The Reaper (24 page)
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."
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.
BURTON SANDS called on George one evening and asked why the rector had not been arrested yet.
"It's out of my hands," said George.
"It's disgraceful," said Burton. "I gave you enough evidence to put him away for the rest of his life. He's still at liberty."
"They're working on it. You know Gary Jansen was exhumed," said George.
"That was ten days ago."
"It can't be hurried."
"He'll get away if you don't arrest him."
"He hasn't gone," George pointed out. "He could have gone, and he hasn't."
"Bluffing it out."
"That's why we have to make sure of everything."
"Did they find any poison in the body?"
"We don't know yet."
THE TEST results came in from the Home Office Forensic Science Laboratory at Chepstow on a Friday morning two weeks after the autopsy. Tissue samples taken from Gary Jansen's body showed a minute trace of aconitine, one of the most virulent poisons known.
DCI Somerville called the lab to find out more.
"You might well ask," said the toxicologist on the end of the phone. "We don't know of a case in Britain since eighteen eighty-one. We were very excited when the gas-chromatographic screen picked it up. It's an alkaloid, a plant poison, derived from monkshood. The stuff grows wild in shady, moist places all over Europe and North America. You've probably got some near you. There's a cultivated variety as well. Usually it's purple in colour, but you can get it in white, pale blue and reddish-blue. Are you a gardener?"
"Some chance."
"It was common at one time, flavour of the month, but you have to go a long way back. 'Stepmothers' poison,' the Greeks called it. And the Romans used it so much that the Emperor Trajan banned them from growing it in their gardens. Right through the Middle Ages people were poisoning their rich uncles with it. It fell out of favour in modern times because the neuropathy is so obvious. Tingling and numbness in the mouth, throat, hands and limbs. Severe stomach pains, nausea and vomiting. Diarrhoea. Want me to go on?"
"Be my guest."
"OK. Loss of power in the limbs, giddiness, deafness and impairment of vision, indistinct speech, loss of consciousness and convulsions. Didn't the GP pick up on any of this?"
"He wasn't called till late."
"Who called him—the patient?"
"The wife."
"She must have seen him suffering."
For a moment the case against Otis Joy teetered slightly. Then Somerville remembered. "No. She was out all evening. Got back late."
"Poor sod—having to endure all that on his own. Horrible symptoms."
"When she got back he was too far gone to talk. The diagnosis was a heart attack."
"Correct, in a sense. The ultimate cause of death is cardiac or respiratory failure from paralysis of the brain. Why wasn't there a PM at the time?"
"The GP had been treating him for a heart problem."
"Even so."
"Perkins is one of the old school. Ought to be retired."
"He will be, if this comes to court."
Somerville thanked him and said they were sure to be in touch again. He phoned George Mitchell and told him the news.
George said, "I'm punching the air, sir. We've got him at last!"
"Can you get over here fast?"
"You bet I can."
AT THE main police station, Warminster's CID team was setting up an incident room and Somerville was calling himself the SIO—senior investigating officer. George was shown into an office where three senior detectives waited.
"I can tell you about monkshood," George offered. He was more of a countryman than any of these clever dicks. "The leaves look a little like parsley, except this grows at least a metre high. It grows wild in the woods round here, down by the River Wylye. Purple flowers. You don't come across it so much as when I was a lad. Farmers get rid of it as soon as it appears because it's just as deadly for animals as it is for humans. The 'monk's hood' is the shape of the flower."
"There's a garden variety," Somerville said.
"Yes, you can get it in other colours if you want. Looks nice enough in your herbaceous border if you put it in a shady position."
"Does it come with a health warning?" one of the detectives asked.
"Certainly ought to."
"George, you know what I'm going to ask next?" said Somerville.
"If it grows in the rectory garden? I couldn't tell you. It's a wilderness, that garden. The rector doesn't have time to look after it."
Somerville didn't like being so predictable. "Did I say anything about his garden? If the plant occurs locally, it doesn't have to be grown at the rectory. Come to that, he could have used pure aconitine in powder form. If that tosspot Sands is right, Joy has a fine collection of poisons."
"Where would he get the pure poison?"
"God knows."
"A pharmacy?"
"Unlikely. It says in the book it was formerly used in low concentrations as a liniment for rheumatism, but that was many years back. It went into a cure for toothache, too, applied as a tincture."
"Dodgy," said George. "Personally, I'd rather put up with the toothache."
Somerville saw no humour in the situation. "If the Crown Prosecution Service are going to take this on board we have to give them more than we've got so far."
"Proof of poisoning," George said. "You've got that."
"Big deal. And now all we have to prove is that Otis Joy administered it, and how, and why."
"Gary Jansen was seen going into the rectory on the afternoon of his death," said George. "Ann Porter was a witness to that."
One of the others asked, "How long does this stuff take to kick in?"
"Up to an hour," said Somerville. "You get the tingling and numbness in the mouth first, and the other symptoms follow on. Death can take anything up to several hours."
"Well, then."
"A sighting of the victim going into the rectory won't be enough for the CPS," said Somerville with a glare. "They want the lot, full chain of evidence. A poisoning has to go to the Central Criminal Court. There's sure to be massive public interest."
There was a moment for reflection while the senior detectives imagined the sensation of a clergyman on trial for a series of murders. Warminster had not seen anything like it since the spate of flying saucer stories in the sixties.
"When this breaks, we're going to be under siege," said Somerville.
"He's got to be questioned," one of the others pointed out.
"So do we nick him now?" said another.
Somerville vibrated his lips. He didn't want the press and television muscling in at this delicate stage of the enquiry. "George, you know the guy. Would he come in and make a voluntary statement? He won't want the media crawling all over him any more than we do."
"Are you asking my advice, Mr. Somerville, or do you want me to fetch him in?"
"Both."
"But I'm not CID."
"You're the man who visits his house for the Scrabble. Persuade him—gently. Low key, right?"
"I can try."
"You don't sound optimistic."
"With Otis, you can't be. Just when I think I'm way ahead of him, he comes up with a seven-letter word."
"Like murder?"
"That's six."
GEORGE WAS UNEASY WITH the assignment he'd been given. Even allowing that Otis Joy was probably a wicked and dangerous man, it was a kind of betrayal to trade on their friendship to bring him in. He wished he'd never mentioned the Scrabble evenings to Somerville. "Low key," they'd blithely told him, as if it was a routine matter to ask a man in holy orders to accompany you to the police station and make a voluntary statement.
So when he rang twice at the rectory door and got no response he was mightily relieved. He decided the rector was out in the parish somewhere doing his pastoral duties, sensible man.
He went home for lunch.
After lunch, he thought he'd better try again.
No one was there. A seed of uncertainty was sown. Had Otis done a runner?
He called at the shop and asked Davy Todd if he'd seen the rector.
Davy said, "Well, he'll be at Warminster by now, won't he?"
"Will he?" George said more cheerfully, assuming that CID had come to their senses and sent someone else to pick him up.
"That's where half the village has gone today. For the confirmation service at All Hallows."
George sighed.
"If you went to church regular, you'd know what's going on," added Todd.
"What time is the service?"
"Three. You could get there if you want."
George weighed his options. It was still down to him to round up the suspect. He couldn't interrupt a church service, but if he caught Otis coming out, it would be a short walk to the nick, which was just across the street from All Hallows. He was in duty bound to make the attempt.
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.