Free Unholy Rites by Kay Stewart, Chris Bullock

think about the case analytically, she needed time to let the gruesome details fade.
    â€œI couldn’t believe the destruction,” she said. The previous June, an IRA bomb had gone off in the city’s busiest shopping district. A large department store and an insurance building had been totally destroyed, and many other buildings damaged.
    â€œI felt like I’d landed in a Second World War movie about the bombing of Britain. I remember seeing images in the media when it happened, but then Manchester seemed as distant as the Middle East, and I’d more or less forgotten about it. It was a shock to see the blasted walls and twisted metal and buildings still being demolished. It seems incredible that there were no deaths and not many injuries.”
    â€œThe IRA weren’t out to kill civilians,” Kevin said. “Someone phoned in a warning an hour before the bomb went off.”
    Danutia held her breath as the car sailed around a sharp curve, then let out a sigh, part relief, part exasperation. “Arthur tried to explain Northern Ireland to me over drinks and dinner. The problems sound similar to the situation in Quebec in the seventies, only much worse.”
    â€œNorthern Ireland and the IRA . Heavy going for a date.” Kevin gave her a mischievous look.
    â€œIt’s nothing like that,” Danutia said, half embarrassed and half pleased. “A friend of Arthur’s was acting in a play. We took the late train back on Saturday, if you must know.” Too late for Arthur to catch a bus to Mill-on-Wye, though she wasn’t about to tell Kevin. She’d smuggled him into her room at the Temple and made up a bed for him on the floor, then smuggled him out before Mr. Blackstone was up.
    She didn’t mention their climb up Grin Low to Solomon’s Temple on Sunday morning either. Standing beside her on the stone parapet, Arthur had gestured towards Buxton, spread out below them, and the distant moors. “All these things I will give thee,” he said, “if thou wilt give me but a kiss.”
    â€œGet thee behind me, Satan,” she had retorted, and so he had, putting his arms around her and holding her close until she pulled away.
    They had reached Mill-on-Wye. As Kevin turned into Mill Lane, Danutia’s attention shifted to Well Cottage. It looked rather dismal, despite the crocuses and early daffodils. A milk bottle on the steps, curtains closed, no smoke from the chimney.
    â€œThat’s Ethel Fairweather’s cottage, isn’t it,” Kevin said. “I didn’t know her myself, but the wife did, through the well dressing. Want to invite your friend Arthur to lunch with us?”
    Danutia felt her cheeks turn warm. “No, of course not, we’re working. Besides, he’s probably not even up yet. He’s one of those night owls, stays up half the night and sleeps till noon. A waste of the best part of the day, if you ask me.”
    At the Reward they ordered from the bar, jacket potato and coffee for Danutia, shepherd’s pie and a pint for Kevin, and carried their drinks to a table outside the front door. The wind was still blowing, the sky overcast, but the day was warming up. Warmth radiated from the stone walls behind them and brought out the smells of damp earth and new vegetation.
    Kevin took a long swig of beer and licked his lips appreciatively. “Good stuff. Brewed not far from here, in Sheffield.” His gaze turned thoughtful. “What do you make of these sheep killings, then?”
    Danutia dug in her purse for her notebook and pencil. “In my class last week the statistician was talking about finding patterns. Let’s start with what we know about the three cases since January and see if there are similarities. We’ll need a map and a calendar.”
    The pub door opened behind them and the barman edged through with a large tray. “More coffee? Another beer?” he asked as he set down plates,