Peter Lovesey - The Reaper

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.

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.