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Jogger in Black

In book one of the Barnikel and Fearnaught series, Afterdeath, the Reverend Bahati Barnikel finds herself uprooted from her native Barbados and sent to the English country parish of Lower Wonston. There she meets Victor Fearnaught, who becomes a friend and ally in her fight against the forces of darkness.

Now read what happened next.

Prologue

“So what do you think, Bahati?”

“What is it?”

“My new toy, I’ve always wanted one of these, ever since I was a kid.”

“Forgive me for saying this Victor, but surely you’re too old to be having a mid-life crisis? It couldn’t possibly be anything else. What on earth is it?”

“A 1959 Cadillac series 62. Isn’t she a beauty?”

“It’s a nice colour.”

“A nice colour? A nice colour? You’re looking at an iconic piece of automotive design, and all you can say is it’s a nice colour?”

“It’s very big—no, please don’t tell me the measurements, let’s just leave it at that, shall we? What do you intend doing with it?”

“Driving it. What else would you do with a car?”

“Drive it? On these roads? Are you mad? No, don’t answer that either. What else could you do with it? Well, it’s that big I suppose that you could live in it, although it seems a bit, disproportionate.”

“How do you mean, disproportionate?”

“There’s a lot of bonnet, and lot of boot and not very much in the middle.”

“Looks good though, doesn’t it?”

“That would depend on your definition of looking good. I would agree that it’s noticeable. I suppose you’ve given it a name?”

“Wong Foo.”

“Wong Foo. You know, I believe I’m not even going to ask.”

“Oh go on, you know you want to.”

“I don’t, really I don’t. Dare one mention fuel consumption?”

“Mark at the garage sees Fooey here as his pension plan. It has been converted to run on unleaded fuel, though, and does meet all current emission regulations. Ask me about the name, it’s a subtle blend of movies.”

“I’m really not bothered about the name, but I’m very glad to hear it is a green machine, even if it’s bright red. Where on earth did you find it?”

“In Arizona. No rust, all desert and dry air, you see. Very arid—I wonder if they originally called it called Aridzona? Anyway, behold American automotive engineering and design at its best.”

“American automotive engineering and design at its most flamboyant, Victor. It would be more at home in Havana than Lower Wonston, you do realise that, don’t you?”

“Want to go for a ride?”

“Victor, I have finally gained a measure of acceptance in the community. Do you think I’m going to risk that by riding round in a bright red Cadillac convertible?”

“You could wear the outfit you wore to my birthday bash, you were the talk of the village.”

“That was a Caribbean-themed barbecue and I was merely joining in the spirit of the thing. As it was, somebody sent photos to the Bishop. He’s only just got over it, I’m told.”

“It was a magnificent blouse, for all that.”

“Bajan design and tailoring at its exuberant best, Victor.”

One

Six in the morning. A perfect summer morning in June. Victor Fearnaught, taking advantage of the early morning Sun, was driving with the roof down, and enjoying the quiet road. His passenger, Reverend Bahati Barnikel, sat slouched down in the passenger seat, trying to be inconspicuous. She had been attending a Church conference in the Midlands, and Victor had offered to pick her up the morning after the conference ended, so avoiding a tiresome, two train-change and bus ride journey back to Lower Wonston. They were driving along a tree-lined section of road a few miles short of their destination, and Bahati had to admit, to herself if not to Victor, that actually it was quite pleasant wafting along, bird song audible over the gentle burbling of the big V8 engine. And nobody up and about to tut-tut about excessive fuel consumption or a flamboyant display of wealth, which Victor would certainly no longer possess if he made many more long journeys like this one. They both saw the jogger at the same time. A rather bulky figure, in black. As they got closer they saw that the figure was female, wearing a black shell suit, the jacket unzipped, and what looked like a tie-dye tee shirt. She had short, fair hair, a determined expression and leaned forward in a pronounced way. Bahati thought that if she stopped jogging she’d probably fall over, and supposed that it was deliberate, to force her maintain a decent speed. Victor steered the car away from the edge of the road, the jogger being on their side of it, and Bahati slid further down in the seat. Victor nonchalantly waved as they passed, but there was no response.

Victor carefully negotiated the narrow lane to the vicarage and eased the car to a halt.

“Thank you very much, Victor. Care for a cup of tea?”

