He kept looking at the time. He had his front room curtain pulled back in case he saw the police car drive up the street. Several went by at eleven, when the pub closed. George would come from the opposite direction.
It was ten to midnight when he spotted the white Renault with the police stripes along the side. He snatched up the bottle and was out of the cottage and across the street before George Mitchell opened his car door.
"Bugger off, Burton, I haven't got time for you."
It wasn't the reception Burton felt he was entitled to.
"It's important. It's about the rector. I've been waiting hours for you."
"Is he dead?"
"No."
"Standing on the church tower and about to jump off?"
"No."
"Wait some more, then. I'll see you in the morning."
Burton said in a hard, tight voice, "No, that isn't good enough. If you don't take this seriously, I'll go straight home and dial nine-nine-nine."
"Come in, then," George said wearily. And to his wife, as he entered, "Yes, it was her."
"Poor creature, God rest her soul," said Mrs. Mitchell.
Next morning at Warminster Police Station, George outlined the case against the rector to Chief Inspector Doug Somerville, the senior CID man, one of the new breed of detectives, brash, unbelievably young and with a low opinion of village bobbies.
"Fantastic," was Somerville's first comment, and it was said without admiration.
"That's been my feeling all along," George admitted, "but the evidence is stacking up."
"What evidence? This?" Somerville tapped the pill-bottle with his finger, knocking it over.
"It says atropine. That's a poison, isn't it?"
"It's a medicine."
"What for?"
"Bellyache." Somerville took a textbook from the shelf behind him, leafed through the pages, and started reading. " 'Medicinal uses: the relief of gastrointestinal spasm and biliary and renal colic. Prescribed orally in doses of five hundred micrograms three times a day, increasing if required to up to two milligrams daily.'"
"I reckon if you take enough, it's poison," George said.
"Take enough of anything and it's poison. It depends on the dose."
"What about the hyoscine? There was hyoscine there. That's a killer, I know. Crippen killed his wife with it."
Somerville turned a few more pages and read out," 'Hyoscine, also known as scopolamine. Widely used in the treatment of travel sickness.' " He shut the book. "Your Mr. Sands found the rector's medical supplies."
George shot him a rebellious look. "I don't think so."
Somerville sighed and glanced up at the clock. "Listen. What have we got on this jerk? He calls himself Otis Joy, and it may not be his real name. So what? People are allowed to change their names."
"But the real Otis Joy died in a car accident in Canada and the rector claims he was at the same college, Milton Davidson Memorial. It's here." George picked up the copy of the Wiltshire Times report.
"So he borrowed the name to buff up his image. He's a cool clergyman."
"The point is, they don't recognise his picture at Milton Davidson."
"So?"
"I don't think he studied there. He's a fraud. He took over the identity of a theological student who died and used his papers to get into a British college."
"To become a vicar?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Who can say?" said George. "Something in his past? They wouldn't take someone with a prison record, would they?"
"You're guessing now, George."
"If he really wanted to enter the church, and if he had a … what's the word?"
"Vocation?"
"Right. It's not like other jobs. It's a call from God, or that's what they believe. Nothing is going to stand in his way."
"You can't have it both ways. If he's that committed to religion, he's not going to murder people."
"I thought the same as you until I found out these things," said George. "I've had time to think about him. I reckon I know what makes him tick, and it isn't faith in God. It's the attraction of being a priest. He gets his, kick from stanqing up in the pulpit telling us hdw to live our lives. Doesn't mattfer if he doesn't practise what he preaches. It's power. Respect. It's the best job in the world to him, and he's going to keep it. He got it by trickery and he's going to hang on to it, come what may."
Somerville was still unmoved. "It's not the profile of your average serial killer."
"He's not average in any way."
"I don't buy it, George."
"Are you saying we just ignore all these deaths?"
"They're unrelated."
George was stung by this sweeping dismissal of everything he'd said. Personally he bore no malice against Joy; in fact, he got on well with the man. With a sense of duty he'd put friendship aside and tipped off CID, and now he was being treated like a time-waster. "When they mount up like this, they ought to be taken seriously," he said. "I know I haven't got a lot of evidence, but the man hasn't been investigated. We could easily turn something up."
"Where's the link?" demanded Somerville.
"It's him. He's the link."
"What's the MO, then? You've got a sexton who disappeared into thin air, a Frenchwoman stung by a bee, a bishop who jumps, or was pushed, into a quarry, a church treasurer who swallows amylobarbitone and a jazz freak with a heart attack. Serial killers don't keep changing their MO."
"Maybe this one is the exception. He's clever."
"He'd need to be."
"When every murder is different, you don't connect them."
"You're telling me. And even if you could link Otis Joy to each of them-"
"Which I can," put in George.
"Even if these were unlawful killings with his fingerprints all over them, you've still got to work out why. What's his motive?"
"I couldn't tell you that." admitted George, and added sarcastically. "I'm not in CID."
Somerville's eyes narrowed.
George added rapidly, "But if I was, I'd also be interested in Cynthia Haydenhall's death." It was his last card and not a trump, but worth playing. "She's the woman I identified last night. Missing since a week before Christmas. Went off without telling anyone and didn't turn up for the carol-singing round the village, which she'd told people she'd do. This was Joy's day off. He missed the carol-singing, too. Got back to the village late."
"And her body turns up in the sea?"
"Washed up at Milford early yesterday."
"Signs of violence?"
"Nothing obvious."
"Who was she? A church-goer?"
"Very much so. A regular. Organised the harvest supper. Divorced, with money. Nice cottage. Bit of a busybody, but not unpopular."
"Suicidal?"
"Not the type."
For the first time, Somerville seemed to be wavering. He picked up the little bottle of tablets and stood it where it had been on the desk. "It's another sudden death, I grant you. We'll get nowhere with this woman if no marks are showing."
George remained silent, willing to let the process happen in its own time.
Somerville rubbed the side of his face as if checking whether he'd shaved. "Joy got back late on the day the woman disappeared, you say?"
"Between ten and eleven. It's his day off from his church duties."
"That's all you've got on him? I don't buy it."
"Her car was abandoned in Bournemouth. We can check it for prints."
"His prints? If he's as smart as you say, he won't have left any."
Even George's patience was over-stretched. "Basically, sir, are you saying don't bother?"
"I'm saying if we want to make a case against Joy, we pick a stronger one than this. Is she the only body we have?"