The Advent of Murder (A Faith Morgan Mystery) Page 12

  “Cranberry juice sounds great, thanks,” she said.

  “So is this new squeeze of yours coming down?” Ben was teasing her. Out of the corner of her eye, Faith caught the puzzled look on Harriet’s face; presumably Ben hadn’t filled her in on their past relationship.

  “About that…” Faith’s back was to the stairs. She saw Ben stiffen as he looked beyond her.

  “Mr Postlethwaite,” he said, with a stare that could cut glass. Faith didn’t dare move. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion. She felt Jim arrive beside her. In that moment she was glad of his solid presence. He stood close, almost as if they were a couple.

  “Jim is bringing his choir to sing at Midnight Mass at St James’s.” Her voice was a notch too high. “Being new to the area, he doesn’t know many people. So I brought him to meet Sandy and Peter.” She flashed a smile at Sandy. Peter’s young wife wore the anxious frown of a hostess watching her carefully planned dinner derail. “Jim – this is Ben.”

  Jim Postlethwaite didn’t flinch. He leaned forward with confidence. Faith watched, fascinated, as the pair of them gripped hands. She could see the tendons flexing under Ben’s skin.

  “Detective Inspector Ben Shorter, isn’t it? We’ve met before. How’s the investigation going?”

  “I can’t discuss that,” Ben answered flatly.

  “Of course,” Jim acknowledged with a polite smile.

  “I think we should all sit down.” Sandy waved both hands at them as if she were trying to shepherd unruly children. “Peter, get everyone settled and I’ll fetch the starters.”

  “Let me help.” Faith darted after her into the safe haven of the kitchen, grateful to extract herself, however temporarily, from the field of tension.

  Sandy had set out their plates in two neat rows on the countertop, a bowl of garnish beside them. She retrieved warm cheese tartlets from the oven, manoeuvring them expertly to the plates with a spatula before draping each one delicately with an artistic curl of garnish.

  “Faith – what is going on?” she asked in a low voice, as she deposited the spatula and oven tray in the sink.

  “Sandy, I am so sorry! I made a mistake. I didn’t realize it was a dinner party with Ben Shorter or I never would have brought Jim. Because – you know the murder victim of the case Peter and Ben are on? Well, he was in Jim’s choir.” Sandy’s guileless blue eyes widened with shock.

  “He’s not a… a suspect?” she asked.

  “No! Of course not. I would never—”

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” Sandy said. “Oh well, never mind – Ben Shorter’ll just have to get over himself. He can be a bit too sticky at times.” That was an understatement, but then, Sandy didn’t realize how well Faith knew him. “Jim was quite charming upstairs with the boys; they’ve really taken to him,” Sandy smiled reassuringly at Faith. “I think he’s a nice man. Well, there’s nothing to be done right now. We’ll just have to get through it. You take those and I’ll take these.”

  Balancing three plates, she pushed the kitchen door open with her hip and sailed through. Faith followed less confidently; she wasn’t used to carrying three plates at once.

  She made it to the table safely and distributed her starters. Peter had taken the head of the table. Ben and Harriet were sitting across from Jim and a spare chair with her name on it. The battle lines were drawn. She dropped into her seat, avoiding Ben’s confrontational stare.

  “So how are things, Faith?” Sandy asked her, as she picked up her fork. “I know how desperately busy it gets for you this time of year. Did you find a donkey?”

  “Why would Faith want a donkey?” Peter asked gamely.

  “For the Christmas pageant, darling – you know. Mary and Joseph have to have a proper donkey.” Out of the corner of her eye, Faith saw Harriet put her hand on Ben’s thigh as she whispered something to him. How rude.

  “Well, actually, thanks to Jim – I think I’ve found one.” Faith smiled gratefully at her companion. He grinned at her sideways. He didn’t appear to hate her, despite her dropping him in this.

  “Glad to help,” he said. “So Ms Whittle’s come through?”

  “Not yet confirmed, but I am quietly confident. He’s called Banjo,” she said, and forked a piece of tartlet into her mouth. The pastry crust melted on the tongue.

