan Osbourne. I have a hunch something will happen next Tuesday, outside Badger's Drift.'

Jones looked at his not-really-in-charge but-very-much-so boss with great confusion, but said nothing as the boss continued to speak.

'I don't really believe in such a loose community that they don't even know each other's identities. And that Venus of a woman could easily manipulate England's national football team to lose to Liechtenstein twelve nil, just by pouting a lip or lifting an eyebrow.'

Just as they reached the car and opened the door, they heard a 'Psst, psst' coming from around the corner of the hedge. They turned around and faced a short, generously built woman with red roses on her cheeks somewhere in her 50's. She seemed very anxious to have a word with them.

'Generously, that's a very kind word,' thought John, 'downright fat is a more accurate description.'

Towards the woman he smiled and said: 'Yes? How can we help you?'

'You're the police, aren't you?' The lady had quite a squeaky voice that was an ill-match for her voluptuous body. 'It's about time you were here, I'd say!'

'Excuse me?' Barnaby didn't know what to make of it.

'You've been to see that Osbourne woman, haven't you? And I trust it is to put an end to her swaying around all naked in her garden, isn't it?' The woman was of the kind that spoke on inhalation as well as exhalation. The words flooded out of her mouth, now that she finally found release for an obviously long-built-up irritation. 'You know, I went to see her, as good neighbours do, when we were new around here. And do you know what happened? No, I'll tell you, she opened the door stark naked, that's what she did. Disgusting! That's what it is. I won't let my Donald go near her, that's for sure.'

As the woman took one of her rare pauses, Barnaby took the chance: 'And Donald is your son, Mrs..?'

'No, it's my husband of course,' she looked at Barnaby as if he was short of few brain cells, 'Walker, that's us. Mr and Mrs Donald Walker.'

'Poor Donald,' crossed Barnaby's mind, 'he must have earned a few well-deserved sneak peeks of Joan Osbourne if he lived his life with this wobbling loudspeaker.' - while he politely said, to cut the pointless discussion short: 'Well, Mrs Donald Walker… of course we'll keep an eye on things. Good day to you.'

Mrs Walker seemed satisfied with his statement and didn't even react to the obvious sarcasm when called by her husband's name. She whispered an 'At last!' as she disappeared behind the hedge again.

Back in the car both Ben and John broke into a roar of laughter. When they had calmed down and wiped the tears from their eyes, Ben stated: 'I sure will remember this day for the rest of my life… Mrs Donald Walker… how could you?' They began to laugh again.

When they finally drove off John said: 'Remember to let me off at the station, will you?' The rest of the journey continued in silence. John tried to think about the case, but found he had a hard time letting go of the image of Joan Osbourne's breath-taking appearance.

His thoughts turned to his old, now deceased, uncle, married to his mother's sister. His uncle had for some reason always found his place in the audience whenever there was any activity involving young female athletes, preferably with short skirts or shorts. Volleyball had been one of his favourite games. He remembered once when his mother had complained about her brother-in-law to her sister. That she had to do something about George, he was a spectacle the whole village was talking about.

His aunt, who'd never been what you would call a pretty woman, had looked calmly at his mother and said: 'I don't mind if George gets his appetite elsewhere, as long as he has his meals at home.' End of discussion. John smiled at the memory.

Joan Osbourne had sure enough given him a large appetite and, without knowing it, Sarah would hopefully want to benefit from him having his "meal" at home. He wondered how Jones' "meals" were served, but decided it was too early in their relationship to ask.

To be continued...