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a white blaze in a sallow complexion. 'I'll need to work unhindered, though,
and in my own way. Perhaps you would be good enough to inform this Detective
Inspector Groome accordingly.'
Bishop Boyce nodded, drew heavily on his cigar, and studied the other with
reluctant admiration. This man was as hard as they came, one hundred and
eighty pounds of sheer solid muscle. Aquiline features made all the more
fierce by that vivid cheek scar and sallow complexion. His height was
deceptive when he was seated but when standing he was well over six feet.
Black hair falling to the collar of his dark corduroy suit. It wasn't a suit
if you looked more closely; the jacket was a shade or two lighter than the
trousers. In some ways he reminded Boyce of a western gunfighter, only a
thousand times more dangerous. By repute Sabat was not a man to be trifled
with; when you met him you realised that the stories you'd heard weren't just
wild rumours.
Sabat had once been in the priesthood; the very thought had Bishop Boyce
biting hard on his cigar. There was nothing Christian about this guy. Rumour,
again, had it that Sabat had undergone a youthful homosexual experience which
had driven him to the Church to seek repentance. Instead he'd found a burning
hatred and had cast off the cloth in favour of an SAS uniform; a potential
killer seeking a means by which to commit legalised murder.
There'll be a fee,' Sabat's eyes hardened like chips of dark granite. An
oblique jibe that he savoured.
'I rather thought there would be,' the bishop regarded him coldly. 'I've never
had to pay an exorcist before.'
'It might not be a straightforward exorcism.'
'What d'you mean?'
'You haven't told me about Bishop Avenson,' Sabat inclined his head towards
the oil-painting which hung to his left. 'Whatever's going on it goes back as
far as 1742, maybe a lot further. Avenson was found all burned up, just like
Owen. And your last exorcist was discovered with an obsession for bonfires.
We're not up against just an ordinary spirit. Whatever it is, it's dangerous
and I don't risk my life, maybe worse, for nothing.'
Boyce started visibly. Damn this Sabat fellow, he'd been researching the
history of St Monica's. The prying type.
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'I didn't think Avenson's fate could possibly have anything to do with what
happened in 1982, nearly two hundred and fifty years later.'
'Nothing can be overlooked. I'd say there's a direct link. Tell me, Bishop,
this guy Cleehopes, what had he been burning on the bonfire?'
'Just grass and weeds. We had a mowing contractor in to tidy up the churchyard
about a fortnight ago and he'd left a pile of cuttings. Cleehopes apparently
set fire to them.'
'Nothing else?'
'Not as far as I know. The police sifted through the ashes but they never told
me they'd found anything.'
'Well, I'll check with Groome anyway. Now, the fee, Bishop. I work for five
hundred a week plus expenses.'
'Daylight robbery,' Boyce's thick lips tightened, the end of his cigar glowing
red.
'Not when you take the risks I take. However, if you think I'm too expensive .
. .
The bishop pulled a drawer open, took out the diocesan expenses cheque book.
His orders had come from a higher authority, from Westminster itself where he
had been informed that Sabat had worked for the Church before. It was neither
Bishop Boyce's own money nor his place to argue. Hastily he scribbled out a
cheque, tore the perforation and slid the oblong of yellow paper across the
desk. T just hope you get it all settled up in a week, Sabat.'
'So do I,' Sabat smiled humourlessly beneath his heavy moustache. 'I'll need
accommodation, too.'
'You can have the use of the curate's house,' the bishop's eyes hooded. 'And
I'll be glad if you'll be as unobtrusive as possible. The newspapers have gone
to town on this business and this kind of publicity doesn't do the Church any
good.'
'You won't even know I'm around,' Sabat smiled again and turned on his heel.
After the door had closed behind his visitor, Bishop Boyce drew heavily on his
cigar. Sabat made him uneasy; the tall dark man wasn't like other men, more
like a hunting beast of prey and you just hoped it wasn't you he was after.
Because if he was he'd run you down for sure.
There was a frown on Sabat's face as he made his way through the palace to
where his silver Daimler stood sedately. He didn't like Boyce and that wasn't
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