The Reluctant Detective (Faith Morgan Mysteries)

by Ockley, Martha

  “Was it a two-way relationship?” she voiced the question out loud. “Were there others – other letters?”

  “Not in plain sight.” Peter shrugged. “We didn’t have a warrant.”

  Searching without a warrant would make any evidence inadmissible in court. Ben was a stickler for details like that. He prided himself on delivering a sound chain of evidence to the prosecution service.

  “The letter wasn’t finished,” Peter explained. “That’s why it was out on the desk.”

  “What did Trevor say about it?”

  “He wouldn’t say much about anything – very quiet.”

  Faith had a vision of a silent, sad man living alone in the midst of that rundown farm. The more she heard, the more she saw Trevor Shoesmith as a vulnerable victim, not a murderer.

  “So – do you think Jessica Rose is helping him?” Peter prompted, leaning across the table towards her. “Shoesmith’s a self-declared atheist. He was never known to set foot in the church. It would make more sense if he had inside help to get the poison in the wine.”

  “Oh no!” Faith thought of Jessica with her sad blue eyes and gentle manner. She knew it was only in films that people like that turned out to be psychos. In real life, very few people had the talent for that level of deception.

  “I just don’t buy any of it!” she exclaimed with more fervour than she’d intended. “Trevor as the poisoner, or Jessica helping him. Just think about it! If Trevor the atheist wants to murder the vicar, why on earth would he choose to use communion wine? How many murders – planned murders – have you heard of where the first-time killer chooses to do the deed somewhere unfamiliar? The church is alien territory to Trevor Shoesmith.”

  The more she talked the more passionate she felt, and the more sure she was that she was right.

  “Whoever put the poison in the wine knew about the ritual and habits of that church – when the wine was decanted, who would drink it first – and how to get hold of the keys to get in. Trevor lives next to the vicarage. He can watch the vicar go in and out. If he’s going to use poison, isn’t he going to plant something in the man’s kitchen? Leave him some nice fresh poisoned mushrooms on his doorstep or something?”

  Peter put his hands up. “All right! All right! You have your doubts about Shoesmith as a suspect.”

  “Sorry!” Faith apologized, rueful at her outburst. “But you see what I mean?”

  Peter nodded. “I do.” He almost looked convinced. “But the boss is in charge of the case. It’s up to him. He’ll figure it out,” he said, with absolute confidence.

  She felt a twinge of regret. Once she’d felt the same confidence in Ben. Then she’d lost her innocence.

  The face of Richard Fisher squatted in the back of her mind. The features were blurred after all these years, but she could still feel the drag of his desperate nothingness.

  She gave herself a mental shake. She was being unfair to Ben. Richard Fisher belonged to another time, another place. These were different circumstances. They were two very different cases. Ben could ride roughshod, but he was a good investigator – and he believed in justice; she knew he did. In the end, Ben would build his case on facts.

  Peter was watching her with a perplexed look.

  “Where is he now – Trevor Shoesmith?” she asked.

  “Back at his place. We don’t have the evidence to charge him. The boss is working on getting a warrant to search the house. He’s got the RSPCA coming in later today to take away the animals.”

  “That bad?”

  She thought of the pony in the weeds. She wasn’t a horse person but Jessica, apparently, was. According to Pat Montesque, Jessica often went riding at Trevor’s place. That was another piece that didn’t fit. Could gentle Jessica be a fake? Was she likely to overlook cruelty, or be attracted to someone who was deliberately unkind to animals?

  Peter’s face was serious as he contemplated the state of Trevor Shoesmith’s animals.

  “Pretty bad.”

  “I wonder if Trevor Shoesmith’s having a breakdown,” said Faith. “Aren’t you worried about him?”

  “We can’t move any faster.”

  Faith had an overwhelming sense of dread and sadness. This tragedy hadn’t run its course yet. She pushed the thought away.

  “I should get going.” She picked up her bag. “You’ll need to be getting back to the station, and I should look in on Don Ingram.”

  Peter wasn’t paying attention. He looked startled. She followed his gaze over her shoulder.

  Ben was standing in the doorway of the café, glaring at them.

  CHAPTER

  8

  BEN ATE UP THE DISTANCE BETWEEN THEM in long strides. Peter sprang to his feet. Ben was one table away when his phone rang. He stopped dead, a look of annoyance on his face. He flipped his mobile open.

  “Shorter!” His expression changed. Faith knew that look. A lady friend. Ben’s head dropped and he turned away as he listened. The line of his back was expressive. Faith heard herself snort. It was very faint. No one else could have heard it.

  The lady friend was probably whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Faith imagined a twenty-something with improbably long legs. Perhaps she was perky, or maybe reproachful.

  Ben grunted monosyllabically. Faith recognized the code. There had been a time when she was the woman on the other end of that call. Then she’d been the one wondering why the man who had felt so close hours previously had assumed such distance. She’d never really learned to live with it.

  Ben murmured something. He snapped the phone shut. He turned back towards them, his posture rigid and his eyes flat.

  “Is this a private meeting, or can anyone join in?”