  “Banjo?” Ben asked, as if the name had snagged his waning interest.

  “The donkey,” said Sandy, as Faith was chewing. “For the Christmas pageant.”

  “Sandy, these tartlets are divine,” Faith said. Sometimes she wished she could cook – but it took so much time and practice to get really good at it. Across the table, Harriet echoed her approval in a murmuring sound, her eyes on her hostess, though Faith noted that most of her tartlet remained in bits on her plate.

  “So, Harriet, what do you do?” Jim asked.

  “I am a forensic pathologist.”

  “Do you work with Peter and Ben here?”

  “Sometimes. Yes.” The burning look the redhead gave Ben was hardly colleague-like. “At the moment we are working together on a murder case.”

  “The death of Lucas Bagshaw?”

  “Yes.” Harriet flicked a startled look at Ben. He was concentrating on clearing his plate.

  “He was in my choir,” Jim said. Faith thought she detected a hint of stubbornness in his voice, as if he wanted to show Ben he would talk about the investigation, whether the policeman wished to or not. He took a sip from his glass of water and replaced it precisely in the damp circle it had left on the tablecloth. He smiled a friendly smile at Faith. “We seem to be surrounded by law enforcement.”

  “Didn’t you know? Faith used to be in the police force too,” Ben’s deep voice curled across the table. Faith could almost feel it vibrate the air. Jim swung to face her. He was keeping the social performance going, but she read the shock in his eyes and something else – the thought that she had deliberately deceived him.

  “She didn’t tell me.” The warmth had gone from Jim’s face.

  “Nor me, neither!” Sandy exclaimed from her other side. Faith felt trapped. Dear, sweet Sandy was staring at her as if she had suddenly displayed horns. “Why on earth did you never tell me, Faith?”

  Why did Ben have to do this? Faith knew she should have told Sandy before, but they had always met on church ground with the boys there. The opportunity had never arisen.

  “It never came up,” she said, inadequately. “It was a long time ago. But yes, that’s where we met, Ben and I. I was a cadet at Hendon, the police college, and he had been sent back for a refresher course – sensitivity training, wasn’t it, Ben?” He was leaning back in his chair, his eyes bright. His lips twitched up reflexively at one corner, then he became impassive once more.

  “I knew you and Ben had met before, but…” Oh dear! Sandy sounded hurt. Faith wished they could talk this through in private. This just wasn’t the time. “I thought it was just because you both grew up locally. I didn’t realize you had worked together.” The emphasis she put on the word implied something else – Sandy was catching up fast.

  “No, we didn’t know each other here. We met in London.” Faith’s words were measured. Harriet was watching her with a cat-like look on her face. How much worse could this night get?

  “So what happened to make you change careers?” Jim made the question sound as if he was genuinely interested.

  “She found God,” Ben cut in derisively. Harriet snapped her head toward him. He drained half his wine glass, not looking at her.

  “Is that a problem for you?” Jim asked him directly. Bless him! The question was right on, but Faith wished she could warn him – it really wasn’t a good idea to poke the bear like that.

  Ben picked up the wine bottle. He stretched easily across the table to fill Jim’s glass. Jim put his hand over it to stop him.

  “I am on water, thank you. Driving.”

  “Of course.” Ben smiled, but not with his eyes. Faith wasn’t sure if Jim recognized
the test or not. Ben never touched a drop when he drove, and he expected the same of others. He sat back and refilled Harriet’s glass. Faith imagined a meter in his brain ticking up suspicions. If his hands hadn’t been in plain sight, she would suspect him of running checks on his BlackBerry under the cover of the tablecloth.

  “So – Jim. What brought you to your career choice? Choirmaster for disadvantaged youth,” Ben smiled, with a hint of derision.

  Faith glared at him, wishing her legs were long enough to kick him under the table. Ben ignored her.

  “I was a music scholar at Cambridge,” said Jim. “Trained as a teacher. I’ve always enjoyed music and teaching.”

  “And how long have you been doing it?”

  “A couple of years. You’ve always been a police officer?”

  Ben nodded slowly, then took another sip of water. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Always.”

