The Reluctant Detective (Faith Morgan Mysteries)

by Ockley, Martha

  “Any useful description?”

  Ben shook his head. “The neighbour didn’t get much of a look – she was standing at that window up there.” He pointed over to Di’s house. “With the hedge in the way, she only got a glimpse looking down on the top of his head. Short brown to fair hair. Probably thirties to forties, but she can’t be sure.”

  “Thirties to forties – wouldn’t you expect an opportunistic breakin to be committed by someone younger?” she asked. Ben shrugged.

  “Too early to tell.”

  They joined the others.

  “Can I ask you to make a tour of the house, Mrs Rose, to see if you notice anything missing?” Ben asked.

  For a moment, Faith thought Jessica hadn’t heard him. She stood stock-still, her fair hair bright against her dark coat. Then she nodded her head once, as if confirming something to herself, and led the way into the house.

  They followed her from room to room. The living room, a study, the kitchen and a downstairs bathroom. The cottage was neat. Jessica, it seemed, wasn’t one for clutter. They filed up the stairs in silence. Faith had an illogical desire to giggle. It was such an odd house tour. They peered inside a bright guest room with polished board floor and sunflower yellow accents. Nothing. No sign of any disturbance. Nothing out of place. They came to the master bedroom.

  There was a creamware jug dashed with modernistic slashes in purples and pinks on the bedside table. It was filled with irises. The colours stood out against the room’s limewashed furniture and pale fabrics. Faith had seen that jug before. She’d noticed it when she’d brought Jessica back earlier in the week. It had stood on a windowsill in the hall. There, against the crisp white paint, it had looked good. Here it was out of place, its colours brash in the muted underwater elegance of the bedroom. Jessica must be upset to have done that, she thought.

  The bedding was white with a slim Regency stripe in a pale jade. It was rumpled, the duvet thrown back as if Jessica had just climbed out of it. There was a glint of silver in the creased bottom sheet. Jessica pulled the duvet up over the mess.

  “I didn’t have time to tidy up this morning,” she murmured.

  Ben came up beside her. She watched him, fascinated, as he leaned past her to turn back the cover. He straightened up with a thread of silver hanging from his fingers. It was a chain, and attached to it was a pendant in the shape of a simple fish – the Christian symbol.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  There was a pause – only a fraction of a second.

  “That’s where it was; I thought I’d lost it – the clasp must have broken loose.” Jessica took it from him and folded it into her hand.

  Faith visualized Jessica as she had been the day before – the simple black dress with its scoop neck. She was certain that chain hadn’t been around her neck. She’d never seen it before. Perhaps it’s from Alistair, she thought, and Jessica keeps it under her pillow. That’s why she is embarrassed.

  Jessica led the way to the door.

  “I don’t see anything missing.” Jessica’s voice was a little loud. “Di probably disturbed the intruder on his way in, and he didn’t manage to get anything.”

  “The witness described the man as climbing out of the window.” Ben contemplated her gravely.

  Jessica flushed under his gaze. She looked away, and led them down the stairs.

  “Well, I can’t see anything. I have window locks – it’s my fault; I stopped using them. I can secure the window. I shall be more careful in future. I shall be fine.”

  She had reached the bottom of the staircase. She paused, looking back up at them. She seemed anxious to be rid of them. What’s she worried about? Faith wondered.

  Ben was lifting his eyebrows in his most quizzical expression.

  “I…I’ve been told the police don’t have much chance of catching a casual burglar like this,” Jessica murmured.

  “But we still make the attempt, Mrs Rose,” Ben responded blandly.

  A policewoman came to the front door. She seemed vaguely amused.

  “We’ve found another witness, sir.”

  “Who?”

  The policewoman took them outside. A small boy, maybe eleven years old, stood holding a bicycle.

  “This is Richard Shelley,” the policewoman said. “He lives at number nineteen, across the way. Richard, this is the inspector in charge of the case – Inspector Shorter.”

