The Reaper

by Peter Lovesey

  It was closer to five-fifteen when he came, still in his clerical shirt and dark suit. "My," he said when he saw her. "I should have changed."

  She'd been over her first words many times. "I expect you're awash with tea so I thought you'd go for a small scotch."

  He showed how small, with his thumb and forefinger almost touching.

  "I'm not going to force any food on you, but there's blackcurrant mousse or raspberry cheesecake, or something savoury if you prefer."

  He was frowning slightly. "Don't get me wrong, Rachel. I just came for a quiet chat."

  "Didn't anyone tell you it's Christmas Day, Otis?"

  The even teeth flashed and the man of the world in him said, "Nice one. Back of the net."

  "I mean you can relax. Duty done."

  "Just about."

  "This isn't duty, is it-cheering up the lonely widow?" She poured two generous whiskys and handed him his. "Once again, happy Christmas."

  He took the drink to the armchair, rather than the high-risk settee. "I would like to talk shop for a moment."

  She settled opposite him, seated on the shaggy rug in front of the hearth, enjoying the way the firelight picked out his high, sharp cheekbones. "Go ahead."

  "I'm told I've lost the confidence of some people in the parish."

  Feeling a chill run through her, she said, "You don't mean me?"

  "No, no. Others. Only one or two, but they talk to one or two more, and so it spreads."

  Shocked that he knew so much of what was going on, she started to say, "I don't think-"

  "Let's face it," he said. "I let everyone down on the night of the carol-singing."

  "Otis, it couldn't be helped."

  "Maybe, but I know some of the things that were said. Wide of the mark, actually. The problem is that once questions are asked, they don't go away. Drip, drip. Sooner or later someone is going to start digging for dirt. They may want to go through the accounts."

  "They've no right."

  "I think you'll find they have the right."

  "Everything's in order."

  "I'm sure, but you know what people are like where money is concerned."

  She said, "We're talking about Burton Sands."

  No observable reaction came from Otis. "That's one name I was given. Burton is still smarting because I didn't ask him to be our treasurer. Understandable. I'm sure he can do double-entry book-keeping with the best of them. But the PCC chose you."

  "To my amazement," Rachel admitted.

  "And we're mighty glad we did." He raised his glass in tribute. "If Burton or anyone else asks for a sight of the books, you can say you're currently working on them. The end of the year is upon us. They have to be audited in January ready for the February meeting of the PCC. You can't be parted from them at this busy time-which must be true."

  "It is."

  "You don't mind me mentioning it?"

  "Of course not." She gave a nervous laugh and, trying too hard to be sympathetic, came out with something she immediately regretted. "Some of the things being said about you are so ridiculous you wouldn't credit them."

  He smiled faintly. "About me knocking off my parishioners left, right and centre?"

  He knew. She couldn't think where to look, she was so mortified at bringing this up.

  Otis appeared unfazed. "Dear old Owen has been putting that one around as long as I've known him-and that was at my previous parish. Talk about dwindling congregations. I wouldn't have any left at all by his count."

  She insisted firmly, "Nobody takes him seriously."

  "That isn't quite true," he said. "Burton is half convinced already. In the end, people do begin to have their doubts. The old drip, drip. It could force me to leave."

  Stricken, she blurted out, "Oh, no! But if it's untrue …"

  Otis closed her down. "What are you doing on the 3rd of January, Rachel? I'm giving a rave-up at the rectory for the confirmation candidates. One or two of the Parish Council will be there. Can you make it?"

  She was reeling from what she had just been told. He couldn't leave. She loved him. She'd committed murder for him.

  "It's a Monday," he added.

  Floundering, she said toiielessly, "I'd love to come."

  Then, with passion: "You can't let gossips drive you out with lies."

  "It's a fragile job, mine. I can't stay in it without the confidence of my parish," he explained with a steadiness that showed he'd thought it through. "If the back-stabbing gets worse, I'm history. Out of here."