  They survived. Faith hardly knew how. Sandy’s food helped. She was a great cook. Between them, Faith, Jim, Peter and Sandy bravely kept the conversation going with occasional loaded interjection from Ben.

  She watched for her moment. The red-haired pathologist went upstairs to use the bathroom, and Faith cornered Ben by the coats.

  “You are horrible sometimes, Ben Shorter,” she hissed. “What are you playing at?”

  “Me? What the devil do you think you were doing bringing him here?”

  “I was intending to have a nice supper with friends.”

  “He is not a friend.”

  “Not yours, maybe – but my social life is none of your business.”

  “Do me a favour! This is not about your social life. This is about an active –” Faith could see Ben’s anger in the stiffness of his jaw; he forced his words out between his teeth, “I repeat active – murder investigation.”

  The justice of his point disarmed her.

  “I didn’t realize you’d be here,” she said. “I thought it was just a supper with the pair of us and Sandy and Peter, members of my congregation…” He still towered over her, but his shoulders relaxed a fraction. Staring him down at this angle gave her a crick in the neck. “Anyway, we haven’t discussed anything pertinent in his hearing,” she carried on in her most brisk and professional tone, “and he isn’t one of your suspects…” She sensed his stillness. Her throat went dry. “He isn’t, is he?”

  “Not at the moment,” Ben said. “But it’s early days.” He took a step back and ran his fingers through his hair, as he used to do when he felt baffled by their relationship. “But really, Fay, you know better than this. You’ve put Peter right in it.”

  He was quite right; she had.

  “I am sorry!” she said. “It was an accident – a case of cross-communication. What can I do about it now?”

  He touched her shoulder lightly, and his face softened. “Just keep your distance, will you? At least until this is done? With luck this won’t have consequences.”

  “That was fun,” Faith said. Jim made no response and put the car into gear, focusing on backing out of Sandy and Peter’s drive. She tried again. “Well, now at least you know all my deep dark secrets.” Jim snorted – and not in an entirely convinced way.

  Five minutes later, defeated by a series of monosyllabic answers, Faith gave up her attempts at conversation. She watched the street lights chasing over Jim’s profile. He had moved far away from her. She hunkered down in her coat. The roads were glassy with ice and Jim drove cautiously, leaning forwards toward the windscreen. At last he drew up at her vicarage door. He kept the engine running, his hands on the wheel.

  “So goodnight, then,” she said. He dropped his head before he turned his face toward her. His expression was closed.

  “Goodnight.”

  “Do you want to come in and talk about it?”

  “I need to get the car back. Borrowed it from a friend.”

  She sat there feeling sad. She didn’t want to leave it like this. All at once he dropped the hand nearest to her from its grip on the wheel, leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips. It was sweet. He sighed.

  “It’s certainly complicated,” he said.

  “I know.”

  They stayed like that, inches apart for a moment, then she got out of the car and went in, closing her front door behind her.

  CHAPTER

  12

  The light on the old-fashioned answer-phone was blinking, and the digital display read “22”.

  “You’re not answering the phone, then?” she said. Faith stood in the doorway to the barn Oliver Markham had converted into his joinery workshop. It felt cold by the door. She suspected her nose was red. Oliver Markham sat on a stool by his workbench, a tubby yellow Labrador lying at his feet. His thick, unruly hair looked uncombed, and underneath his wax jacket, his shirt hung out untidily below his jumper.

  “Is this about the church Christmas tree?” he asked in a flat voice.

  “What about the Christmas tree? Are you having a problem with your supplier?” Faith felt a pulse of panic. If Oliver couldn’t produce the tree, where was she going to find another 15-footer this close to Christmas? He looked at her under his heavy eyebrows.

  “You still want me to fulfil the order?”

  “Of course I do.” Faith was puzzled. Oliver frowned at her as if she was being obtuse. He gestured toward the battered answer-phone with its blinking light.

  “Word’s got around,” he said. She looked about at the machines, the piles of wood and the floor covered with fresh blond shavings; then she noticed that there was very little work out on the benches.

  “People have been cancelling their orders?”

