"Smith, Guy N - Sabat 04 - The Druid Connection" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

The fumes were no longer acrid and putrefying to the sweating bald-headed stoker. Indeed, he inhaled them as he might have done the aroma from a roasting joint of Sunday sirloin. A state of timelessness prevailed yet he worked with a zest, for this innocent babe's passage into the beyond must not be delayed.

Finally the dawn came, a grey cold light that crept almost apologetically across the churchyard of St Monica's and revealed a weary old man dressed in torn and smoke-grimed clerical attire scraping the remaining embers of his bonfire into a small heap, inhaling the last wisps of smoke with relish.

And when the fire was finally burned out the Reverend Cleehopes stuck his fork into the soft ground and laughed aloud his satisfaction at a job well done. There was no sign of the man in the bowler hat but doubtless he would be back to inspect, to see that his orders had been carried out- He would be well pleased.

The vicar wandered away - that slow shuffle again - on an aimless circular tour of the tombstones, seeing a briefcase standing in the middle of the path leading to the church steps but not recognising it. It was none of his business.

The sun was rising now, its rays bringing a faint spring warmth to the countryside, playing on that shiny bald head.

Cleehopes was unaware of the stranger's approach until a hand rested on his shoulder and halted his ramblings. He spun round, thought for one moment that it was his companion of the nocturnal hours returned, but instead gazed into unfamiliar features, steely grey eyes and a neat pencil moustache.

'Are you all right, Vicar?' the eyebrows raised slightly.

'But of course,' the clergyman chuckled, then burst into a torrent of laughter. 'I have just completed a cremation, sir. Would you care to come and see for yourself?'

Detective Inspector Groome's spine tingled and he nodded.

'OK, Vicar, lead on. I'd be interested to see what you've been up to all night. The bishop was getting very worried when he realised you hadn't returned. . . '










CHAPTER THREE



'THAT is all I can tell you, Sabat.' Bishop Boyce fingered the wart on his lower lip nervously and decided he didn't like the man seated opposite him one little bit. Self-confident to the point of arrogance and no vestige of respect. He hadn't requested permission to light that rank-smelling Meerschaum pipe, either. The fact that the bishop was smoking a cigar was no excuse for visitors to this study to partake of the pleasures of tobacco. Nevertheless, this man's presence was a necessity now that Vicar Cleehopes had failed in his exorcism and was at this moment babbling incoherently about the importance of cremation in a mental hospital.

Sabat didn't like clergy; his obvious contempt ranged from bishops down to curates. Nevertheless there were times when he was forced to co-operate with them in order to fight against his enemy, the principle of evil made flesh.

Had he not satisfactorily concluded that business of those who sought to resurrect the bones of one who ranked as the devil's henchmen in the years when he walked in human form?' Now yet another form of evil was abroad; one which consumed corpses in unholy cremation and rendered a competent exorcist to a mindless being. And Sabat had known Cleehopes during his own days in the ministry before Mark Sabat had cast off his holy orders and joined the ranks of the SAS.

'Certainly I'll look into this business, Bishop,' Sabat permitted himself a rare smile that seemed to accentuate the three-inch scar down his left cheek, 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.'