The Reaper Read Free

came in a rush. "The day before yesterday I put a white plastic sack through your letterbox. Help the Aged. Old clothes. Isn't that it behind you at the bottom of the stairs?"
    He glanced over his shoulder, taking care not to present his back view. It was the Help the Aged sack and it contained his bloodstained clothes.
    "If you look," said Rachel Jansen, "it's printed on the side."
    "I'm sure you're right." He was trying to give the impression of calm. "Hang on. I meant to put in something else." He took two steps backwards as if Mrs. Jansen was the Queen, snatched up the sack, backed further to the kitchen and tipped everything out and grabbed two perfectly good shirts he had washed the day before and left on hangers to dry over the boiler. He stuffed them into the sack and returned to the door. "Hope these will do."
    She thanked him and left, still pink at what she had seen, or almost seen.
    He closed the door and said aloud, "Joy, my boy, you don't come closer than that."
    The next phase of the plan was to remove the body from the office. The bishop was no lightweight. Joy hauled him to the centre of the Wilton and dragged rug and corpse across the polished floor, through the hall and kitchen to the back door of the garage. Opened the boot of the BMW, took a grip under the arms, lifted the torso to a sitting position, braced like a weightlifter, made a supreme effort and heaved the upper body high enough to flop over the storage space. With the main weight in position, raising the legs was easier. He persuaded them in and threw the rug over the corpse and brought down the lid. It was good to have the thing out of sight.
    Work remained to be done: office work, he told himself with a smile. He fetched a bucket, filled it with hot water and detergent and used an old-fashioned scrubbing-brush on the bloodstains.
    The floor looked better after repeated scrubbings. No doubt a scene-of-crime team would find plenty to interest them, but he had no intention of letting such people into his office.
    He took a shower, changed into a sweatshirt and jeans and passed a salutary half-hour studying the dossier from the car. The bishop had gone to some trouble assembling all this evidence of malpractice. Five years of bank statements and photocopies of the St. Saviour's parish accounts, with copious marginal notes in red and more pages of calculations. Copies of his (under)statement of income to the Church Commissioners, ensuring that he got the maximum stipend. Grisly reading. The only good thing about it was that apparently no one else had seen it.
    He tore each sheet into small pieces and made a fire in the grate in the dining room. Whilst the evidence was turning to ashes, he fetched the bishop's laptop from the office and got to know the controls. The resignation letter wanted some modification now. He deleted his name and substituted the bishop's. Then he made more adjustments. The wording on the screen now read:
    I, Marcus Glastonbury, Bishop, profoundly regret the embarrassment my actions must cause the diocese and the Church. I can see no alternative.
    After reading it through, he added the words Pray for me.
    He opened the bishop's briefcase and looked for stationery. He found a sheaf of notepaper headed with the address The Bishop's Palace, Glastonbury, and printed the note. As a final touch he opened the pocket Bible, looked up the parable of the prodigal son, underlined the phrase "... hath devoured thy living with harlots ..." and slotted the white ribbon marker in place.
    After midnight, he returned to the garage and took his Moulton fold-up bike—with the characteristic small wheels and Hydrolastic suspension—from its hook on the wall. A Wiltshire product, his farewell gift from a grateful congregation at St. Saviour's, that little bike was going to come in useful tonight. He stowed it on the back seat of the BMW. He put on gloves, started up and drove out into Rectory Lane. Small risk of being seen; less of being