  Oliver snorted. “And some.”

  “Oliver, I am so sorry!” He looked so forlorn sitting there. His bitch got up and put her head on his knee, staring up at him with anxious brown eyes. He tugged her silky ear between his fingers. Faith pulled the door shut behind her and walked over; she crouched down to pet the dog.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Name’s Podge. She’s my daughter’s dog. Started out as Hodge, but then she grew up big-boned, didn’t you, girl?” He shook her muzzle gently. Podge licked his hand and then, to be polite, Faith’s cheek.

  “She’s a friendly girl.”

  “So you still want the tree?”

  “Absolutely.” Faith nodded vigorously. This close to Oliver, she felt perfectly at ease. She sensed no tension or violence in him. Oliver Markham was a big, strong man. If Lucas had faced him in his last moments, he would surely have had defensive wounds. Every nerve in the boy’s body would have been signalling to him to protect himself.

  She thought of Ben’s attitude in her kitchen on Wednesday when he’d told her that they were still checking Oliver’s alibi. He had left her with no impression that Markham still featured in his suspect list. They now knew that the Markham farm was only where Lucas’s body had ended up; he had not been attacked there. In other words, the suspicions concerning Oliver had arisen from insubstantial evidence resting on no more than the cruel accident of circumstance. There was the gunshot incident, but Ben had been a detective long enough not to let himself get carried away with coincidences.

  “Are Julie and the girls back?” Faith asked in concern, horrified at the isolation and damage Oliver’s arrest had caused.

  “They were – but they’re not now.”

  “What happened?”

  “Brought them back on Wednesday but then the girls’ so-called friends were saying all this stuff and it upset them… Julie’s taken them over to her mother’s.”

  “So you’re on your own here?”

  “I thought I’d have work to do…” He looked around at the still workshop. She remembered Pat’s gossip about Oliver Markham’s business having money troubles. This wasn’t going to help.

  “Haven’t the police finished checking your alibi?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “I am sure it won’t be long.”

  “You think that’ll end it?” h
e said fiercely. “People suspect me of being a murderer, don’t they? I didn’t even know this kid.”

  “I think he went to your daughters’ school.”

  “Did he?” he shrugged. “They never said.” He stared down blindly. “I can’t get my head around it.” He stood up abruptly. “Walk? Podge needs to go out.”

  The sun had come out, melting the ice from the paths and sparkling on the snow-covered fields. They walked out down to the river, Podge trotting along beside them, her nose to the ground. They found themselves back where it had all started. The ground was trampled, but the crime scene paraphernalia had been cleared away. Oliver picked a stray piece of police tape from some scrub and mechanically tucked it in his pocket.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t see him,” he said staring down the bank. “Do you know anything about the boy?”

  “His name was Lucas Bagshaw, he was sixteen – almost seventeen – years old. He grew up around here. His mother worked as a carer for Marjorie Davis, among others. Maybe you’ve met her at church?”

  “That shrewd old bird who used to work in the civil service?”

  “That’s Marjorie.”

  “How’s his mother doing?”

  “She died in February this year.”

  Oliver screwed his eyes tight shut a moment. “That poor kid! What about his father?”

  “No one knows. He was never a part of Lucas’s life.”

  There were the holes for the tent pegs where the forensic tent had stood. Markham took a couple of steps. He stared down at the spot where Lucas’s body had been examined.

  “I was on the tractor,” Oliver recited as if he was trying to get it straight in his own mind. “It’s a noisy old beast. I wanted to clear the debris brought down by flood, and I needed to think.”

  “What about?”

  “Family stuff.” He glanced at her. She was dressed in the dog collar today. She tried to recede behind it.

  “What’s going on, Oliver?” He bent down and picked up a straight piece of stick and threw it. It sped through the sky in an arc. Podge, showing an unexpected turn of speed, raced after it, ears flapping. “Are you and Julie having problems?” she prompted. His dark eyes looked at her, suspicious beneath the shelter of his thick eyebrows. She shrugged to placate him. “It’s just that I know Julie has to work away a lot. That can’t be easy.”