Swaddled in snow, the town of Breckham Market looks like a tourist's dream of the Little English village- the sort of place where the worst that can happen is a spot of teenage vandalism at the church (and enforced, if necessary) by those pillars of British virtue, the police chief and the local vicar. Ah, the vicar. He, too, might have come from Central Casting, with his saintly blue eyes and his cozily pudgy, bun-baking wife. But when the snow starts to melt, so too does the vicar's facade. And what comes to the surface has Breckham Market looking less like a tourist's haven and more like fodder for the tabloids.