Peter Lovesey - The Reaper

What now? Here was the proof that the man was evil. He hesitated, dry-mouthed with stress, raking his fingers through his hair and tugging at it.

Frustration for Burton Sands: PC George Mitchell wasn't at home. "You'd be better off waiting till tomorrow, my dear," said Mrs. Mitchell, echoing her husband's laid-back style of speech and raising Burton's blood pressure by several points. "He won't be back till late. He had to drive all the way to Lymington to look at a body they took from the sea at Milford. I'm not supposed to say, but they think it could be poor Mrs. Haydenhall."

Burton didn't fully take this in. He hadn't extricated his thoughts from that cellar. "What time do you expect him?"

"Well, he didn't leave till six, and 'tis a two-hour drive, easy. He'll need a bite to eat, if he can stomach anything after a gruesome duty like that. Corpses don't look nice after some days in the water. I'll be surprised to see him before midnight. Why don't you come back in the morning, dear?"

"Did you say the body in the water is Mrs. Haydenhall?"

Dorothy Mitchell pressed a finger to her lips as if she'd said too much already. " 'Tis not certain yet. That's why George has gone."

"What was she doing in the sea?"

"Who could possibly say, my dear? Keep it to yourself, won't you?"

Burton looked at his watch. "This can't wait till tomorrow."

"My George won't be wanting to talk."

"I haven't come for a chat. I've got evidence of a major crime. I'd better phone Warminster."

"If 'tis village, I wouldn't," she said mildly, but with a look that was not mild. "George always deals with Foxford matters. They'll give the job to him anyway."

"Does he have a mobile?"

"George?" She smiled at the notion.

"Can you get him to phone me when he gets in, whatever time it is?"

"I can ask him. If he's not of a mind to pick up the phone, he won't."

"It's very urgent."

Burton returned to his cottage. He'd left the party at the rectory before it looked like coming to an end, saying his headache wouldn't shift. Joy had professed concern and again offered a painkiller. The audacity of the man! Knowing what was in that cellar, Burton wouldn't accept a glass of water from Otis Joy, let alone a pill.

He sat close to the phone, primed. On the table in front of him was a small brown pill-bottle labelled Atropine. He'd taken the risk of removing it from the cellar knowing he wouldn't be believed otherwise. With any luck, Joy wouldn't notice it was gone.

How could anyone have acquired such a collection of poisons without working in a pharmacy? Burton was lost for an explanation. It would be up to the police to find out. All he could do was tell them what he'd seen, show them the bottle and his copy of the newspaper report linking the rector with the college in Canada. They could get a search warrant and raid the rectory. Then maybe they'd find the personal papers that his own search had failed to turn up-and discover the real identity of "Otis Joy."

He kept looking at the time. He had his front room curtain pulled back in case he saw the police car drive up the street. Several went by at eleven, when the pub closed. George would come from the opposite direction.

It was ten to midnight when he spotted the white Renault with the police stripes along the side. He snatched up the bottle and was out of the cottage and across the street before George Mitchell opened his car door.

"Bugger off, Burton, I haven't got time for you."

It wasn't the reception Burton felt he was entitled to.

"It's important. It's about the rector. I've been waiting hours for you."

"Is he dead?"

"No."

"Standing on the church tower and about to jump off?"

"No."

"Wait some more, then. I'll see you in the morning."

Burton said in a hard, tight voice, "No, that isn't good enough. If you don't take this seriously, I'll go straight home and dial nine-nine-nine."

"Come in, then," George said wearily. And to his wife, as he entered, "Yes, it was her."

"Poor creature, God rest her soul," said Mrs. Mitchell.

Next morning at Warminster Police Station, George outlined the case against the rector to Chief Inspector Doug Somerville, the senior CID man, one of the new breed of detectives, brash, unbelievably young and with a low opinion of village bobbies.

"Fantastic," was Somerville's first comment, and it was said without admiration.

"That's been my feeling all along," George admitted, "but the evidence is stacking up."

"What evidence? This?" Somerville tapped the pill-bottle with his finger, knocking it over.

"It says atropine. That's a poison, isn't it?"

"It's a medicine."

"What for?"

"Bellyache." Somerville took a textbook from the shelf behind him, leafed through the pages, and started reading. " 'Medicinal uses: the relief of gastrointestinal spasm and biliary and renal colic. Prescribed orally in doses of five hundred micrograms three times a day, increasing if required to up to two milligrams daily.'"

"I reckon if you take enough, it's poison," George said.

"Take enough of anything and it's poison. It depends on the dose."

"What about the hyoscine? There was hyoscine there. That's a killer, I know. Crippen killed his wife with it."

Somerville turned a few more pages and read out," 'Hyoscine, also known as scopolamine. Widely used in the treatment of travel sickness.' " He shut the book. "Your Mr. Sands found the rector's medical supplies."

George shot him a rebellious look. "I don't think so."

Somerville sighed and glanced up at the clock. "Listen. What have we got on this jerk? He calls himself Otis Joy, and it may not be his real name. So what? People are allowed to change their names."

"But the real Otis Joy died in a car accident in Canada and the rector claims he was at the same college, Milton Davidson Memorial. It's here." George picked up the copy of the Wiltshire Times report.

"So he borrowed the name to buff up his image. He's a cool clergyman."

"The point is, they don't recognise his picture at Milton Davidson."

"So?"

"I don't think he studied there. He's a fraud. He took over the identity of a theological student who died and used his papers to get into a British college."

"To become a vicar?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Who can say?" said George. "Something in his past? They wouldn't take someone with a prison record, would they?"

"You're guessing now, George."

"If he really wanted to enter the church, and if he had a … what's the word?"

"Vocation?"

"Right. It's not like other jobs. It's a call from God, or that's what they believe. Nothing is going to stand in his way."

"You can't have it both ways. If he's that committed to religion, he's not going to murder people."

"I thought the same as you until I found out these things," said George. "I've had time to think about him. I reckon I know what makes him tick, and it isn't faith in God. It's the attraction of being a priest. He gets his, kick from stanqing up in the pulpit telling us hdw to live our lives. Doesn't mattfer if he doesn't practise what he preaches. It's power. Respect. It's the best job in the world to him, and he's going to keep it. He got it by trickery and he's going to hang on to it, come what may."

Somerville was still unmoved. "It's not the profile of your average serial killer."

"He's not average in any way."

"I don't buy it, George."

"Are you saying we just ignore all these deaths?"

"They're unrelated."

George was stung by this sweeping dismissal of everything he'd said. Personally he bore no malice against Joy; in fact, he got on well with the man. With a sense of duty he'd put friendship aside and tipped off CID, and now he was being treated like a time-waster. "When they mount up like this, they ought to be taken seriously," he said. "I know I haven't got a lot of evidence, but the man hasn't been investigated. We could easily turn something up."