The Right Reverend Granchester Meadows, DD, incumbent of the living of All Souls without, in the London borough of Hampstead looked both sorrowful and determined.

'I'm afraid' - the familiar lie slipped from his wet lips - 'that we cannot accommodate suicides in hallowed ground. The Church is quite adamant.'

Chloe Armstrong, newly widowed, stared at him, her eyes raw from crying. 'But it was an accident, I'm sure...Dennis had cancer; he was in terrible pain...he...' her voice trailed off into fresh sobbing. Her son put his hand on her shoulder and she turned to press her face against his chest. 'There is nothing you can do?'

Andrew Armstrong watched unemotionally as the Reverend Meadows squirmed in front of him. Armstrong knew he appealed to certain men. Masochistic homosexuals like Meadows melted in his presence. But he also knew that Meadows thought his secret safe. Downloading hard-core porn from Internet sites, however, is a risky business; especially when those sites are being monitored by the authorities.

'My father was a good man, Mr Meadows,' Armstrong ignored Meadow's shock at his calculated insult. 'An honest, hard-working Christian who looked only for his just reward. He did not deliberately kill himself.'

'The evidence -'

'Is circumstancial.'

'If you'll let me finish.'

For a moment Armstrong nearly lost control. His need to crush this slimy insect under his heel was almost overwhelming.

'The evidence is conclusive. Your father, God rest his soul, -'

'You sanctimonious little shit!'

'Andrew! Please forgive him Reverend, he doesn't know what he is saying.'

'Sorry, Mum. My apologies, Mr Meadows.'

Granchester Meadows looked into Armstrong's grey eyes as he took the proffered hand and felt his scrotum tingle at the strength he sensed in that gentle grip. Later that night, alone in bed, he smiled as he pretended it was Armstrong's hand in his pyjamas.

Nearby, in his tiny office in the rear of Backlane police station, Armstrong was also smiling. He was holding a video cassette in his gloved hand. The same glove he had been wearing when he shook hands with Meadows. Treated with a light coating of super glue, the glove had taken Meadow's palm print and had now transferred it to the video cassette. The local newspaper had reported that a new cemetery was to be consecrated in the borough by the Reverend Granchester Meadows, his photograph accompanying the article. Well, if Meadows wouldn't bury Armstrong's father, Armstrong would surely bury Meadows. The video recording had some of the most nauseating images Armstrong had ever seen in his time with the Vice Squad. Carefully planted the tape would destroy Meadows. "You crossed the wrong man," mused Armstrong, drawing an X-shaped cross on Meadow's face.