The Advent of Murder (A Faith Morgan Mystery) Page 13

  “That’s part of it.” He paused. “She’s pregnant.” That was a surprise.

  “Well, congratulations! That’s good news, isn’t it?”

  “I think so,” he said softly, his lips curving in the bashful smile of a man who loved his daughters.

  “And Julie’s not sure?” He nodded, his jaw clenched. Faith realized he was on the edge of tears. He straightened his shoulders like a good soldier.

  “I presume this wasn’t planned?”

  He shook his head. “I know Jules worked really hard to get where she is, professionally. She loves her job…”

  “And she thought she’d done the mothering bit? How old is she, forty?”

  “Nearly forty-one.” He tossed his head back, looking blindly at the sky. “She said it was a mistake!” She could sense the pain radiating out of him.

  “I am so sorry, Oliver.”

  “She knew two weeks before she told me. Two weeks! I knew something was up. She didn’t want to talk; the silent treatment. I even started thinking she might be having an affair.” He turned his back on Faith, hiding his face from her. He went on, his voice fractured with emotion. “Just before she took the girls to London we had a row and she told me. She said she was going to make her mind up what to do about it while they were away.” He swung back to face her, his voice raised, his face contorted. “Make up her mind. Like it was nothing to do with me!”

  Oliver’s fists were clenched and his eyes full of tears. Faith stayed where she was.

  “That must have been so hard for you.”

  Oliver drew a shaky breath. “So I was sitting on that wretched tractor,” he continued more calmly, “wondering if Jules… if she was going to decide to get rid of our baby, and how could we – us – how could we survive that? And just asking myself how could twenty years – the twenty years we spent together, making a family – how could all that just fall apart out of nowhere? And this postman appears…” The words tumbled out, gathering speed. “He’s asking for a tow and there’s this boy, dead in the reeds, and the police are here and I have no control over anything any more. I am just caught up in this utter mess…” He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels, bracing every muscle. “That poor kid. I didn’t even see him.”

  Faith felt the urge to slip her gloved hand under his arm, but fought it. She didn’t want to be misconstrued. They stood like that, looking out across the river, for some time.

  “So where are you now?” she asked at last. “Have you and Julie been able to talk by yourselves, without the girls?” He shook his head.

  “They’re at her mother’s.” He laughed bitterly to himself. “And Jeanie’s never been too fond of me. She wanted a higher earner for her daughter.”

  So money was in there too. Wasn’t it always? Faith thought about how the Markhams came to the parish earlier that summer, and how she had wondered about the tensions between the couple, apart so much of the time.

  “What made you move here, Oliver?”

  “We always wanted to move out of the city; bring the girls up in a proper home.”

  “And what made it possible?”

  “Julie got a promotion – a partnership in her law firm. She’s really great at her job.”

  Faith waited a moment to let that sink in. “So now she’s carrying a baby unexpectedly, and your life here depends on…” She left the sentence unfinished.

  He hung his head. “I know,” he said. “I just need to build up the business. We can make it work. We have some savings.”

  “But you can see how hard it must have been when Julie found out. Did she go to a doctor here?”

  “No. She works in London in the week.”

  “Just because she took two weeks to tell you doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you or that she doesn’t want to make this work. It’s no good sitting here brooding. You’ve got to talk to her – properly, calmly. Do you love her?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “So go and find Julie – her mother can look after the girls; you two need to go somewhere private where you can have the space to talk it out. If you can talk to me, you can surely talk to the woman you love, the mother of your children.”

  His face broke into a weak smile. “You’re bossy, you know that?”

  “I’ve been told.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Of course, what I really came here for was to check that you’re still on for being Joseph in the pageant.” He frowned at her. “I really need you, Oliver. The Little Worthy pageant is the highlight of the village’s Christmas weekend – just ask Pat. I am already on my last chance for a real donkey; I have one slim prospect. I can’t lose my Joseph. Oliver, you will do it, won’t you?”

