One of Us Is Dead

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The small village church was packed, and Taylor, who had arrived at the funeral late, just as the service was beginning, had to stand at the back, dripping wet from the pelting rain outside. But he wasn’t looking at the coffin, nor at the cleric, the almost overbearingly pious Reverend Ian Parry-Jones with his pristine cassock, zealot’s eyes and mad white hair, who was giving a good impression of genuine sincerity — but a less convincing one of having actually known the unfortunate star of the show.

Instead, Taylor was staring at the back of the head of a man sitting six rows in front of him. Transfixed.

Even though he hadn’t yet had a chance to see the man’s face clearly — the man was wearing dark glasses, a scarf and a baseball cap — Taylor was certain it was Rufus Rorke. His old school friend. Except it couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible.

The man inclined his head slightly to the left, as if resting it on his shoulder — the quirky way Rufus had always done when he was composing a reply to something someone had just said. And now Taylor was even more sure. It was Rufus, it absolutely was!

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