  "No!" She moved across the rug to his side, grabbed his hand and gripped it tightly. "Don't. I'll die."

  He tensed, clearly surprised by the force of her reaction. "Rachel, what is this?"

  "I love you, that's what," she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. "1 couldn't bear you to go away." She pressed her face into the curve of his neck and shoulder, afraid of her own impulsiveness, mentally pleading with him to hold onto her, and forever.

  "Rachel," he said and then repeated her name as if he couldn't think what else to say.

  She clung to him, sobbing, squeezing his hand.

  Finally he found some words. "That evening I was here before, I shouldn't have-"

  "Don't say that," she cried out. "It was beautiful. You made me feel wanted."

  "No, it was wrong," he insisted. "I'm in holy orders."

  She drew away enough to look at him through the blur of her tears. "I'm not asking you to do anything wrong. Marry me."

  Silence.

  He was some removes away in thoughts of his own. Eventually he sighed and still said nothing, and Rachel waited for an answer until she knew he wasn't going to give one, this word-spinner who could enthral a church full of people with his eloquence. Her emotions seesawed. This man she worshipped hadn't come here to make love to her, or propose marriage. He wanted to make sure the bloody account books didn't get into the wrong hands.

  And she'd poisoned Gary thinking she would free herself for Otis. What an idiot she was.

  She pushed herself away from him, got up and ran out of the room.

  A little later he followed her into the kitchen and said he couldn't walk out of the house without saying anything. He made coffee for her, and talked, while she was mainly silent. The church wasn't just a job, he explained, or just a section of his life. It was his whole existence. Through it, he came alive. It was more potent and powerful than sex, or relationships, music, sport or anything that drove most men. He liked to interact with people, but through his work as a priest, rather than on a personal level.

  Rachel said, "But how can you be a good priest if you don't share the same experiences as other people?"

  He understood the point immediately. "My wife used to say the same thing. It's a dilemma. I focus everything on the ministry, you see. I'm wedded to my job. I know I do it well, and I know I couldn't do anything else. I'm not a good Christian-I mean that, I'm damaged spiritually-but I can be an effective priest and I take enormous satisfaction from that. Claudine called it monomania, and I suppose she was right. She felt excluded. I failed as a husband."

  She started to say, "It doesn't mean-"

  "But it does, it does!" he told her with the passion he usually kept for the pulpit. "I can't tell you the risks I've taken to get to this point in my life. There's no compromise, Rachel."

  Soon after, he left.

  Twenty

  Three days after Christmas, a Renault car with an R registration was examined by the Bournemouth police. It had stood in a minor road near the bus station for about ten days according to people living there. Nobody remembered seeing it arrive. The police checked the national computer records and found the owner was Mrs. Cynthia Haydenhall, of Primrose Cottage, Foxford, Wiltshire.

  The local police were informed. After checking once more that no one was inside Primrose Cottage, PC George Mitchell reported Cynthia to Police Headquarters as a missing person.

  The news spread rapidly. No one knew of any connection Cynthia had with
Bournemouth. She didn't particularly like the sea and it was a long way to go Christmas shopping. Out of season Bournemouth is best known for its conference centre and its concerts, but there had been no conference in the week preceding Christmas, and the only events at the Pavilion were children's shows.

  A search operation was mounted in the Bournemouth area. Empty buildings, wasteland, woodland and the beaches were checked. Posters were put up. The local press were informed. Nothing of substance was discovered.

  Back in Foxford, there were fears for Cynthia's safety. The fact that she hadn't cancelled her newspaper was taken seriously at last. She wasn't the kind of person who would take off for weeks on end without letting anyone know.

  George Mitchell and three officers from Warminster made house-to-house inquiries. It was difficult. Normally ten days is not an over-long period in people's memories, but with Christmas intervening it was like asking about some event that happened six weeks before.

