The Reaper

'I think she enjoyed her last hour alive. She was terrific company, as you know.'

A defining moment had come in Rachel's dealings with Otis. Outraged for poor Cyn, she said, 'How you can be so unfeeling?'

'Haven't you been listening?'

'But Cynthia-of all people.'

He assessed her with a look. Something new crept into his voice, a tone he had not used before. 'She expected me to have sex with her.'

She dismissed it as mischievous, a blatant attempt to turn her against her friend. 'That was Cynthia. All bluster. She'd have run a mile.'

'In this cabin? She wasn't fooling, Rachel, believe me.'

With a casual air that didn't hide her true concern, she asked, 'So did you?'

'What?'

'Do it with her?'

'Come on! We had nothing in common except a laugh or two.'

'But that isn't why you killed her? Because she made a pass, and you weren't interested?'

'I told you the reason she had to go. I couldn't trust her to keep her mouth shut. If she'd lived, it would have been all over Wiltshire and all over for me.'

She stared ahead at the sea. 'I didn't know you were so cold-blooded.'

'Of course you didn't. Nobody knows until it's too late.'

If that was a veiled threat, it passed Rachel by. The grief she felt for Cynthia blotted out everything. She could picture her sitting beside him in this cockpit flirting in her cheerful, outrageous way without dreaming what was on his mind. How could he live with the knowledge of what he had done?

As if he was reading her thoughts, he said, 'You won't know this, but she had a kink about beating men. She wanted me to go along with it. She couldn't have asked me anything more certain to make me flip.'

It rang true. Poor, misguided Cynthia.

He said, 'There's a line in Macbeth when he says he's stepped in blood so far that there's no return.'

'At least Macbeth had a conscience.'

'At least I've told you the truth.'

She felt sick to the stomach. 'Would you take me back now?'

'Weren't you listening, Rachel? There's no going back once you've stepped in blood. Let's go up to the flybridge and get some air.'

Twenty-three

Rachel was not seen again in Foxford. But her absence caused no concern at all for the first week, particularly after word got round that Gary's body had been exhumed early on Wednesday morning. It was no wonder she didn't wish to be at home when the press came knocking at her door. And there was no suggestion that she was running from the law; the police had no suspicion that she had murdered Gary.

They were waiting for the post mortem evidence that would nail Otis Joy. Meanwhile inquiries with the Toronto police confirmed Burton Sands's information. A theology student called Otis Joy had died in a car crash in Vancouver in 1993. It was also confirmed that someone of the same name was ordained into the Church of England in Brighton in September, 1994.

The person glorying in that name continued his parish duties with unflagging enthusiasm, a charming Baptism on Saturday (babies never cried when he held them), the usual Sunday services and an ecumenical meeting on Monday evening. Even by his own dynamic standards, his energy in these first days of the new year was remarkable. The sermons were inspired, delivered with passion and humanity and not without the touches of humour that were his trademark. He increased his visits to the lonely and the sick; the schools; the hospitals; the clubs and societies. It was almost as if he knew his days in Foxford were numbered.

PC George Mitchell and DCI Somerville were in attendance- standing well back-at the post mortem examination of Gary Jansen's remains. If they expected results, they were disappointed. 'There's nothing in the naked-eye findings to challenge the doctor's diagnosis,' the pathologist summed up, as he peeled off the gloves. 'Nothing inconsistent with simple cardiac failure. If you're looking for signs of a poisoning, I can't help you with what's here. It's going to be up to the forensic lab. I've taken all the samples I can, and we'll see what a toxicologist finds, if anything. I wouldn't put money on it.'

George Mitchell was horrified. Outside he said to Somerville, 'What if the results don't show anything? He could get away with serial murder and still be preaching to the village on Sundays.'

'George,' said Somerville, 'get real, will you?'

'What?'

'Some bastards do get away with it. We know they're guilty, but we don't have enough to convict.'

George said forlornly, 'We pinned everything on this. This was our best hope of getting the evidence.'

'Right. Let's be positive. They'll test for all the poisons in the book. You can be sure of that. Let's see what they come up with.'

'And meanwhile …?'

'Don't let him know he's in the frame.'

'Do I go on playing Scrabble with him on Monday nights?'

Somerville laughed. 'That's up to you, but I wouldn't drink the coffee.'

'It's no joke. He's murdered people.'

'Conjecture.'

'We know he's a phoney. He changed his name.'

'So did St. Paul.'

George sighed heavily.

Sensing, perhaps, that a senior CID man should be more upbeat, Somervilte said, 'While we wait for these results, we'll beaver away, collecting statements from other crucial witnesses. I want to interview the woman, the widow, Mrs. Jansen.'

'Rachel? She's not at home.'

'Where's she gone?'

'Don't know. Could be on holiday.'

'That's a pain. If any of this has truth in it, her dealings with the rector could be crucial. Can you find out where she went?'

'I'll try.'

'She's the parish treasurer, isn't she?'

George nodded.

'We'll need the account books to see if the rumours about Joy milking the funds have any basis. I suppose they're in her house?'

'That's where I'd expect them to be.'

'You don't think she's covering up for him?'

'For the rector? I hadn't thought of it.'

'If there was an affair going on…'

'Village gossip. I wouldn't pin too much on that. He's got his faults, God knows, but I don't think he's after the women.'

'She's got to be interviewed soon. Find her.'

She was not found, that week or the next. George asked around and discovered nothing. Rachel had told no one of her plans, just as Cynthia Haydenhall had gone off before Christmas without a word to anyone. A horrid possibility crept into George's mind.