  The side of Richard’s face was bruised and swollen. Faith had a sudden lurch of alarm then she suppressed it. How cynical had she become, to think of abuse the moment she saw a bruise on a child? The boy’s eyes and hair shone. His clothes were clean and of good quality. Ben acknowledged him with a nod.

  “Why aren’t you in school?”

  “Been to the dentist,” Richard responded confidently. He didn’t seem in the least wary of adults.

  “What happened to you?” Faith asked.

  “George B and me we was practising hammer-throwing at break – with our bags. His strap broke.” Richard enthusiastically pantomimed an object hitting him in the face. “And it hit me full on!”

  “Poor you! That must’ve hurt,” Faith exclaimed sympathetically.

  “Broke my tooth,” Richard told her proudly.

  “Did you keep the piece?” she enquired. The corner of Ben’s mouth twitched.

  Richard nodded.

  “Got it in a matchbox. It’s in my bedroom. Want to see?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “So what can you tell us about what you saw earlier?” Ben resumed control of the conversation. “You were riding your bike?”

  “That way,” Richard pointed down the street, “and I heard this car drive off really fast. The tyres screeched.”

  “What did it look like?”

  “I didn’t see it exactly.”

  “You didn’t see it?”

  “There was the hedge.”

  “But you heard it.”

  “Yeah. It sounded like it needed a tune-up; it wasn’t running right. I think the timing was out,” he pronounced with an authoritative air.

  “The timing?” Ben queried with a straight face.

  “Or something. It was making a noise.” Richard made a throaty noise, a cross between a growl and a cough. “Like that.”

  Behind them, Jessica was restless. One moment she was picking at the lapel of her coat, the next she was biting the edge of her thumb.

  “Would you prefer to go and wait with Di?” Faith asked her. “The police will be here a bit longer yet.”

  “No. I’ll stay here.” Jessica went back inside the house and sank down onto a chair in the living room. “You really don’t need to stay,” she said sharply. She glanced up at Faith. “It’s been a long day.” Her mouth moved in a shadow of a smile.

  Faith realized just how tired she was herself. She’d had enough. She wanted to get home and have a cup of tea and some solitude.

  “If you’re sure? You have my number if you need anything.”

  Jessica nodded. Faith left her there, sitting in her straight-backed chair, her fingers twisting together in her lap.

  Ben was sitting in his car, talking on the radio. Faith told the policewoman she was leaving and got into her car. A boxy black jeep had drawn up in the street. Andy Baine got out, notebook in hand. He called out.

  “Reverend Morgan! If you have a moment…”

  That’s all she needed. She kept her head down and fumbled her key into the ignition. The engine purred into life. Andy Baine returned to his own car.

  She wasn’t sure what happened next. Her car leapt forward and she swung the steering wheel, heading out into the road. There was a loud bang and the sound of breaking glass.

  The black and chrome nose of the jeep was towering over the side of her little blue car. She felt fresh air on her face. Across the metal of her oddly canted bonnet, she could see Andy Baine’s face through the starred glass of his windscreen. He looked outraged. Her hands seemed locked onto the steering wheel in fro
nt of her. She looked down at them. With a great effort she peeled the fingers of her right hand open and turned off the ignition. Silence hummed in her head. There was glass everywhere and her neck hurt. She put a hand up to her forehead. Her fingers touched wet. There was blood on her hand.

  The car door was wrenched open. Ben was crouching in the gap. He seemed to be saying something urgent. She was glad to see him.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Are you all right?” He reached out and cupped her face with his hands, looking into her eyes. She could see the charcoal ring around his iris. She’d always envied him his lashes. They were way too good for a man.

  She wriggled cautiously, testing out her limbs and neck. All present and correct – just about.

  Ben was holding a white handkerchief. He dabbed her forehead. His touch was gentle.

  “It’s just a scratch. You’ll be OK,” he said. “Out you come…”

  She swung her legs obediently out of the car and he helped her up. She leaned into him. He was nice and steady. He brushed pellets of shattered glass from her skirt.

