Peter Lovesey - The Reaper

"You could look at the parish accounts."

"We did."

"You did?"

"In connection with Stanley's suicide, and we found nothing wrong."

For a short interval Burton brooded on that. "It's what doesn't go through the books that you have to worry about," he said presently. "Did you notice how he grabbed the carol-singing money last night? Do you think that will appear in the accounts, every penny of it?"

George said in the same tone as before, conceding nothing, "This is all speculation, Burton, and it does you no credit. Let's lay our cards on the table. Everyone knows you're bitter about being passed over for treasurer. Why don't you let it rest?"

Burton's pale skin flushed bright pink. "Cards on the table, is it? All right, everyone knows you're in Joy's pocket. You're up to the rectory every Monday playing Scrabble with him."

"You'd better get out," said George.

"You shouldn't be dealing with this. I want to speak to someone else."

George stepped to the door and opened it. "Out."

Two days after Cynthia went missing, Rachel asked George Mitchell if anything was being done to find her.

"She's a grown-up," George answered in his easy-going style. "She's at liberty to go off for a few days. Don't fret, my dear."

The patronising words enraged her. "I'm not fretting. I'm telling you something is wrong. It's totally out of character. Someone should look inside the house just in case-"

He stopped her. "Not much point, my dear. I looked in her garage and her car isn't inside. She's gone away for sure."

So he had taken some interest.

"I still think you should do something," she said, realising how lame it sounded. There was nothing anyone could do except wait for news of Cynthia.

A week from Christmas she felt none of the so-called festive spirit that harangued her every time she looked at the television or turned on the radio. Several people had already asked if she was spending Christmas Day in company and she said she preferred to be alone this year, which was not quite true. She had no desire to join in anyone's family party, but she was pretty certain Cynthia would have invited her up to Primrose Cottage. Cyn had been so supportive since Gary went, and she'd never spoken of her own family, so Rachel had assumed they would spend at least part of the holiday together.

Now she had to think again.

If only it could be managed without the rest of Foxford knowing, her ideal Christmas would be shared with Otis, after he'd finished his duties at the church. She didn't know his plans yet and she felt she couldn't ask.

Burton Sands was one of those dogged individuals who will not be put off. The meeting with George Mitchell had achieved little, but it had got him thinking. Maybe the policeman was right to say that clergymen didn't ever commit murder. It would make a mockery of their faith. Yet this didn't discourage Burton. Instead, it started him on a new tack, a brilliant one that would explain so much. What if Joy wasn't a clergyman at all, but a con-man who had somehow convinced the diocese he was ordained?

Lunchtime on Thursday found him in the reference section at Warminster Library, leafing through back numbers of the Wiltshire Times, trawling for information on Joy's background. Something must have appeared in the paper when the new incumbent arrived at Foxford. He found it quite soon, with an insufferably saintlike photo.

NEW RECTOR FOR FOXFORD

The new Rector of Foxford is to be the Rev. Otis Joy, the diocese announced this week. The Rev. Joy has been vicar of Old Mordern, near Chippenham, since 1998. He is 28, and a widower. After training at St. Cyriac's Theological College, Brighton, he was ordained in 1994, and served as curate at Old Mordern until the retirement of the incumbent, when he became the youngest vicar in the diocese.

"I am delighted to be coming to Foxford," the Rev. Joy said this week. "St. Bartholomew's is a church rich in history in a beautiful village. I look forward eagerly to carrying on the excellent ministry of my predecessor, Henry Sandford."

"And milking the funds," Burton said aloud and got an anxious glance from a woman at an adjacent table.

The mention of a theological college was a setback to his latest theory, unless Joy had made it up. Unfortunately there was something about Brighton that sounded possible. A man like Joy would choose a college in a popular seaside resort.

He looked up St. Cyriac's in the phone book, went to a payphone and called them. The term had finished and the students had gone down, he was told by someone who didn't sound very important in the college set-up. He explained that he just wanted a word with the archivist, or whoever looked after the records of former students. The young woman on the phone was cagy. The college wouldn't let anyone look at personal records, she said. Burton explained in the most convincing tone he could manage that he wasn't interested in personal details. It was only a matter of confirming things that were in the public domain, dates, and so on. Politely she said she didn't have a copy of the college registers. However, the librarian would be there on Saturday morning doing the annual stocktake and might be willing to help.

St. Cyriac's wasn't really in Brighton. It was a Victorian mock gothic building sited high on the South Downs north of the town, right on the edge of the Devil's Dyke (Burton noted with grim satisfaction).

On the long drive from Foxford, he'd decided on his strategy. Evidently St. Cyriac's were hot on data protection, so he needed a compelling story.

The librarian was a canny, silver-haired Scottish lady, and Burton's confidence dipped when she began by saying, "I was advised that you were coming, and I'm afraid you've wasted your time. I'm not at liberty to divulge information about former students."

Burton said truthfully, "I've driven a hundred miles," and untruthfully, "and nobody told me this."

"That is unfortunate," she admitted, without actually giving an inch.

"I don't want to know anything confidential."

"Everything in student records is confidential."

"It's for a surprise party for our rector," he said with fine conviction for a man who usually told the truth. "You must have seen that television programme This is Your Life. Well, we're planning something like that for his thirtieth birthday."

Unmoved, she said, "I can't help."

"He's such a popular priest," said Burton, at the limit of his imagination to keep this going. "He preaches a fine sermon. So different in style from our last rector. Should have been an entertainer, really. He has a great fund of jokes, always in good taste and to the point."

Curiosity got the better of her. "What's his name?"

"Joy. Otis Joy."

Her expression miraculously softened. "I remember Otis Joy."

"You do?"

"He was a saucy birkie, as we say north of the border, very popular. We all had a soft spot for Otis."

"So you were here when he was?"

"Yes, indeed. And is he really coming up to thirty soon?"

"Next year, if we've got it right."

She slid out a computer keyboard from a recess under her desktop. By a strange twist, Joy's charming ways had come to Burton's aid. "You're right," she said, staring at her monitor. "I think of him as no more than a lad. He was younger than the average when he entered college. Most of our entrants have had work experience in other careers, but Otis had more confidence than any of his year."

"Hadn't he been in work?"

"Apparently not. He came to us from Canada, and he'd done some training for the ministry over there, according to this. He knew his Bible better than any student of his year. But I don't think he's Canadian by birth. He didn't have any accent that I recall, though it wouldn't surprise me if he was Irish. He had a touch of the blarney, for sure. No, it says here he was born in Norwich."