The Advent of Murder (A Faith Morgan Mystery) Page 2

  Harriet Sims was examining the boy’s arms.

  “No needle-marks, but…”

  “… he might have been on something,” Ben cut in. Their eyes met.

  He finished her sentences for her. Was there something between them? None of my business, Faith scolded herself. She focused her attention back on the victim. Somebody’s son.

  The clothes were soaked, but once you looked past the mud, they weren’t heavily worn or tattered, like the garments of street kids she’d come across in the past. He wore a padded jacket over a dark T-shirt, and jeans. His trainers would cost a lot, even second-hand. The exposed skin on his hands and face, and a bared patch of thin midriff, bore scratches of the kind that might be inflicted from branches or twigs. When he was alive, he had chewed his nails.

  Traces of silt covered every bit of him.

  “He’s been washed down the river – some way I would have thought,” she said out loud. For a moment she had forgotten she wasn’t part of the investigating team – that wasn’t her job any more. Ben flicked her a glance of recognition – just like him to notice her slips.

  “Maybe.” Harriet got to her feet. “He’s a mess,” she said briskly. “I’ll have to get him back and cleaned up before I can tell you more.” The direction of her gaze shifted to a point just beyond Faith. Faith saw her eyes widen and turned to see a large Dobermann a couple of yards away, slavering copiously. She took an involuntary step back, bashing into Ben.

  “Damn it!” he snapped, apparently not alarmed by the dog’s belligerent appearance. “You’d have thought we could be spared rubberneckers way out here. Get that dog away from the crime scene!”

  A petite woman accompanied by a second large Dobermann had come down the path from upriver. A well-preserved forty-something wearing a new tweed jacket of fashionable cut and matching tweed skirt, she strode toward them swinging a bright blond wood walking stick.

  “Go on, sergeant – get rid of her. We don’t want her blasted dogs trampling evidence.” After a split second’s understandable hesitation, Peter set off. “Why don’t you go with him?” Ben continued to Faith. “Now that looks like a potential member of your flock. Make yourself useful.” Faith narrowed her eyes at him. This provocation was starting to annoy her. His gaze met hers in mocking challenge. Faith liked dogs but she wasn’t keen on breeds created to guard and attack. Ben knew that. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of admitting her apprehension, she turned resolutely to go.

  The dog hadn’t moved. It stood square, ears pricked, its bright eyes fixed on her. She set out to follow Peter, giving the beast a wide berth. As if pulled by an invisible thread, the soft side of the dog’s pointed muzzle curled up, exposing a flash of impressive teeth. The well-muscled barrel chest emitted a low hum.

  Still some yards away, the woman slapped her walking stick against her booted calf in a flash of irritation.

  “Jam! Shush!”

  The dog dropped its ears and lowered its head. The Dobermann joined its partner at its mistress’s heel.

  The woman turned her stare toward Peter and lifted her chin. “What’s going on here?” she asked, exposing perfect white teeth. Bonded, thought Faith. Her jaw line was sharp – not a trace of softening, even though Faith thought she might have turned fifty, now she could see her up close.

  “There’s a police investigation in progress, ma’am,” said Peter. “I must ask you to move on with your dogs, please.”

  The newcomer didn’t move. “Has there been a death?” She turned her attention from Peter to examine Faith. She noted the dog collar. “Have you come to arrange the funeral?”

  “I am here only by chance,” Faith explained. “I am vicar at St James’s.”

  The woman tossed her head. “Of course. The new one. I attend the cathedral – although I have no problem with women vicars myself. We haven’t been introduced.” She pulled off her glove and reached into the inside pocket of her jacket for a laminated business card depicting an artful shot of some exotic bloom. “Mavis Granger – I have a florist shop in town.” As she talked she craned her neck to look past Peter to see what she could of the activity around the water’s edge. The body was concealed behind a patch of reeds and the forensic team were erecting the tent over it.

  “Faith Morgan,” said Faith, taking the card. A brooch pinned the turquoise blue pashmina scarf around Mrs Granger’s neck – a stylish Swedish-looking piece in platinum and gold. Ostentatious for a country walk, she thought.

  “You’ve probably heard of my husband – Neil Granger,” said Mavis. “He’s well known in the community; his family have farmed in the area for at least three generations. We live at the Old Mill, over that way.” Mrs Granger nodded upriver, then treated Peter to a rather fierce glare. “I often walk Jam and Marmalade down here,” she told him. “You are a policeman?”

  “Sergeant Peter Gray. And when were you last here, Mrs Granger? Did you walk this way over the weekend?”

  “Oh, not since last week sometime,” she said. “Last Wednesday, maybe?”

  “And when you’ve come this way before, you’ve never noticed any teenagers hanging out in the area – they don’t make a habit of using any spots along here?”

  Mavis looked at him sharply. “What for?”

  “Well, you know – the usual; to meet up, hang out, the things teenagers do.”

  “Take drugs you mean? Disgraceful! I wouldn’t know about that.”

  Faith could see Peter had categorized the conversation as fruitless and was losing interest, and Ben stood deep in conversation with Harriet Sims. Very close, she thought. Almost touching.

  “I am afraid I must ask you to move on, Mrs Granger,” Peter said. “Back the way you came, if you don’t mind.” He offered her the direction she had come from with an outstretched arm and a conciliatory expression. Mrs Granger’s mouth and chin took on a stubborn expression.

  “But we haven’t finished our walk.”

  “If you don’t mind, ma’am,” Peter repeated. “This path is closed until further notice.”