  "I wish you'd listened to me," Rachel reminded George when he knocked on her door. "I knew something was wrong when she didn't turn up for the carol evening. She told me she'd be there. She really looked forward to it."

  George noticed how pale Rachel was looking, worse, he thought, than when her husband died. He supposed she and Mrs. Haydenhall were closer friends than he'd imagined. "We've got a lot of men and women working on this in Bournemouth," he told her. "Don't give up hope."

  Burton Sands had tried repeatedly to get through to Milton Davidson College, Toronto. All over the world everything stopped for Christmas, it seemed. And then for the New Year. It was not until January 3rd that someone picked up a phone.

  Usefully for Burton, the most senior staff have to come into college during holidays to deal with urgent business. He was put through to the Deputy Principal. This time he dropped the This is Your Life ploy for something simpler. "I'm checking the records of clergy who came to Britain from abroad," he said as if this was part of a larger project. "I have a name here and I wonder if you'd confirm that he was with you until nineteen ninety-three. Otis Joy."

  "I'll bet it is," said the voice on the line. "I don't envy you."

  Burton was forced to explain that Otis Joy was someone's name, not a cynical aside.

  "You say he came to Britain?"

  "Right."

  "Wrong-if you mean our guy. We had a student of that name, but he didn't go to England. He didn't go anywhere."

  "Why?"

  "He died."

  Burton gripped the phone and pressed it harder to his ear. "Did you say 'died'!"

  "Sure. In ninety-three, the year you mentioned. He drove his car off a mountain road when he was on vacation in Vancouver. A sheer drop. No chance."

  "This is Otis Joy?"

  "It's not a name you forget, specially in a theological college. He was the only student of that name we had on our books, or ever had."

  "Did you know him personally?"

  "Otis? Sure. I've been here fifteen years. He was in my tutor group. Nice guy."

  "Would you mind describing him? There's obviously some confusion in our records."

  "Sounds like it. Let's see. He was short, Afro-Caribbean, rather overweight-"

  Burton blurted out his reaction. "A black man?"

  "Are we at cross purposes here?"

  "We must be. The man I know is white."

  "We're wasting our time then. These are two different guys."

  "But he claims to have been at your college. It's on his file."

  "I don't think so."

  "I'm telling you," insisted Burton. "He finished his training at Brighton. Their records show he attended Milton Davidson College. There is only one college of that name in Toronto, 1 suppose?"

  "In the world."

  As if by consent, they let a moment of hard thinking go by.

  "If you had a picture of your Mr. Joy," said the Deputy Principal with a new, suspicious tone, "I'd be interested to see it."

  "I can supply one."

  "OK. Do you have access to a scanner and e-mail? We could do this today. I'm here until six, our time."

  Burton said he would see to it, and they exchanged e-mail addresses.

  That head and shoulders shot in the Wiltshire Times would do if he could get hold of a sharper print. They sometimes had the originals on file at the newspaper office in Trowbridge and sold copies. He left work early and drove over there. They had a brown envelope stuffed with pictures of the man from various functions they'd covered. Burton went through it and found the print he wanted. A nice glossy postcard-size mugshot.

  On his own computer at home, he scanned the photo and sent it with a short e-mail message to Toronto. Within a couple of minutes his phone rang.

  "I don't know this man," said the Deputy Principal. "He never attended this college."

  "Did the picture come over cleanly?" Burton asked.

  "It's very clear. I know my students, and, this man was never one of them. I also rechecked at our alumni office and there was only one Otis Joy in attendance here in the past twenty years. If someone of that name is claiming affiliation with our college, he's an impostor."

  Burton put down the phone and experienced a pleasurable sensation of power amounting almost to rapture. "Got you, you bastard," he said aloud.

  He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to get showered and dressed for the last confirmation class, followed by the rector's party.

  Watching the man behind his great desk in the rectory, with the books of sermons behind him and The Light of the World to his left, listening to his confident and lucid interpretation of the Order of Confirmation, Burton still found it difficult to credit that this was a bogus priest.

