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Peter Lovesey

The Reaper

One

"May God forgive you. "

"You don't mean that, Bishop. You want me to roast in hell. I can see it in your eyes. "

The bishop muttered, "That's what you deserve. You're the worst case I've come across. A wicked young man. "

"You have evidence?"

"In the car. A dossier this size. " Actually the shape the bishop made with his hands looked rather like a blessing.

"Then it's a fair cop. "

The young rector was taking it well-too well, flippantly even. He sat serenely on his swivel chair in his comfortable office in Foxford Rectory, his Wiltshire home. The bishop's summing-up was true. The Reverend Otis Joy was young, still in his twenties, and wicked. The afternoon sun through the leaded windows cast black bars over him, yet he managed to look benign, thanks to a generous mouth with laughter lines at the edges, a fine straight nose and deep-set eyes of that pale yellowish brown that is disarmingly called hazel. A sharp intelligence lurked there.

The bishop, on the other side of the desk, did not appreciate what was going on. If you knew Marcus Glastonbury, you would not expect him to appreciate anything out of the ordinary. At the last General Synod, towards the end of his specially dull speech on improving communication in the Church, a pigeon that had crept through a window of Church House had fluttered down and perched on the microphone. Bishop Marcus was the only one who hadn't laughed.

"Speaking of cops …?" Joy raised his eyebrows.

The bishop didn't follow him.

"… are they involved?"

"Oh. " A shake of the big, bald, consecrated head.

"Thank God for that.

" Joy watched the bishop wince. "Or would you rather we left the big fella out of it?"

The bishop drew in a sharp, shocked breath as if he had been struck. He was in danger of being undermined. "I have not consulted anyone … yet. "

"Not even in prayer? He knows, anyway. No use pretending he doesn't. "

"It's a crime by any definition, secular or temporal," said the bishop. "There's no escaping that, which is why I'm here. "

"To do a deal?"

That suggestion was not received well. It drew forth a sound remarkably like a growl.

Joy leaned back, letting the chair rotate amp; little, and studied his accuser. He'd never seen old man Glasttanbury dressed like this, in an ordinary blue shirt, striped tie and crumpled linen suit, perfect, he thought, for importuning in the park. It was supposed to make the bish less conspicuous, of course. This was the Church under cover, about to trade with the devil, disagreeable as it must be. The gleaming blue BMW had crunched onto his gravel drive without warning. A knock on the door and not a word of greeting when it was opened. Glastonbury had stood there with a bulging briefcase under one arm, which he handed to Joy to carry inside. No friendly handshake. No response to the usual courtesies. When a bishop refuses a whisky, watch out.

The bishop made an effort to seize the initiative again. "Not to beat about the bush, you're an embezzler. You have systematically robbed the Church of funds. It's a criminal matter that ought to be reported. "