“That would be nice, thank you. I put some milk in the fridge yesterday, and there’s eggs, bread and some cold roast beef as well. Should keep you going until you can get a shop in.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you. I never really imagined that a quiet country parish could keep a person quite so busy. Do you want to turn Fooey round at the end of the lane whilst I put the kettle on?”

“Sure you wouldn’t rather I put it in my garage and walked back? After all, somebody might see it parked outside and think that you’d been for a clandestine ride in it.”

“As you wish, I’ll put the kettle on. See you in a moment.”

Victor coasted to the end of the lane and with some to-ing and fro-ing got Fooey turned round. He found Bahati in the kitchen, reading a note, a frown on her face.

“Ted Glenister. Wants me to call him as soon as I get back, no matter what time of the day or night. Must be something serious.”

“Or sinister. Another case for Barnikel and Fearnaught, occult detectives.”

Bahati picked up the phone and began dialling.

“The Bishop isn’t very happy about that, Victor.”

“Dear me. First the blouse and now the business cards. Not a happy chappy, is he?”

“He thinks it unbecoming for a minister of the Church to advertise her services as—what did you put on the card—ah yes, occult detectives and demon busters. I have to say that I see his point.”

“Was he here to see off Lilith when……”

Bahati held up her hand.

“Ted, it’s Bahati Barnikel.  I just got back from the conference, what can I do for you?”

The kettle began to boil and Bahati gestured to Victor to switch it off.

“I see—or rather, I don’t see. If you’re up and dressed, Victor is just making tea. Come round and tell me all about it over a cup—yes, yes he does have his uses, you’re right—see you in five minutes then.”

“Trouble?” Said Victor.

“No—not unless you count disturbed graves as trouble.”

“Disturbed? How disturbed?”

“That’s all he said.”

“I sense that the Bishop won’t like this either.”

“The Bishop doesn’t have to hear about it—at least not yet.”

******

“This doesn’t sound like run of the mill vandalism, Ted.”

Constable Ted Glenister sipped his tea.

“As far as the village is concerned, somebody has been moving a bit of dirt around in the churchyard.”

“But that’s not what actually happened?” Put in Victor.

“No. Luckily I spotted it on my rounds. It looked to me like—well like the graves had actually been excavated, then the dirt put back in. See, the grass around the graves’ edges was all flattened. Two graves, old Roger de Haye, and Vera Hedgewick. People have noticed, of course, but so far I’ve passed it off as maybe badgers having a bit of a root around. I’m not sure that anybody believes me, but as of now there’s been no other damage, or desecration.”

“When did this happen, Ted?” Asked Bahati.

“The morning after you went off to that conference. I went for a bit of a mooch around at first light, about four, four-thirty, something like that.”

“Unlike you to be up and on your beat so early in the morning, Ted. What got you up?” Said Victor.

“Dunno. Had some difficulty sleeping—no, I got off to sleep OK but something woke me up in the middle of the night. Don’t know what—might have been a noise, but it wouldn’t have been connected with any goings-on at the churchyard. Anything noisy enough there to wake me up would have woken up half the village as well, and as far as I can tell, nobody heard or saw anything.”

“So, just the graves disturbed, nothing else? No graffiti, no general vandalism and what about it the rest of the village? Anything out of the ordinary happen anywhere else?”

“No, Vicar, nothing at all.”

“And you think whatever is going in is worse than it appears?”

“I can’t help thinking that the graves have been excavated. I might well be wrong—I hope I am.”

“You’re pretty good at reading signs, Ted.”

“Come from a long line of country folk, Mr Fearnaught. Most of ‘em poachers, I suspect. Well, that’s it, Vicar. Thought that you ought to know what I think, and what I’ve actually said.”

“What does Vera’s daughter, Rosalie, think? Of course, she’s upset?”

“She accepts my explanation, probably because it’s upsetting enough without thinking about what else might have happened. Roger’s relatives don’t live in the village so I don’t suppose they know about it—yet.”

“Is everything all right now, Ted? I mean, it all looks normal?”

“I had young Bob Smith go round with a shovel and just smooth things over. Nobody would think now that anything out of the ordinary had happened. I stood him a pint for it—and he seemed to think it might have been badgers, so I put it about that he agreed with me.”