  Faith was annoyed. He might be cross with her, but it was unprofessional to show it in front of his staff. Peter was looking distinctly uncomfortable. Faith’s chin rose.

  “The sergeant gave me his number,” she said. “I assumed you would be busy.”

  “As is my sergeant,” Ben retorted brusquely.

  Peter looked between them. He cleared his throat.

  “Faith – Ms Morgan…” Ben flicked him a cynical look. “She has information pertinent to the case.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “She saw Mrs Jessica Rose sneaking into the church,” said Peter in a rush.

  Faith grimaced internally at Peter’s choice of words. Surely she hadn’t described Jessica as sneaking – had she?

  “It seems Mrs Rose had come from Shoesmith’s farm,” Peter was saying, “and it looks like she may have dumped something at the church.”

  “Been twitching the net curtains?” Ben said, looking down on her from his great height. “You’ve taken to village life!”

  Faith just managed to stop herself reacting. He’d always had the unerring ability to prod where it hurt. She’d come to St James’s to serve the congregation, not to inform on them. She wanted to stand up, but she wouldn’t give Ben the satisfaction. She deliberately relaxed her tense shoulders, feeling the wooden support of the chair at her back. She gazed at him with what she hoped resembled pleasant detachment.

  And you wonder why I chose to talk to Peter, she thought.

  For a moment, she imagined he’d heard her. The corner of Ben’s mouth twitched. He looked at his sergeant and jerked his head.

  “Brief me,” he said, and took Peter aside.

  She watched as Peter updated his boss in a low voice. She didn’t catch most of it. Ben heard him out without interruption. Throughout he kept his eyes on Faith, as if he were weighing her up from a distance. She began to feel quite hot. Anger built up inside her. She was not going to sit here and take this.

  Just as she was making up her mind to leave, Ben walked back.

  “You’ve got keys?”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “To the church?” he elaborated impatiently.

  Silently she nodded.

  “Come on, then!”

  “What are you talking about?” F
aith exclaimed. He had no right to order her about.

  He quirked an eyebrow. “If you give information to the investigating team, I investigate.”

  She felt such a fool. He was quite right. What did she expect?

  “I’d like to get to it before someone comes along and fouls things up,” he prompted.

  “It’s not convenient; I have other things to do.” She meant to be dignified but it came out as stubborn. Ben waited. Without saying a word, he conveyed his doubt that she did have anything better to do. Faith bit her lip.

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” She grabbed her bag and followed him to the door.

  There, he’d made her blaspheme in front of the sergeant. Ben looked smug. She glared him down. “Don’t say it!” she hissed.

  Ben held the door open for her.

  “I assumed you’d want to come,” he said. His voice was like chocolate. “Shall I drive?”

  She brushed past him.

  “I’ll meet you there,” she snapped, and felt mildly better.

  She was unfamiliar with the lock. It took her two tries to select the right key for the vestry door from the bunch that Fred Partridge had given her. All the while Faith was acutely conscious of Ben’s presence at her shoulder. He had despatched Peter off on some other business. Alone together at last! She tried to appreciate the irony.

  The lock protested and turned. Ben followed her into the musty chill of the vestry. He stood in the patch of light from the open door, pulling on a pair of latex gloves and looking around critically.

  “What sort of size do you think this object was?”

  “I can’t be sure, but something like this?” Faith measured a space between her hands around the size of a four-pint carton of milk.

  “You said she was only in here for a minute or so. It’s likely to be somewhere fairly obvious.”

  He opened a cupboard door. The shelves were stacked with music sheets. He swung the door shut with a smart click and moved onto the next. Faith stood in the middle of the tiled floor. She wasn’t sure what to do. She wondered if anyone had seen them come in.

  She was embarrassed by the idea that she, the newcomer, the interloper, might be discovered by the churchwardens helping the police – in the person of her handsome ex (God help her if they knew that!) – pry into the nooks and crannies of their church. Put that way, it sounded distinctly objectionable.

  Ben was crouched in front of the waist-high cupboard where celebrants would lay out their robes. He looked at her over his shoulder.

  “Not going to help?”

  “Like you said: you’re the one who investigates.”

  He grunted and went on with his search.

  He hauled out a case of wine. Bottles of communion wine. He examined them for a moment without touching. They were unopened, their seals intact. He ran a hand round the back of the cupboard and returned the case. His hands were black. He kicked the door shut as he moved on.

  “Do try to remember that this is a place of worship,” Faith scolded.

  “You know it has to be done,” he responded, irritatingly calm.

  He ran his hands along the shelf above the rail of choir robes and came up with a slingshot, two marbles and a bunch of comics. One was yellowing and brittle. He read the masthead.

  “This one’s 1977. Don’t believe in cleaning things out, do they? But then the Church is all about tradition.”

  She narrowed her eyes at his back.

  He threw her an indulgent glance over his shoulder. “You know, this will go much faster if you help.” A grin flashed on his face, infectious, charming. “And if we find what we’re looking for, maybe you won’t get caught sneaking around like this.”

  Silently, he held out another pair of latex gloves.

  Faith snatched them from him and pulled them on. She opened the vestment wardrobe behind her and joined in the search.