  “My car!” Faith almost cried. The pretty sky-blue bonnet was crumpled and the windscreen was gone. The front left wheel leaned into the road at an odd angle. Andy Baine stood on the pavement with the policewoman and her colleague on either side. His habitual confidence seemed to have taken a knock.

  “Journo! What the hell was he thinking?” Ben cursed.

  Faith flinched. His grip on her upper arm was uncomfortable. She was startled by his anger.

  “Come on. I’m taking you home before I…” He steered her away.

  “But the car…” Faith couldn’t take her eyes off it.

  “Leave your insurance details with the PC and they’ll get it sorted.”

  The policewoman approached them.

  “Sir – what…”

  Ben cut her short.

  “I don’t want to deal with him,” he said emphatically. “Charge him if you can, but I’m taking Ms Morgan home.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  THEY PARKED IN FRONT OF RUTH’S plastic-coated front door. Faith felt too tired to move. She ached. Ben opened the passenger door.

  “Out you come.” He hauled her to her feet. She let him take charge, resisting the urge to bury her face in his jacket. “Where are the keys?”

  She found them in her bag. He took them from her, opened the door and followed her in.

  “OK. Where does big sister keep the booze? We need a drink.”

  It didn’t seem real. Ben was standing here in Ruth’s dinky little front room. He moved towards the kitchen.

  “I’ll just have tea,” she said, going after him.

  Ben filled the kettle, and she watched him opening cupboards and drawers. He produced two mugs, and dropped tea bags into each. In the past, he’d have had a beer, and she appreciated the show of solidarity.

  “Sit.”

  She flopped onto the sofa as the kettle boiled and he made the tea, handing a mug to her. Ben sat beside her and blew across the top of his.

  “I’ve an appointment with the bishop in the morning.”

  She blinked. But poor Bishop Anthony had so much to deal with already.

  “Why?”

  “Pesticide.”

  The cogs in her brain struggled to mesh.

  “You don’t seriously think…?”

  “Check everything. I’ve got to follow the pesticide.”

  She remembered what Luke McIvor had told them about decanting a bottle of pesticide for the bishop’s roses. She saw Alison Beech averting her red-rimmed eyes when she spoke to her hours earlier. Could she know something? She shook her head. It was absurd.

  “But there is no possible motive that might involve Bishop Anthony,” she exclaimed irritably. It felt good to have a legitimate outlet for the loose energy swirling through her.

  “Offended that Ingram was letting the side down in some way…?” Ben suggested. She could tell he wasn’t convinced.

  “That’s reaching!” she scoffed. “You’re not seriously telling me you’d entertain the idea for one minute that Bishop Beech might have murdered Alistair Ingram?”

  Ben gazed back at her blandly. He was just being stubborn. He never did like to back down.

  “So who’s your favourite, then? Dazzle me.”

  That was bullish, even for him. Was he being deliberately annoying? She took a sip of tea.

  “What’s been bugging me…”

  “Ye-es,” prompted Ben facetiously.

  She ignored him, absorbed in her own line of thought.

  “It was the combination of Ingram’s heart problem and the poison that killed him – not the pesticide alone. So can we assume the poisoner knew about his heart?”

  “If they meant to kill him.”

  “Perhaps,” she waved his objection aside, “but if you assume the intention was to kill…”

  Beside her, she felt Ben shift his position. He was watching her think.

  “It was Pat Montesque who first mentioned Ingram’s dicky heart to me almost the moment we met…”

  Ben inclined his head in a slow nod.

  “Planting doubts about his health.” Faith recalled Pat’s expression that first day. He looks wonderfully well, but… “She also mentioned finances. In her first few sentences she said he had a ‘dicky heart’ and he was good with finances.” She sat up. “Did you know that Ingram was involved in a financial fraud just before he made his career change to the church? Well,” she corrected herself, trying to be fair, “tangentially at least.”

