Free A New Lease of Death by Ruth Rendell

thrust her fingers through it in despair or remorse. The long red nails stuck out like bright feathers.
    ‘Don’t worry about her,’ said the doctor contemptuously. ‘She’s not hurt.’
    ‘You, madam …’ Burden picked out the calmest and least excited looking of the bystanders. ‘Did you happen to see the accident?’
    ‘Ooh, it was awful! Like a beast she was, the little bitch. Must have been doing a hundred miles an hour.’
    Picked a right one there, thought Burden. He turned to a white-faced man holding a Sealyham on a lead.
    ‘Perhaps you can help me, sir?’
    The lead was jerked and the Sealyham sat down at the kerb. ‘That gentleman …’ Blanching afresh, he pointed towards the crumpled thing laying on the stripes. ‘He looked right and left like you’re supposed to. But there was nothing coming. You can’t see all that well on account of the bridge.’
    ‘Yes, yes. I get the picture.’
    ‘Well, he started to cross to the island like, when that white car came up out of nowhere. Going like a mad thing she was. Well, not a hundred, but sixty, I reckon. Those Minis can go at a terrible lick when they’ve had their engines hotted up. He sort of hesitated and then he tried to go back. You know, it was all in a flash. I can’t rightly go into details.’
    ‘You’re doing very well.’
    ‘Then the car got him. Oh, the driver slammed on her brakes for all she was worth. I’ll never forget the noise to my dying day, what with the brakes screaming and him screaming too, and sort of throwing up his arms and going down like a ninepin.’
    Burden set a constable to take names and addresses, turned away and took a step in the direction of the white car. A woman touched his arm.
    ‘Here,’ she said, ‘he wants a priest or something. He kept on asking before you came. Get me Father Chiverton, he says, like he knew he was going.’
    ‘That right?’ said Burden sharply to Dr Crocker.
    Crocker nodded. The dying man was covered now, a folded mac under his head, two policeman’s jackets across his body. ‘Father Chiverton is what he said . Frankly, I was more concerned for his physical than his spiritual welfare.’
    ‘R.C. then, is he?’
    ‘God, no. Bunch of atheists, you cops are. Chiverton’s the new vicar here. Don’t you ever read the local rag?’
    ‘
Father?
’
    ‘He’s very high. Genuflecting and Sung Eucharist and all that jazz.’ The doctor coughed. ‘I’m a Congregationalist myself.’
    Burden walked over to the crossing. The man’s face was blanched a yellowish ivory, but his eyes were open and they stared back. With a little shock Burden realized he was young, perhaps no more than twenty.
    ‘Anything you want, old chap?’ He knew the doctor had given him a pain-killing injection. With his own bent body he shielded him from the watchers. ‘We’ll get you away from here in a minute,’ he lied. ‘Anything we can get you?”
    ‘Father Chiverton …’ it was a toneless whisper, as detached and inhuman as a puff of wind. ‘Father Chiverton …’ A spasm crossed the waning face. ‘Confess … atone … spare Thou them which are penitent.’
    ‘Bloody religion,’ said the doctor. ‘Can’t even let a man die in peace.’
    ‘You must be an asset to the Congregationalists,’ Burden snapped. He got up, sighing. ‘He obviously wants to confess. I suppose they do have confession in the Church of England?’
    ‘You can have it if you want but you needn’t if you don’t fancy it. That’s the beauty of the C of E.’ When Burden looked murderous, he added. ‘Don’t get in a tiz with me. We’ve been on to Chiverton, but he and his curate are off at some conference.’
    ‘Constable Gates!’ Burden beckoned impatiently to the man noting down addresses. ‘Nip into Stowerton and fetch me a – a vicar.’
    ‘We’ve tried Stowerton, sir.’
    ‘Oh God,’ said Burden quietly.
    ‘Excuse me, sir, but there’s a clergyman got an appointment with the Chief Inspector now. I