Peter Lovesey - The Reaper

Burton looked unconvinced. "What about when they swarm?"

"That's usually when the colony outgrows the space in the hive. They rear a new queen, and the old queen leaves with a portion of the colony and they find a new place to nest. They have the queen with them. They're not swarming in search of her."

"Could you lure a swarm into a house, through a bathroom window, say?"

Neary was becoming impatient. "What's this about, Burton? Are you wanting to do away with a rich aunt? Because there are easier ways than persuading bees to do it for you."

Sands twitched at the suggestion and then said in his earnest manner, "This is confidential, but I heard about a case of a woman who was stung by a bee while taking a shower. She was allergic to them, and she died. It's possible that the husband wanted her out of the way. He's said by some people to be a murderer, but no one knows for sure. He's very clever."

"He'd have to be, to do it with bees. Is he a beekeeper?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Forget it, then. He's innocent."

But he would not forget it. "Isn't there a substance that attracts bees?"

"Pheromone. It's produced by the bees, by the Nasonov, or scent gland. They fan their wings to disperse it and attract other workers, for example when they find the entrance to a new nest."

"Is it used by beekeepers?'

"You mean to attract the colony to a new hive?"

"Yes."

"It can be. I believe it's produced synthetically and sold."

"And if an evil-minded person obtained some and smeared it around a bathroom, would it bring some bees there?"

"Could do. But you still have to persuade them to sting, and that's not guaranteed. A bee that stings a person is going to leave behind its sting mechanism and part of its viscera. That kills the bee inside twenty-four hours. They don't sting for the hell of it. Not usually."

"There are exceptions?"

"You do get aggressive colonies sometimes."

"Killer bees?"

"They're something else. African. We don't get killer bees here."

"But you just said-"

"All I'm saying is that certain strains are more likely to sting than others. It's to do with their genetic make-up, but they're also made more angry when the nectar isn't flowing due to bad weather. And some crops such as oil-seed rape have an effect when they work them in isolation."

"If you knew of a colony like that, and you had some of that synthetic stuff-"

Neary was unwilling to join in Burton's theory. "Listen, if I wanted someone to get stung I wouldn't fiddle about trying to attract the bees to the scene of the crime."

"What would you do?"

"Use a jam jar."

"What?"

"To catch some. Then I'd take them up to the bathroom and hold the open end against my victim's flesh. If she's taking a shower, as you suggest, and I'm married to her, she'd be an easy target. They'll sting, all right, being trapped. If she's allergic, she's not going to stay conscious for long. Much simpler."

"That certainly is," said Burton with admiration. "I don't know why I didn't think of it. The murderer needn't be a beekeeper at all. He's only got to go out to the garden and catch a bee in a jar."

"He'd have to be a right bastard to do that to his wife."

Burton agreed. "He would."

During the week a notice typical of the rector appeared on the board outside the church: "BEAT THE CHRISTMAS RUSH. SEE YOU HERE ON SUNDAY." And at Morning Service, he gave good value as usual, telling of the small boy who got the words of the Lord's Prayer muddled and said, "Forgive us our Christmases, as we forgive those that Christmas against us." In a sense the boy got it right, he said, "Because it's not a bad idea to ask God to forgive us our Christmases. And maybe he will if we've taken time out to worship him-*-which is my cue to appeal for the best turn-out ever for the carol; singing around the village in aid of church funds. You don't have to be a good singer. Everyone can give it a belt, and if you really have no voice at all just knock on doors and rattle a tin. This is when we show the rest of the village how to have a good time celebrating the true meaning of Christmas. If we do it in the right spirit, some will surely get the message and think, 'Hey, that lot aren't so po-faced after all. I might give church a try.' "

After the service, Rachel managed once again to slip out unseen, squeezing behind a couple who were telling Otis about their trip to the Holy Land. She couldn't bear the formality of shaking hands when she really wanted to be hugged and kissed.

She didn't escape Cynthia, who caught her before the lych-gate.

"I saw you giving him the go-by. What is it between you two-have you crossed him off your visiting list?"

"He was talking to the Cartwrights."

"Come off it, darling. You didn't even give a wave as you went by. Listen, if you don't watch out some of us are going to throw our hats in the ring-or something more intimate."

"I'm not stopping you," Rachel said.

"Beg pardon?"

"I said I'm not stopping you. It's a free country."

"Don't be like that. I was only kidding. Are you turning out for the carols?"

"I may give it a miss this year."

"Better not. It's much better if you get back in the swing of things."

She recalled Otis saying much the same thing.

Cynthia was saying, "It's always a fun evening."

"You're going?"

"Out in the dark with Otis? Try and keep me away. You never know who you might bump into."

She warmed to Cynthia's hearty optimism. "All right, I'll come-if only to see how you make out."

"Brill. Let's have tidings of comfort and joy. You can have the comfort…"

There was an overnight peppering of snow and the old Cortina was reluctant to start this morning. Too many short trips on parochial duties: the battery was weak. Otis Joy tried the starter a third time, and got the motor stuttering into action. One day he might get something better than this old runabout. Unlike most men, he'd never taken much interest in cars. He knew of a more exciting way to spend money. Anyway, the long drive to come would recharge the battery nicely. Yours and mine, old friend, he thought.

He cruised out of the rectory gates humming "The holly and the ivy," enjoying being awake at an hour when most people hadn't even thought of getting out of bed. It would be an hour or more before he could turn off the headlamps. So he wasn't aware of the smart blue Renault that followed him out of the village and along the A350 keeping at a distance. It was just a pair of lights in the rear-view mirror.

After his usual treat of a cooked breakfast at the cafe in Blandford Forum and a few more miles of driving in daylight he did notice one blue vehicle steadily fifty yards behind. Nothing to worry about, he decided. On this narrow stretch between Blandford and the coast everyone drove in convoy or risked death.

The further he got towards the coast, the better he felt. The carols got livelier. "God rest ye, merry gentlemen"-what he could remember of the words-kept him going for a while, followed by a quick-tempo version of "I saw three ships come sailing in." This was Tuesday, his own day to spend as he liked-or at least until the carol-singing round the village. He didn't think of what he was doing as an escape, but simply a,precious blank page in his diary, a chance to relax. Happily he had never regarded his church duties as drudgery. They were his purpose in life, uniquely satisfying. But he needed a break once a week doing something else. Six days shalt thou labour and do all thy work.

The blue car remained behind him after the roundabout linking with the A35, and he still didn't attach any importance to it. He couldn't see who the driver was because the sun was up with that silvery light you get in winter and everyone had their sun shields down. So he drove all the way to Hamworthy and his usual spot beside Holes Bay without suspecting anyone had tracked him here. And when a boat man gets to the coast, he doesn't spend time looking around the car park. Cobb's Marina was not so swanky as the Poole Harbour Yacht Club at Salterns, yet some fine boats were berthed here, valued in big bucks, and his own craft was one of the most admired.