  “And what if I’m taken up for murder?”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “You’re not going to be. So, will you still be in the pageant?”

  His smile broadened. “OK.”

  “Hallelujah! Thank you.” she beamed at him. “Who could be more perfect than our very own carpenter?”

  “Cabinet-maker, please,” he corrected her with a mock frown. “Come to that – if the real-life donkey can’t make it, I could always cut you out something in MDF. I could pull it along beside me on wheels.” The joke and smile were thin, but it was a good attempt.

  The river had fallen back to its normal winter levels. The water pushed on idly by. Faith thought of the evidence of watercress in Lucas Bagshaw’s lungs.

  “How well do you know the river upstream from here?” she asked. “Do you know where the nearest commercial watercress beds are?”

  “There’s a farm not much further up. You see it on the left, just down from that big pub, just under a mile on – by the road at least.”

  “Which pub?”

  “You know, the big one that has all the tables out in the summer. The Lion’s Heart.”

  The Lion’s Heart pub on the river where the cider was cheap; the pub where V and the Dot had planned to meet Lucas the day he died, before he cancelled. She paused the car at the top of Markham’s drive. She really ought to go back and get on with Sunday’s sermon and a whole desk-worth of admin. But… the dashboard clock said 11:55. Almost lunchtime… She put the car in gear, swung the wheel left and took the road upriver.

  The Lion’s Heart pub was a big whitewashed building. Some parts of it looked at least seventeenth century. The large beer garden must have been quite an attraction in summer, but now, in December, the tables were all empty and several of the pub’s windows were shuttered up. Even the B&B side was closed. Only the main bar remained open for the locals. In the car park the snow had been cleared into dirty mounds of ice and grit, leaving a central block of frozen spaces. A solitary red estate with patched panels was parked in the end bay. Faith reversed into a middle spot. She turned off the engine and wrapped her colourful winter scarf around her neck.

  The bar was almost empty. She put her bag on the counter and climbed up on to one of the round-seated wooden bar stools. A middle-aged man with a beer drinker’s belly and a seventies rocker’s haircut came out of the kitchen behind the bar.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Orange juice, please.”

  He fetched a tiny bottle out of a glass-fronted fridge.

  “Want ice and lemon with that?”

  “Thank you.” She looked about the ill-lit space. It was a large room. In this light it seemed to be entirely upholstered in tobacco colours. “Not many in today,” she commented.

  “Regulars don’t usually come in until half past.” He went into the kitchen and came back with a tray of clean glasses, and started to place them on the shelf above the bar.

  “I’ve never been in before,” she said.

  “That right?”

  She leaned over the bar and stretched out her hand.

  “Faith Morgan. Pleased to meet you.” He wiped his hands on a tea towel and clasped her hand. His was clammy and cold.

  “Rick Williams. The landlord.” He nar
rowed his eyes at her. “You on the job?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  He grinned. “You’re not the first copper we’ve had in here.”

  Faith half-smiled down at her orange juice. Was it that obvious? She tugged her scarf aside to show what was beneath. “I’m not with the police. I am the vicar at St James’s, Little Worthy.”

  “Really?” For a moment Rick’s cultivated impassivity cracked. “I could have sworn…” He put another couple of glasses away. “Hang on – you’re not the one who found the lad down by the river?” That surprised her. She hadn’t realized that gossip had spread.

  “I didn’t find him. I happened by soon after he was found. Lucas Bagshaw – did you know him?”

  “He came in a few times with his mates. Not that I serve underage drinkers or anything,” Rick added. “I run things strictly legit here. They only get alcohol if they’ve got the ID.”

  “Of course. So Lucas came in with his mates – you mean Vernon Granger and Anna Hope?”

  Rick looked at her curiously. “Yeah. Those three were always together. The Goth and the Good Boy – odd couple; and then him tall and her short. They kinda stood out.” Like Jim had said, Lucas and Vernon were unlikely mates.

