Peter Lovesey - The Reaper

A fellow owner greeted him as soon as he opened the car door. "Nice day, Bill."

"A bit fresh, Terry," he responded, reaching behind for his crew cap. He was well known here from his regular visits, but not as the Reverend Otis Joy. To the yachting crowd he was Bill Beggarstaff. If you're going for an assumed name, don't choose Smith or Jones. People are readier to accept you if the name is memorable.

"Not so choppy, though," said Terry. "Thinking of taking her out?"

"I doubt it. I don't have much time today."

"But you'll fit in a beer at lunch?"

"I expect so."

"Not long to Christmas. Are you coming down then?"

"Christmas is a busy time for me."

He gathered a few things from the car and carried them across to the marina and out along the pontoon where the love of his life, his sports cruiser, was moored with the largest boats.

The Revelation was a gleaming white forty-footer, Italian-made, only two years old, in immaculate condition, with radar arch and an echo sounder. In his black quilted blouson, canvas pants and boots, "Bill Beggarstaff" was a familiar figure here each Tuesday keeping his property spruce and seaworthy.

After a check to see that everything was as he'd left it-apart from a few seagull-droppings that he wiped off-he went aboard and below to the saloon. Some heat would be a good idea, and then coffee. He had just switched on the air system when he heard steps above. Someone had come aboard.

He assumed it was Terry. You don't board other people's boats unannounced, but as they'd just had the snatch of conversation it was excusable.

This wasn't Terry. A woman opened the saloon door and came down the steps, bold as the first crocus. Otis had so fully disengaged himself from Foxford that he needed a moment to register who she was.

Cynthia Haydenhall.

His two worlds collided horribly.

The last time he'd spoken to Mrs. Haydenhall was at the harvest supper, when she was all sparkle and cleavage. This morning she was in a striped sweater and jeans but she had the same predatory look.

"Morning, Rector."

He said, "I don't understand."

"Nor me," she said, her big blue eyes swivelling at the luxury of the surroundings. "I wondered how you spent your days off, but I never pictured this."

"Mrs. Haydenhall-"

"Cynthia."

"How did you …?"

"I watched you get out of your car and walk across to the marina. I was certain it was you, so …" She stopped, sighed, and said, "No, I'd better come clean. I followed you from Foxford."

"The blue car?"

"Yes. The Renault. You spotted me, then. It's a damned liberty. Nothing can excuse it."

"You got up early, specially to follow me?"

"Absolutely. May I sit down?" She sank onto one of the shaped leather cushions. "I don't want you thinking I'm a stalker, Otis. Being furtive isn't my style at all. My curiosity got the better of me, so I thought what the hell, I'll trail him all the way and find out where he goes each Tuesday. And now that I know, I can't creep away without even saying hello."

Otis didn't give a toss for the social niceties. He was livid with himself for being so careless. Too angry even to plan his next move. "Coffee?"

She flashed a wide, gratified smile. "Please. I had to sit in my car and wait when you stopped for breakfast in Blandford."

Trying to keep his fury in check, he stepped into the galley, switched on the kettle and spooned coffee into two mugs. "And is the curiosity satisfied now?" He sounded calm, even though he had this electric storm in his head.

"Not yet, if you want the truth," said Cynthia candidly. "If you don't mind me asking, do you own this?"

"She's mine, yes."

"Must have cost a bomb."

"All my savings and a bit more."

"Wow!"

"That's my choice. I like boats."

"You never mention it in the village."

"No reason to."

"It's your bolt-hole?"

"My home, actually. The rectory belongs to the Church."

"I can't get over it-a country clergyman with a gorgeous boat like this, or do I call it a ship? I mean, boats this size are made for millionaires, or the mafia."

He laughed.

"Do they know you down here?"

"By a different name. I don't parade around in the dog-collar. Milk and sugar?"

"Black, please. No sugar."

His brain was in overdrive. He had to deal with this emergency. Get a grip, Otis, he told himself. "Did you, er, tell anyone you were planning to follow me this morning?"

"Certainly not," she said with injured virtue. "I can be very discreet. I wouldn't dream of giving you away, Otis, if that's what you're thinking."

That's what I'm thinking, he chanted in his mind like a response to the litany.

She drew a line along the table with her fingertip, looking down. "I'll be only too happy to share your secret. I thought when we sat together at the harvest supper that we were on a wave-length. Didn't you feel the same?"

She was making a pitch. God, how blind he'd been. "It was fun, great fun, but I didn't expect it…"

"… to lead to anything?" She eagerly completed the sentence for him. "Well, I didn't either, but I've thought a lot about you since. Too much. I didn't want to force the pace. Maybe you were only being sociable?"

He handed her the mug. "Friendly."

Unhappy with the word, her eyes narrowed. "Friendly, yes, you were." She hesitated, and shot him a look that conveyed some apprehension. "You might be offended at this question. Do you have a friend down here in Poole?"

He frowned. "What gives you that idea?"

She added, "I thought, with the boat, you might…"

"You're right," he said, and watched her face fall.

"There is someone?"

"No, but I am offended."

"Oh."

"I don't have a secret love."

A sigh of satisfaction escaped her and she babbled on tactlessly, "Because there's no end of village gossip about your days off."

"I'm sure," he said without giving anything away. "And if you were seen aboard my boat, they'd have more to get their tongues wagging, wouldn't they?"

"No one's going to see us down here."

That "us" activated him like a switch. If he gave this woman the least encouragement she'd soon be tearing off her clothes or his. Far worse, she'd carry the tale back to Foxford. He took a long sip of coffee and said, "How would you like a sea trip?"

"Whee!" piped Cynthia. "I'd adore it."

"Just out into Poole Bay and back. I don't have too much time today. Must get back for the carols."

"Me, too."

"You'll need warmer clothes unless you want to stay below."

"I've got a thick coat in the car."

"Right. While you collect it, I'll start her up. Ever done any crewing?"

"You're joking."

He went up to the cockpit and watched her go to the car park and across to the blue Renault he hadn't looked for when he parked his own car. Nobody could have seen her except possibly Terry, and he'd gone off to his own boat, an Ocean 38 berthed at the other end of the pontoon. Nobody else was about. These cold December days deterred all but the hardiest of sailors.

He knew what he must do. He started the twin engines-so much more responsive than his old car-and looked at the time. The one drawback about this marina was that you had to coordinate times with the opening of Poole Bridge every two hours. The next slot was within the half-hour.

She came aboard again in a long fur coat wholly unsuitable for sea cruising.

"That may get wet if you go aft," he warned.

"It's only a cheap thing," she told him. "You didn't think it was real?"

"Want to sit in the captain's seat, then?"

He showed her the two seats in front of the controls in the covered cockpit. She pulled the coat off her shoulders. "It's really warm in here. This is so exciting, Otis." She brandished a silver hipflask. "I keep this in the car for emergencies and men I fancy."