There was a side panel too. An opinion piece that said: The Killers in Our Homes – When Will Britain Take Dangerous Dogs Seriously?
Matt looked up. ‘This was an animal attack?’
‘Yep.’ Larry flicked an indicator. ‘You look confused.’
‘Sorry, but I assumed you called me on a murder. You think I can help with this?’
‘I’m hoping you can.’ Larry said it quietly, then he pulled the car into a street with a large school field running alongside it, filled with quivering grass. Up on a slight hill, Matt saw the brown bricks of a building. The place from the paper. A large purple sign stood near the gates saying Menham Lower School – Wilkommen, Bienvenue, Welcome! The school logo was a string of children, cut like streamers from paper. Permanently joined at the hands.
As they drew closer he spotted a small crowd of people hovering outside the school gate. Some of their faces floated in the steam from coffee, in styrofoam cups. One or two had those folding camping chairs, the sort you pop open.
‘Who’s that? Just gawkers?’
‘They’ve had a few of those since they closed the school yesterday,’ Larry said. ‘But this lot are different. They’re from Menham Evangelical Church.’
Larry had stopped the car at the closed gate, engine still running, and pressed a button on his radio. The car filled with a hissing squelch. ‘He’s here. Come and open the gate.’
As they waited, Matt leant toward the window. He counted six men out there on the pavement. Some were touching the faded green metal railings. A few had their eyes closed, lips moving silently. ‘They’re praying.’
‘Been doing that since this morning.’
‘Was Steph Ellis part of their church?’
‘Nope. They just do a lot of prayer walking in Menham. They’re known for it. They have a little club that strolls around town. They ask God to bless it. Saw them bless a Burger King once. Hands on the window and everything. No harm, I suppose.’
‘I guess that depends on what they’re praying for …’
‘They’re part of an ex-prisoners programme at the church, which seems to be working. They call it the Phoenix Club.’
‘Sounds like a Harry Potter fan site.’
‘The reoffending rate’s pretty impressive.’
‘Right …’
‘Hey, whatever makes my job easier works for—’ Larry spotted Matt buzz his window down. ‘Er … what are you doing?’
‘Morning,’ Matt called out, waving at the men.
They turned their heads.
‘How are the prayers going?’
A skinny, tall man stood amongst them, with a checked shirt and a bald head. He smiled and said, ‘They’re going very, very well, thank you.’
A policewoman was at the gate. She was jangling a key in the lock and pushing it back. It creaked louder than an oil rig collapsing.
‘And may I ask what you’re praying for, exactly?’
Another man stepped forward. This one had glasses and a perfectly manicured goatee. His voice projected much further than the tall, bald guy. It was a preacher’s voice. Matt could tell that tone at a hundred thousand paces. ‘We’re praying for protection, for the town,’ the man announced. ‘We’re keeping the bad things away.’
‘Well,’ Larry leant over to call out, ‘we appreciate all the help we can get.’
‘Then why not join us?’ the goatee said. He sounded American.
The squealing gate finally came to a stop.
‘Got to get on,’ Larry shook his head. ‘Thanks, though.’
The car pushed forward into the school and Matt noticed the men turn back to the gates. Except the American, who pushed out a huge palm as they moved past. Aimed it directly at Matt so he might pray as the car drifted by.
Matt smiled at him as the window buzzed up, but he turned away. ‘They never ask permission, these folk. They just stick out a mitt and zap you with a prayer. Like they think they’re Iron Man.’
Larry parked the car at a skewed angle, directly on the playground, so when Matt stepped out he put both feet straight into a hopscotch grid.
‘Two seconds.’ Larry wandered over to the policewoman. They muttered to each other, probably just getting a general update. Matt hung back and watched the Phoenix club who were now back to their wobbly head prayers. Funnily enough, he’d done one of these himself once. Back when he was a church minister he and about six pensioners had shuffled up and down the high street, praying blessings on the community. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Something he’d been recommended to try at a clergy conference. The idea was to ask God to prosper the businesses, bless families, encourage local people. The sort of stuff nobody tends to argue with. But half the pensioners (some of them lovely and earnest) kept closing their eyes outside the curry house, praying for the Muslims to leave the country. Loudly.
There were complaints. He hadn’t done another.
He was about to turn when he noticed another figure on the far side of the street.
Another man. But different.
He was standing in an alleyway, just under a street lamp. An older bloke with a black, curly beard. Matt’s literal first thought was that he looked like the male model from that old Joy of Sex book. The one with the pencilled sex drawings he’d often flicked through in the library when he was a teenager. This man looked like that. All wiry and bristly, with a 70s tweed jacket with elbow patches and some baggy-looking brown cords.
He was standing still, looking at the school. But then occasionally 70s sex man would glance down to jot things on a piece of paper. Local reporter, maybe? Friendly neighbourhood street perv?
Then one of the prayer team spotted the bearded man, and shouted something that sounded odd and sharp on the morning air. The tall guy shouted, ‘Get away from here, you witch!’ The bearded man took a step back and trudged off into the alleyway.
Matt frowned and took a step forward.
By then Larry was back