  “Were they always tight?”

  Rick brought a tray to the bar, with a small knife and a handful of lemons. “Well, the two lads, they got into it once. Had to transfer them to the car park. But then lads can be like that, can’t they? All pals one minute, pounding on each other the next. They made it up. Only happened once.”

  “Any idea what they were quarrelling about?”

  Rick shrugged his meaty shoulders. “Not interested.”

  Could it have been over the Dot? Faith wondered.

  “When was this?”

  “Earlier this year – summer, I suppose.”

  “You can’t be more precise?”

  Rick looked into mid-air, knife poised. “You ask a lot of questions for a vicar.”

  “I’m naturally curious,” said Faith blithely. “I suppose a death, at this time of year… it makes you wonder if you could have done something.”

  Rick began chopping again, and nodded. “They knocked over one of the flower tubs by the door; got the last of the tulips. I had to replant the whole thing…” He focused on the memory. “It must have been late May – no; it was a mix of Flaming Parrot and Queen of the Night and they were late this year. Early June.”

  Rick didn’t look like a gardener, Faith thought. Just goes to show, you never know with people. She could feel the landlord’s interest fading. Her eye fell on a computer printout of a picture stuck to one of the pillars holding up the bar shelves. It was of a fit young man grinning in bright sunshine beside a baby elephant taking a shower. Beside him was an Asian man with a wooden switch, presumably a local. Someone had scribbled in the margin: “Latest from Stewie!”

  “Nice elephant.”

  Rick followed her gaze. “One of the bar staff. Gone travelling for a couple of months. Only left a few days ago and now look at him.” Rick jerked his head to the frosted windows and the winter light beyond. “All right for some!” A couple of days ago, Faith thought. Today was Friday. Lucas’s body had been found on Monday.

  “Stewie – he wasn’t working here last Saturday, was he?”

  Rick’s eyes narrowed, focusing on her. “Yeah, his last night,” he said slowly. “I’d forgotten that. Karen was off sick and Stewie came in to help clear up after the lunchtime crowd. Gave him some extra travelling money for the favour. He flew out on Sunday night gone.”

  Faith wondered if Ben’s team knew about the absent Stewie. They would have found out at the cathedral interviews about the plans of Lucas and his mates to meet at the Lion’s Heart that Saturday afternoon. Ben was bound to have sent someone in to look for witnesses, but the picture might not have been up if the interviews had been done earlier in the week. She wondered what they had found out. Had Adam Bagshaw been drinking here that day?

  “So was it just Lucas and the other boy and the girl who hung out together?”

  “Normally, yeah. Well, not all the time. There was an older guy they talked to; seemed to know him.”

  “One of your regulars? Lucas’s uncle, maybe?” The bar manager looked blank. “About forty, ex-soldier, drinks a lot.”

  “Oh no, not him. Another guy.”

  “And who’s this?” It was a man’s voice and not a pleasant one. Faith turned to face a lean man about her height with leathery skin and sandy hair. He looked dirty.

  “Who’s asking?” she quipped, trying to go for light. The newcomer had dead eyes.

  “This lady knew Lucas Bagshaw,” said the landlord. “The kid that died.” His manner had shifted to distant, drawing the line between his side of the bar and theirs. “What are you having?”

  “Pint of the House.”

  If Rick’s intention had been to distract the newcomer, he failed. The man didn’t move his eyes from Faith’s face. He was standing too close. He stank of stale cigarettes and some sweeter, more chemical smell. She steeled herself.

  “So what are you? Po-lice?”

  “No,” she replied calmly. “Clergy.” That puzzled him for a moment. The vicious expression returned. He reached out a sinewy hand for the pint Rick had poured him, and dropped coins on the bar with the other.

  “No good comes of sticking your nose where it don’t belong,” he said, “and you don’t belong here.” With that he slouched off.

  Faith watched him go to the far end of the room and slip into a booth, out of sight. She reached out for her glass, propping her elbow on the bar to steady herself.