  She scanned Ben’s face, trying to read his expression. Was she reporting old news?

  “That case went to court,” he responded coolly. “There was nothing to suggest Alistair Ingram was anything but an innocent bystander.”

  She should have known. Ben was always thorough. She didn’t want to give up so easily.

  “One of the congregation told me that a few years back Pat had financial troubles. What if Pat was one of the victims of the fraud somehow – or knew something about it?”

  “Blackmail? For what? Ingram was a witness for the prosecution in that case. He helped bring the fraudsters to account. Just because she knew about his dodgy heart, Mrs Montesque, churchwarden and respected pillar of the community, planted poison in the communion wine to kill a Good Samaritan? Really?”

  He was laughing at her. Faith flushed with annoyance. He didn’t have to be that dismissive. She wasn’t aware of the details of the case. She’d only had rumours to work with; she didn’t have his access to legal archives. She took an angry gulp of scalding tea and regretted it.

  She thought of Sue’s passing reference to Pat blossoming after the death of her invalid husband. What if Little Worthy green was sheltering a serial poisoner?

  “Oh, come on!” Ben’s derision broke in on her musings. “You’re supposed to be a good judge of character! You don’t really see that woman as a murderer?”

  Faith thought of Pat’s defence of Don when the photographer was intrusive outside the church, and the compassion on her face as she watched him walk behind his father’s coffin. Did she really think that badly of Pat Montesque? She wasn’t certain of anything any more.

  “All right,” she admitted crossly. “But I still think Ingram’s mysterious visits to Pat’s house on the green are worth looking into.”

  “What’s that?” He sounded interested now. She felt a smidgen of unworthy satisfaction.

  “It was something I was told by a member of the congregation. Alistair Ingram used to call in on Pat at her home – always at the same time.”

  “She was his churchwarden.”

  “And so was Fred. But he wasn’t at those meetings.”

  “Maybe they were friends.”

  “Maybe she was blackmailing him,” she shot back.

  He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees. “For what? Alistair Ingram comes up squeaky clean.” He finished his tea and put down the mu
g. “There was something not right about Mrs Rose today, though.”

  “Up in the bedroom?” asked Faith eagerly.

  “You picked up on it?”

  “It was those flowers,” Faith agreed, her thoughts tumbling out. “The jug – the colours clashed. It was all wrong – Jessica has way too much good taste for that. It wasn’t like her at all.”

  “What jug?” Ben frowned at her. “It was the pendant. Mrs Rose said she’d lost it – that the clasp had broken. But there was no damage to the clasp. The chain was fastened. It couldn’t have fallen off – so what was it doing there?”

  “I thought perhaps it was a love token from Alistair Ingram – that’s something she might keep under her pillow,” she suggested.

  He pulled a face. He always had been uncomfortable with sentimentality.

  “Love token!” he joked. “You’ve been watching too many period dramas.” He leaned back, loosening his tie. He stretched out his legs. He looked thinner than she remembered him.

  “Have you been losing weight? Are you eating properly?” she asked without thinking. She was caught by the directness of his gaze.

  “Why do you care?”

  She hadn’t meant to get intimate.

  “You know I care about you,” she murmured, trying to make light of it.

  He wouldn’t look away.

  “Yeah?”

  She didn’t know what to say. He relented.

  “I eat. As it happens,” he got up from the sofa in one fluid movement without using his hands, “I am starving right now.”

  He went into the kitchen where Ruth had a selection of takeaway menus pinned up by the fridge. Faith found she was mesmerized by the line of his back.

  “Pizza?”

  Probably a bad idea. Her stomach growled. But she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten all day.

  He took off his jacket, and picked up the phone. He cradled the receiver against his shoulder as he hung his coat over the back of a dining chair and tugged the shoulders straight. It was such a familiar Ben gesture. He was careful about his clothes.

  “Pepperoni and peppers, right?”

  “You hate peppers.”

  “But you don’t.”

  He finished the call and put the phone down.