Judas perched on the edge of his desk and looked at the map on the wall to see if there were any patterns forming on it. He traced imaginary lines from point to point in his mind, and tried to remember if there was anything unusual about that church or that statue, or whether anything unusual had happened in that graveyard, or near that river. But nothing sprang to mind. No patterns. There was something, though, and it felt like trouble brewing. His headache made itself known again, and he was forced to admit defeat and sit down properly. The tea here was always bad. It came in faded blue mugs, and gave you rumbles in the stomach that had defeated every pharmaceutical company on the planet. Maybe it was the bromide that was rumoured to have been added to the water, or the tea, or the soap