  “How unpleasant.”

  “That was Keepie. Best stay away from him.”

  “Drug dealer?”

  Rick held her gaze. She heard the distant sound of a truck drawing up outside. He looked over his shoulder toward the back. “Like I said, best stay away,” he repeated.

  “Did Lucas?”

  Rick ignored her question. “Delivery’s just come. I need to deal with it.” He went out the back.

  She was down to the last inch of orange juice. She twisted the glass between her fingers. This place meant something in the Lucas story, she was certain of it. They all drank here – Lucas, V, the Dot, Adam Bagshaw. And now this fellow, Keepie. Faith recognized the type. Not one of the more careful drug dealers; he had all the marks of someone who used his own product. A short fuse, probably, reliant on aggression rather than brains. She wondered what the local police had on him.

  Anna – the Dot – had been so sure that Lucas didn’t use or drink. He wouldn’t do that. That’s what she’d said. Maybe the connection wasn’t that Lucas took drugs, but that he didn’t. But Lucas had money. He had dropped out of school; he didn’t have a job Ben and the police could find. Where was he getting it from?

  Had one of the oddball trio stuck their nose in, as the fragrant Keepie put it, and Lucas had been the one to pay? She ran through the possibilities in her head. Lucas wasn’t using, but dealing for Keepie, and Vernon found out and they fought… But then they reconciled. And if they’d fought over that, and Lucas’s death had somehow been a consequence of changing his mind, why the delay? They had fought in June. He was killed in December. She knew she was grasping at straws, looking for neat cause and effect in a world that rarely followed those rules.

  Maybe Vernon had got involved with drugs and that was what the fight was about? But that didn’t explain the money. Could Lucas have been blackmailing Keepie? Taking money to keep quiet about what he knew? Unlikely. Keepie struck her as too unstable, not the sort who responded rationally to being threatened. His kind didn’t have the patience for strategy. Men like Keepie were more likely to turn to violence or flight as the first option.

  Vernon Granger was the blank piece in this puzzle. She wished she had a better sense of him. From her glimpse of him at the service on Wednesday night, Vernon had struck her as a wary, possibly angry boy. That on its own was nothing, but
she also knew that Anna Hope was fiercely loyal to him. She liked what she had seen of Anna. The Dot was a strong young woman – the kind of young woman Trisha, Lucas’s mother, might have been once. If only she could gain Anna’s trust somehow. Between them, V and the Dot held the key to what had happened to Lucas – she was almost certain of it. Faith finished the last of her orange juice and picked up her bag.

  She took a detour home along the river. The country lane ran between hedges. Occasionally, through a gap, she could see the river flowing toward Winchester, wild watercress beds floating at its margins. Her phone buzzed from the bag on the passenger seat. She found a convenient lay-by and drew up. She’d missed a call. The churchwarden’s Scottish accent was more pronounced than usual in the voicemail, the tone softly conspiratorial.

  “Vicar – I thought you should know as soon as possible. I’ve just run in to young Alice Peabody on the Green. She tells me she’s off to Wales for Christmas. Her young man’s proposed and he’s taking her to meet his parents…” Pat had the grace to stop short of “I told you so,” but it was implied. Faith put the phone back in her bag. Well, that was lovely for Alice, of course. She wished the engaged pair mental congratulations but, as far as pageant was concerned, flighty Alice from the Hare and Hounds had proved Pat right – again. Faith put the car in gear. Just as she secured her Joseph, she was down a Mary.

  As she prepared to pull out, she saw a police van in her mirror. It sped past and she glimpsed uniformed officers. She followed in its wake with a sense of urgency. They rounded a couple of bends and then the van slowed. It drew up among a group of vehicles parked by an old wooden bridge spanning the river. The van door slid open and a pack of uniformed officers disembarked. A forensic team hovered around the bridge and there, tucked up against the hedge, was Ben’s metallic green Astra.