Peter Lovesey - The Reaper

He went back for the car.

The confirmation candidates stood in groups near the west door of All Hallows, the largest, though not the most attractive, church in Warminster. The old building had suffered badly from modern restorers, whose aim seemed to have been to remove all traces of the Norman origins, all the arches, scallops and mouldings, all the mellow local stone, and replace it with faced blocks the colour of margarine. However, it was roomy inside, which was why it had been chosen for today's service.

George spotted the Foxfora group-not quite half the village, but getting on for forty of them, including families. He went over and asked Ann Porter if she'd seen the rector. She said he'd arrived and gone into the church to get into his robes.

The question must have been overheard by Burton Sands, because he came over and said, "Are you going to arrest him?"

"What for?" said Ann in surprise.

George raised his chin a little and said, "That isn't the way we do things, Burton."

"You don't do anything," said Burton.

"What's this about?" demanded Ann, already hyped up for the occasion. "Has our rector been up to naughties?"

George moved away, but Burton came with him. "You know Rachel Jansen has gone? That's another one. You've got to act before he wipes out the rest of us."

"Don't push it, Burton. Things are happening," said George.

"Like what? You exhumed Gary Jansen and no one has heard a thing. That was over two weeks ago."

"We had to wait for the tests," muttered George. "Why don't you go back to the others now?"

' "Had to wait for the tests,' " Burton taunted him. "No action at all. 1 gave you enough information to put him away for the rest of his life and nothing has happened except he's claimed another victim."

"Why don't you get your mind on what you're here for?" George told him. "Think some Christian thoughts."

"How can I, when he's going to join in the service? You could arrest him now."

"I'm going to speak to him when it's over."

"Really?"

George shouldn't have said more, but it was nice to take the wind out of Burton's sails, and the temptation was great. "The test results came in this morning. They found a trace of poison in the body."

People were entering the church now, and John Neary had his hand in the air, beckoning to Burton to rejoin the Foxford group.

"What poison?"

"A deadly one," said George. "Look, they're going in."

He decided to go into the service and sit at the back. Why stand outside on a January afternoon when they had the heating on? He wasn't a regular church-goer, but he'd been confirmed in his teens, by the unfortunate Marcus Glastonbury, fated to be remembered as the Bend Over Bishop. George listened to the mighty organ and tried not to think about the late bishop.

The candidates from six local churches were seated in the front pews, and many relatives attended in support, so the nave was packed. Latecomers had to find places in the crosswise seating in the transepts. The clergy, when they entered behind the bishop in their glittering vestments, sat in the choirstalls. George spotted Joy looking devout and untroubled in a cream chasuble with a green and gold cross motif. In this sanctified place it was more than George could do to credit the dreadful crimes the man was supposed to have committed. It took the single-mindedness of Burton Sands to hold onto the conviction that a murderer was in their midst.

The service began with a few words of welcome from the new bishop, a short, stout man with horn-rimmed spectacles, wearing a crimson mitre. His voice was amplified, so he must have had a microphone cunningly secreted in the robes. Briefly he explained what would happen, and its significance, and that afterwards there would be tea and cakes for everyone in the parish rooms. A hymn followed, and then the bishop spoke the words of the preface in a clear, brisk, business-like fashion. No one would doze off while he was leading a service. Quite soon he had reached the main part, the questions and responses leading up to the moment when each candidate in turn went forward to kneel before him and be admitted to full membership by the hand placed on the head.

George watched the Foxford people go forward, the children first, and then the adults, including Sands, Neary and Ann Porter.

It all progressed seamlessly into the communion service when the candidates were to receive the sacrament for the first time. After the parish priests had knelt in front of the bishop and received their wafers and wine, they helped him administer it to the new communicants, who approached the altar rail. Later, the rest of the congregation would be invited to come forward.

At the back of the church, George had decided he would not join in this time. He would have felt self-conscious going up to the front in his uniform. Instead, he watched and waited, trying to work out what he would say to the rector. It would have to be over the tea and cakes. "We're trying to clarify a few matters, Otis, and we think you could help us." No, better still: "… we'd welcome your advice." How about "expert advice"? That would be overdoing it. "… welcome your input"? Perhaps not. "We're trying to make sense of a few things and we'd welcome your advice." Nonchalantly he would add, "Just across the street at the police station."

Sorted.

He sat back in the pew and submitted to the solemnity of what was going on, listening to the soft strains of the organ playing a communion interlude, doing his best to be respectful and forget he was a policeman on duty. So it was remarkable that a terrible thought popped into his brain just as Otis Joy was moving along the altar rail with the chalice in one hand and the napkin in the other.

One of the other priests had already administered the wafers to the Foxford candidates. Joy was following, quietly intoning the words of the service.

George felt compelled to act. The congregation at large hadn't moved yet, but he did. By chance he had a place at the end of the pew and he stood up and strode up the aisle, his regulation shoes clattering on the paved floor. Presently he broke into a run. It had to be a real emergency for George to run. People turned to stare. Clearly he wasn't racing to be first in line at the altar rail. Probably if he had not been in uniform someone would have tried to stop him. Even the bishop looked up.

George continued running, as unstoppable as the Athenian who brought news of the victory at Marathon. Otis Joy was one of the few who didn't look up. He was absorbed in what he was doing.

Unluckily George was not built for speed. He wasn't in time to stop Joy administering the wine to Burton Sands. Burton got off his knees, took a pace back from the rail, turned, put his hand to his throat and collapsed like a felled tree.

Joy didn't give him a glance. He had already moved on and was offering the chalice to the next communicant, Ann Porter. Ann, of course, was a crucial witness in the case, the person who had seen Gary Jansen visit the rectory on the day he was poisoned.

George yelled, "Ann, don't drink it!"

This time Joy looked up.

Everyone looked up. Even the people kneeling to receive the sacrament turned to see what was going on. They saw the burly policeman leap over Burton's lifeless body and dash the chalice from Joy's hands.

The bishop said, "Christ Almighty!" into his amplifying system and was heard all over the church. He could have said something worse.

'If that was your idea of 'low key,' what happens when you pull out all the stops?"

George Mitchell tried to let Somerville's sarcasm pass him by. Silence was the best option.

"You dash up the aisle like a demented bride and knock the communion wine out of the priest's hand, assuming it was poisoned? Is that discreet policing? What were you doing in the church in the first place? Don't answer that. I don't wish to know." Somerville turned to one of his team. "What's the latest on Mr. Sands?"