The Reaper

'Is that the reason I'm here? You believe I murdered Gary?'

'Yes.'

'Then you'd better release me. I didn't.'

'We've obtained a search warrant. We'll go through the rectory until we find that poison.'

'I'd say, 'Be my guest,' but in the circumstances…'

'Don't come it, with me, Rector. You're going to go down for this one. We have the proof.'

If they did, it made no impact on Joy in the next twenty minutes. They fired questions at him and nothing of substance emerged before the door of the interview! room opened and Somerville was asked by one of his team to step outside. 'This had better be important,' he said.

It was.

A man called Terry Rye had contacted Bournemouth Police after recognising a picture in the Daily Mail of a woman reported drowned. She was named as Cynthia Haydenhall. Terry Rye remembered seeing the same woman at Cobb's Marina in Holes Bay, Poole, shortly before Christmas. She'd visited one of the boat owners, a man called Bill Beggarstaff, and gone aboard his motor-cruiser, the Revelation, which was a state-of-the-art job, a forty-footer, one of the biggest in the marina. The boat had left the marina the same morning and not returned since.

Somerville was chastened. 'I was bloody sure Cynthia was one of Joy's victims.'

'Could it be another alias?' said the sergeant, trying to be upbeat.

'Beggarstaff? If you believe that, you've got to believe the Rector of Foxford owns a motor-cruiser worth a couple of hundred grand. On his stipend, he couldn't pay the mooring fees, let alone the price of a boat.'

'So it's someone else?'

'Someone she thought was her sugar-daddy, I expect. Some rich crook who had what he wanted from her and dumped her overboard.'

'If she boarded the boat in Poole, why did her car turn up in Bournemouth?'

'Beggarstaff must have moved it there. Are Bournemouth going to pick him up?'

'When they find him, sir.'

'Fat chance. By now he'll be on the Costa del Sol with all the other ex-pat villains.'

He went back to Otis Joy and bluffed. 'Things are not looking good for you, Rector.'

'Really?'

'We're closing in. But let's concentrate on Gary Jansen, shall we? We have a witness who saw him going into your rectory a matter of hours before he died.'

'That's no big deal,' said Joy. 'Gary asked to come. He had some idea that his wife and I were over-friendly. I put him right and he went on his way.'

'You weren't friendly with her?'

'I said 'over-friendly.' You know what I mean. I'm friendly with everyone in the parish, or try to be. I'm not so daft as to start relationships.'

'Did he eat or drink anything while he was with you?'

'No.'

'You say you put him right. Was there a fight?'

Joy closed his eyes. 'I'm a man of God, Chief Inspector. I don't fight. It was a civilised chat.'

'This 'man of God' stuff wants examining. You claim to be an ordained priest.'

'I am.'

'You went through a service, yes.'

'I went through theological college.'

'St Cyriac's?'

'Yes.'

'For about a year. According to their records you were at a Canadian college before that.'

'Is that a crime?'

'There's no record of you at the Canadian college. Someone else with a similar name was killed in a car crash. You took over his name and came to England claiming to be trained.'

'It's official-the change of name. It appealed to me when I read it somewhere. It is allowed, you know.'

'What were you called before that?'

'Brown. John Brown. Otis? Joy has a better, ring to it, you must agree.'

'Where did you study before you started at St. Cyriac's?'

'This is sounding more and more like an interview for a job. I was in Canada. I had private tuition from one of the staff at Milton Davidson. That's why you won't find my name in the register.'

Somerville knew nothing about training for the priesthood. He was floundering. He terminated the interview and had Joy returned to the cells.

Under PACE, the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, he was required to review Joy's detention after six hours. In theory, they could keep him for up to thirty-six before applying to a magistrate for an extension, but it had to be justified. There had to be some prospect of formally charging the man.

The whole thing had been set in motion too soon. He had George bloody Mitchell to thank for that.

'The search of the rectory had better turn up something we can pin on him,' he said to his sergeant. 'When did they go in? Two hours ago?'

'Roughly.'

'Contact them. See what they've got.'

The sergeant called the team at Foxford. He reported back to Somerville: 'Sod all, so far. It's a big building, but they've done all the obvious stuff already.'

'The poisons in the cellar?'

'There were a few harmless things in a wooden cabinet: some aspirin, indigestion tablets, a cure for mouth ulcers, ointment for athlete's foot, Alka-Seltzer.'

'The bugger's changed it all over.'

'Very likely. He's way above us plods.'

'We're not going to stick anything on him,' said Somerville, all his confidence drained. 'We can strap him all day and all night about crimes he won't admit, and he'll never roll over.'

'Can't we get him on the embezzlement?'

'That's a job for the fraud squad. It takes months-and you can bet the bloody books have disappeared with Rachel Jansen.'

'So a murderer walks free?'

'We're in the real world, sergeant.'

Otis Joy was released from custody at nine fifteen that evening. In a philosophical mood, he returned to the rectory and found it ravaged by the search team. He packed a few things into a rucksack and put his Moulton bike in the boot of the Cortina and drove out of Foxford for ever.

Twenty-six

Partings are painful and this one needed to be violent. At around 5:30 a.m., Joy drove into a breaker's yard three miles out of Lymington, ripped the number plates and the tax-disc from the old Cortina and smashed the windscreen and slashed two of the tyres, before abandoning it among scores of other unwanted cars- With just the rucksack as baggage, he got on his fold-up bike, pedalled into the town and caught the first ferry crossing to the Isle of Wight.

Yarmouth, on the quiet side of the Island, will never rival Cowes as a sailing resort, but it has a good harbour once you have negotiated the treacherous waters of the Narrows. Here, Otis Joy had berthed the Revelation some weeks earlier.

He was pleased, as always, to get the first sight of his motor-cruiser, white sides dappled with reflections in rare February sunlight. The harbour authority had recently upgraded the moorings with new pontoons. Yachtsmen