Sidney Chambers and The Shadow of Death (The Grantchester Mysteries)

Williams is seeing him today.’
    ‘They’ve arrested him?’
    ‘No, they are bringing him in for a few questions. It’s routine at the moment but you know how these things can develop. So you should get a move on. Have a sniff around. Look like an ordinary member of the public and see what you can find out. I want your report first thing Wednesday morning. Leads, trails, anyone we should chase up or have followed. You know the kind of thing . . .’
    ‘But Geordie . . .’
    ‘No time to argue. See you Wednesday.’
    Sidney sighed. He looked at the notes he had made for his sermon and realised that, although he had made a start, he had so much more to do. He had been called out into the wider world.
    It was going to be a long way back to God.
     
    The police records revealed that most of Phil Johnson’s crimes had taken place in London: a jeweller’s in Hatton Garden, an antique shop in Kensington, a flat in Harley Street, a retired ambassador’s house in Mayfair. Johnson would generally access buildings via roofs, upper windows and skylights and sometimes, in the richer neighbourhoods, he even worked in a dinner suit so that he would not arouse suspicion on his departure. His two accomplices were a safecracker and a getaway driver, but he often acted alone and he had clearly managed to squirrel away thousands of pounds’ worth of goods in the gaps between his prison sentences. He had gone straight either because he had become bored of prison or because he was no longer as agile as he once had been.
    What these factual accounts needed was a bit of psychological background, and Sidney recognised that his task was to fill in the gaps with human detail. If Claudie Johnson’s death was an act of revenge then Sidney needed to find out more about the victims of these crimes. He wondered how many of them were still alive, what kind of insurance they had taken out – could some of them have been inside jobs, perhaps? – and whether any of them had criminal records themselves. He was going to have to look for inconsistencies, coincidences, potential patterns and unusual details.
    He met Amanda for an early lunch on the second floor of the J. Lyons Corner House on the Strand. Sidney had been looking forward to trying the self-service cafeteria, where he would place his tray on a moving conveyor belt and choose the items from the hot cabinets as they moved past, but Amanda instantly dismissed the idea. They were going to have the table d’hôte waitress service and that was that: farmhouse pie with parsnips in a cream sauce followed by either a sponge Neapolitan or a meringue glace .
    Amanda had been appalled by the murder of Claudette Johnson but intrigued by her father’s burglaries. ‘Your man was a bit of a Raffles, I imagine. I wonder if he ever met Daphne Young?’
    ‘It’s possible. He certainly knew where the rich pickings lay. Some of his crimes were quite close to your parents’ house.’
    ‘Belgravia? I can imagine. Lots of antiques round there, and that’s just the people.’
    ‘Were any of your parents’ friends ever burgled?’
    ‘I should say so. One of them even went mad. A bit like Juliette Thompson, only worse.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘There was a woman. What was her name? Mrs Templeton, I think. It was after her husband had died. He knew my father, and the burglary took place during his funeral. Can you believe the nerve? Her husband had been an ambassador and so the service was announced in The Times . They might as well have added: “We will not be at home for several hours.” The thieves just went in and took the lot.’
    ‘ Templeton , you say, Amanda? That was one of our man’s jobs. What happened?’
    ‘As I said, she went mad; she never recovered from the shock of the burglary. They were both gone within the year. Terrible really.’ Amanda finished her sponge Neapolitan. ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’
    ‘I’m going to Colindale, to the newspaper library, to look through the old crime reports. Then I have to attend a meeting at the Church Assembly.’
    ‘Sounds thrilling . . .’
    ‘After that I’m going to hear Gloria Dee again. Perhaps you’d like to come?’
    ‘Jazz is not really my thing, Sidney. You do realise that Rubinstein is playing Rachmaninov at the Festival Hall?’
    ‘I’m sorry, Amanda.’
    ‘Hang on, though. Wasn’t Gloria Dee the singer who was performing when the poor girl was murdered?’
    ‘That’s what I’ve been telling