  "And when the moment comes and the bishop lays his hand on your head, you will hear some of the most comforting words in our liturgy: 'Defend, O Lord, this thy Servant, with thy heavenly grace, that he may continue thine for ever.' Defend-it's a word we find throughout the Book of Common Prayer. 'Defend us thy humble servants in all assaults of our enemies.' " Joy curved his hand over the glass paperweight of St. Paul's Cathedral. " '. . and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night.' Some people have told me they felt strengthened by God at this moment, and of course they are."

  Burton had spoken to nobody of his sensational discovery. This evening he felt detached from the confirmation candidates, watching them listen respectfully to the man he would soon expose. They were in for a shock, but not yet. He would choose his moment. This evening gave him the chance to settle the business beyond reasonable doubt. This was a high-risk plan, but he had right on his side, and if you can't rely on God's protection in a Church of England property, it's a poor lookout for mankind. There was another "defend" in the Prayer Book that Joy had not chosen to mention: Psalm 42. "Give sentence with me, O God, and defend my cause against the ungodly people: O deliver me from the deceitful and wicked man."

  The spiel was coming to an end. "And then, of course, there follows a communion, your first, and we went through the service last time. Simple, beautiful, comforting." Joy's eyebrows formed the shape of a Norman arch as he closed his prayer book. "If any of you have last-minute questions, or concerns, I'm here to help. I'll be with you at the service, and should you feel nervous just imagine how the new bishop will be feeling. Let's not forget that it may be your confirmation, but it's his baptism."

  The doorbell rang and Joy got up. "I asked the parish council to join us and all of them are coming except Rachel Jansen, who sends her regrets. This kind of get-together is difficult for her so soon after Gary's death." He went off to receive his first guests.

  "Where's it happening?" asked John Neary.

  "In that big room, for sure," said Ann Porter. "Shall we go through?"

  "You carry on," said Burton casually. "I'll join you presently."

  "Didn't know you were a smoker," said Neary.

  "I'm not. I need a few minutes to myself."

  "Says you."

  The minute the
others were out of the room Burton crossed to the filing cabinet by the door. Joy would be busy with his guests for some time, a perfect opportunity.

  It wasn't locked. The top drawer was stuffed with bulging files that turned out to be circulars from the diocesan office at Glastonbury. He tried the next. Letters, hundreds of them. Local societies wanting a speaker. People researching their family history. And quite a batch about brass-rubbing. Useless. With hope ebbing away he pulled out the third and last drawer. Agendas and minutes of parish council meetings. Orders of service from years back. Sermons. But no personal papers^.

  The doorbell rang at least! three times while he was still in the office. Sudden noises weren't good for his nerves.

  He tried the drawers of Joy's great mahogany desk. Blank stationery, stamps, paperclips and a stapler. A wire basket on the windowsill excited him briefly. It was stacked high with paper. Catalogues of religious books.

  This was not so simple as he'd hoped.

  The two box files on the bookshelf were the only possibilities left. One was filled with church music and when he opened the other dozens of communion wafers scattered across the floor. He used valuable time picking them up.

  Outside the office he stood in the hall for a moment listening to the voices in the front room. They sounded well launched into conversation about how they'd celebrated the new year. With luck, he wouldn't be missed for a while.

  This, after all, was the last opportunity he would get to search the rectory for evidence of the man's real identity. But which room? Apart from the drawing room where everyone was, and the kitchen, dining room and cloakroom-unlikely places to keep private documents-there was only the upper floor. Was it worth the risk? Fainter hearts than Burton's might have abandoned the search. He braced himself and crept upstairs. Joy's bedroom was as likely a place as any.

  The stairs creaked horribly. If the front room door was flung open and Joy demanded to know where he was going he'd say he needed the bathroom. How was he to know there was a cloakroom downstairs?