Free Resurrectionists by Kim Wilkins Page B

hope we’ll see you again next week?”
    Art nodded and mumbled, then headed towards his car. Of course he would be back next week. The Reverend had been doing this for more years than he could count, and they always came back.
    The Reverend farewelled the last few stragglers and then thankfully took shelter from the cold in the church. He closed the doors behind him, muffling the ringing of the bells, and headed towards the altar to check the collection plate. He doubted that any church in the country could boast such a huge percentage of the parishioners regularly turning up for services, and he challenged even the big churches to fill a collection plate the way he did. A hundred and sixty people – more than half the population –
    had turned up this morning, and all of them had donated at least five pounds.
    Except Art Hayman.
    But he would come round. They always did. In fact, the Reverend knew that if Art had been honest with himself he would have admitted that, in a way, he had known all along. Most citizens of Solgreve, whether they came to church or not, must suspect something. When villagers heard the news that Maria Thorpe’s breast cancer had gone into remission, or that Linda Mercer’s little boy had lived against all odds (though he had to be forcibly removed from intensive care at York), or that Allan Parker had walked again after fifteen years, they knew that this was not an ordinary place. That they were specially blessed in some way.
    Usually, it was finding out about the bodies that bothered them. But no-one was being hurt. The bodies were just bodies – Lester Baines was not under orders to murder anyone. This is what the Reverend explained to people when they came to him, guilty and fearful, to admit that they had “just heard” about the abbey. In low, calm tones the Reverend always managed to convince them that it was all right, and within a few weeks the doubters would be back among the
    congregation, blithely shoving money into the collection plate so that Solgreve would continue to function the way it had for . . . well, for centuries.
    The Reverend sighed as he rolled the money up and pushed it into his pocket. Perhaps the truth wasn’t as innocent as that, really, though he would dearly love to believe it was. He had heard things which might turn an ordinary person’s blood to ice; things which, for a man of faith, were almost too awful to contemplate. But they were also things that weren’t necessarily true, and the Reverend willingly held knowledge at arm’s length. The door at the other end of the church suddenly burst open and Tony Blake walked in, tidy in his police uniform, and wearing a huge grin.
    “Reverend, good news.”
    “Close the door, Tony, it’s freezing.”
    Tony did as asked then walked up between the pews to meet the Reverend halfway.
    “What’s the good news, then?”
    “We think she’s gone.”
    “Sybill’s daughter?”
    “Her granddaughter, Reverend.”
    The Reverend nodded. Keeping track of
    generations was not his strong point. “Convince me.”
    “Elsa Smith saw her waiting at the bus stop yesterday with a suitcase. Elsa watched for the afternoon bus and didn’t see her come back. Last night I went past her place and the lights weren’t on. I checked every half hour or so, but nobody was home. And this morning, I knocked and knocked, but nobody answered. She’s definitely not there any more.”
    Reverend Fowler shook his head. “I hoped for more convincing than that. What if she’s just away for the weekend?”
    “She had a suitcase, Reverend.”
    “Can Elsa Smith tell you how big it was?”
    Tony shook his head. “I didn’t think to ask.”
    The Reverend sat heavily on the end of a pew and considered. “I suppose it’s possible.”
    “I’ve just got a good feeling about it.”
    “Yes, yes, so have I.” The Reverend looked up.
    “But it could be wishful thinking.”
    Tony shrugged. “I’ll keep an eye on the place and let you