  A few minutes later, they had been through every available hiding place in the vestry. They stood just inside the nave, each within their own space.

  St James’s, Little Worthy wasn’t as large as some churches, but it was quite large enough. Faith’s eyes scanned the pillars and pews with a sinking heart. This could take hours.

  “You’ve lost your instincts.” Ben’s voice was smug.

  “What?”

  He strolled over to an old upright piano pushed back in the shadow of one wall.

  “The first place an old-fashioned burglar would look – if he were the type on the lookout for church silver,” he said. He opened the lid.

  “Don’t be silly,” she scoffed. “They probably use that for choir practice. Put something in there and it’ll foul the strings; make a clunking sound. Someone’s bound to investigate.”

  He took a slim torch out of an inner pocket.

  “Want to bet?” he said, shining the torch inside the case. He turned towards her and beckoned her over with one latex-gloved hand. She crossed over to him and looked in. There, lit up in the torch beam, was a brown paper bag wrapped around something about the right size.

  “It would seem Mrs Rose isn’t musical,” he said.

  Oh Jessica! She thought. What have you got yourself into?

  Ben was dialling his phone.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Get SOCO in. This should give us enough to move on Shoesmith.” He read the look on her face and put his head down bullishly.

  She stared down into the shadowy bowels of the case at the lighter patch that was the paper bag. She couldn’t deny the obvious circumstantial evidence, but the people just didn’t seem to fit the scenario. She was sure that something was badly wrong.

  Ben finished his call.

  “We have to wait until they get here. Damn! Should have kept the sergeant with me,” he muttered.

  She could feel his impatience to be off. He was as restless as a thoroughbred in the starting gate, bristling with energy.

  “What?” he challenged her.

  “You’re so sure Trevor Shoesmith fits the bill?” Faith asked.

  “You’re not?” He stilled, searching her face. “You think I’m making it fit,” he said slowly.

  She didn’t know what to say.

  His expression froze. It was as if a trap door had opened up beneath their feet and they were back somewhere raw and intimate.

  “His name’s not Fisher,” he said in a low voice.

  She felt pierced by his eyes. There was anger behind them, and frustration and pain. Her throat closed. Her insides felt as if they were pushing to climb out of her mouth.

  “I know.”

  “But you thought it.”

  It was true. She had thought of Richard Fisher. She tried to hold still but she couldn’t help glancing down.

  “No.” She faced him squarely, her voice firm. “That was an entirely different case; a different time.”

  “Yes,” he said. “It was.” And he turned his back on her.

  One pace away, he changed his mind and spun back.

  “You’re never going to forgive me for that, are you?” he demanded.

  “It’s not about forgiving you,” Faith protested. “It’s more about…” She swallowed the word she was about to use and substituted another. “…concern.”

  “Tcht!” Ben made an angry, dismissive noise.

  Faith took a step towards him. “You don’t pay enough account to humanity – the faces in the midst of all this; the individual persons.”

  Now she’d made him angry. He seemed to expand with energy and frustration.

  “You know this job! I can’t get all touchy-feely about the…” – he made savage air quotes around the word – “…persons. Do that and you lose your judgment. You make mistakes.”

  “Or you make mistakes because you don’t.”

  She had a sudden comic vision of them facing off like cats in the house of God. Then it didn’t feel so funny.

  “But we’re not talking in general. This is about Trevor Shoesmith,” she said.

&nbs
p; Ben shot her a cynical look.

  “It doesn’t seem to me that he fits with this…” – she waved a hand at the brown paper bag and its contents – “…this circumstantial evidence.”

  Ben snorted derisively. “You’ve never even laid eyes on the man!”

  “But I’ve seen his farm; I’ve talked to people who know him. Everything points to a vulnerable man; a victim, not a murderer.”

  “Victims can pass it on.”

  She had to give him that. Violence and abuse often did breed the same. But then, although Trevor had suffered the trauma of his brother’s death, there had been no murmur of anything else. According to her mother, the Shoesmiths had been an ordinary family that had suffered an extraordinary tragedy.

  Ben was watching her think. His expression was warmer somehow. He cocked an eyebrow in silent query.

  She acknowledged it ruefully.

  “My first sight of Trevor Shoesmith’s land was of a pony standing in a field of weeds.” She had his full attention. No one could listen like Ben, when he chose to focus.

  “Oh, I don’t know!” She spread her hands, appealing for his comprehension. “It was so sad and lonely and pathetic.”

  “And that’s how you see its owner?”

  “Something like that. From what I hear, Trevor Shoesmith is entirely alone. If he isn’t your man, just think what you…” she corrected herself hurriedly, “…the investigation must be putting him through.”

  He was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged.

  “Can’t afford to think about it. I have to follow the evidence.”

  The moment had passed. It was as if he had shrugged his armour back into place. They didn’t speak another word. By the time the scene of crime team arrived five minutes later, they were standing a minimum of ten yards apart.

  A crime scene photographer in overalls took pictures of the parcel in the piano case. Then they lifted it out and set it carefully on a pew for more photographs. Finally, Ben opened up the bag carefully and peered in. He looked up at Faith with the faun-ish expression she remembered so well.