"Guy N. Smith - Sabat 4 - The Druid Connection" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

banking. If you were clever enough you got to the top and then other
opportunities opened up to you . . . like that tract of Sand adjoining St
Monica's churchyard. That fool Owen might have had the courtesy to get himself
burned up somewhere else. The last thing the bishop wanted was for the police
to start nosing around too much just there.

Back at the palace he moved swiftly in spite of his bulk, strode down the long
carpeted corridor to his study with an ease reminiscent of his athletic days
at university. By the time he reached his desk, lifted the telephone receiver
off its cradle and began to dial, his body was damp with sweat but that had
nothing to do with his recent exertions.

The call was answered almost immediately at the other end, a girl's voice
informing him that he was connected to the offices of the county council.

'Get me the Planning Officer' he barked, and waited again, drumming his
fingers nervously on the desktop.

'Stone speaking.' Clipped tones that reminded him of that inspector in the
cemetery. Damn it, the police were getting on his nerves.

'Boyce here.' Impatient, chewing on the soggy butt of that cigar which had
gone out on the journey back here.

'Bishop, why . . . '

'Look, I'll have to be-brief. We've run into a bit of bother and at the moment
I don't know what it's all about, but suffice to say that the police are
swarming all over our patch of land.'

'Oh, my God!'

'Don't panic. They can't possibly suspect that we set up this deal with Darren
Hurst but there's no knowing how far they will pry into it. Just be warned,
don't have any documents accessible which could turn their attention to us.
Get me?'

'Sure, sure. But why the hell are the police at St Monica's?'

'A curate's somehow got himself roasted to a cinder.'

'Jesus Christ! How?'

'I don't know but doubtless tomorrow's editions of the more sensational papers
will come up with a few theories. But we don't have to let that bother us.
Completion date for the sale is only seven weeks away. It looks as though
there might be an appeal by these damned villagers but I'm looking to you to
squash that. This curate, Owen, the one who got himself all frizzled up,
chaired a meeting at the village hall last night. Mannering should have gone
but he chickened out. I'm just wondering if this is some crazy way of getting