  Mrs Granger looked to Faith.

  “It’s procedure, I understand,” Faith commiserated. “It is a bore to have to turn back, I know, but I am sure the police will be clearing the path just as soon as possible.” Mrs Granger stared straight at her. Faith could almost see the cogs whirring behind her eyes. Something clicked into place.

  “Of course. We must support the police. Good boys!” (This last addressed to her dogs.) The Dobermanns moved neatly synchronized to heel as Peter accompanied Mrs Granger back up the path. As she went, Faith heard her confiding, “Though I will say, sergeant, as a long-time resident of this neighbourhood, it’s hard to feel safe any more. Only this summer, while my husband was away, we were broken into at the Old Mill. If I didn’t have the boys for company, I don’t know what I would do. You people still haven’t caught anyone for that!”

  Peter exercised enough self-discipline to thank her for her help, then returned to Faith’s side. Together they watched as Mrs Granger and her dogs grew miniature in the distance. She never once looked back.

  “Could this be connected to burglary?” Faith asked Peter. “Have there been many break-ins round here lately? I vaguely remember something in the local rag, but I haven’t had time to follow the news much.”

  “Not as many as the press like to make out,” he replied. “You always get a few more in the run-up to Christmas. It’s mostly young offenders – other people’s Christmas presents. All laid out in plain view from the front window and ready to go.”

  “Sergeant!” Ben called across from the crime scene. “Do join me inside, if you’ve got the time.”

  “On my way, sir. Sorry, Faith – got to go…”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll walk with you,” Faith said quickly, skipping a couple of steps to catch up with him. She wondered if she’d be allowed to speak with Oliver before they took him away. They strode back toward the house.

  “Do you remember the burglary at the Old Mill
this summer?” she asked, puffing slightly.

  “Not our department,” said Peter, a little defensively. “But you know the statistics on theft. Hampshire’s clear-up rate is less than 20 per cent.”

  “Not a conviction score to brag about.”

  “No. But like I said, not our department.”

  The Markham house was a 1930s building with a modern extension. To one side stood the barn that Oliver Markham had converted into his joinery workshop. Ben had shed his white boiler suit and was waiting for them outside.

  “There hasn’t been a recent break-in here, has there?” Faith asked Peter, as they stood side by side, wrestling their way out of the nylon fabric.

  “None reported,” Peter replied, curtly. His attention was fixed on freeing his lower leg from the clinging forensic suit, but she could tell her question had hooked his attention. They joined Ben.

  “You took your time getting rid of her.”

  “Recognize who that was?” Peter asked. “Mrs Neil Granger.”

  “Ah…” Ben snorted.

  “Who is Mrs Granger?” queried Faith.

  “Mrs Neil Granger? Put herself up to be a magistrate not so long ago. Likes to speak out on behalf of her community.”

  “She told me her husband was very well known,” said Faith.

  “Even if he’s heard of more than seen,” Peter said, rather naughtily, Faith thought.

  “Piling up the dosh keeps him away from home,” Ben added. “Mr Neil Granger does a lot of business over in Scandinavia, so they say. I was thinking, sergeant, we should invite Mr Markham down to the station for a chat. He’s in the kitchen with young Eagles.” Peter nodded and went in.

  “You can’t be serious,” Faith said. “You can’t think Oliver Markham is responsible for that boy.”

  Ben looked down at her fondly – or maybe it was just condescension. “You know about the shotgun incident?”

  Faith sighed. “Peter told me. It’s a jump from that to murder, isn’t it?”

  “I thought you were keen on leaps of faith,” said Ben. He was definitely smiling now.

  Peter came out of the house with Markham, holding him loosely by the arm. She glanced at his profile and tried to see the carpenter objectively. He was a big man, with strong shoulders and forearms, and broad hands. Right now he had them clenched as if he might hit out. But did Oliver Markham really look like a man who had murdered on impulse and then been caught red-handed trying to dispose of the body? Faith hurried over.

  “Oliver! What a wretched business.” She pulled back her outstretched hand before it touched him, repelled by the electricity of his suppressed emotion. It took him a moment to recognize her.

  “Faith!” he greeted her jerkily. “I forgot. Sorry – can’t offer you coffee.”

  “Where are Julie and the girls? Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.

  Oliver blinked. “Gone to London for a few days; Christmas shopping. No need to bother about them.” He lowered his head and gave Ben a bull-like stare. “Are we going, or what?”

  Faith sat in her car, waiting for the heaters to breathe life into her hands. Down the lane, the postman was chatting to the man from the AA. At least some Christmas cards would be delivered late that day. Her phone beeped officiously. She needed to leave for her next appointment at the cathedral. She watched Ben execute a neat three-point turn and drive off with Peter and Oliver not talking to one another in the back.

  Surely all this with Oliver Markham would sort itself out soon enough. She prayed that it would.

  As Faith attempted to turn in the lane (less successfully than Ben), an additional thought stole into her mind unbidden, though it seemed trivial in the circumstances. If Ben’s ridiculous suspicions had any foundation, Little Worthy’s Christmas pageant had just lost their Joseph. And they still had no donkey.

  CHAPTER

  3

  A light snow began to fall, and the road into Winchester soon clogged with slow-moving vehicles. After crawling in traffic for longer than seemed worth it, Faith finally found a space in a car park not too far from the cathedral. She felt glad of her padded winter boots. Whirling snowflakes filled the air, veiling everything in white as she made her way to the high street.

  She might have mailed her cards, but she still had nothing to give to her mother. Her sister offered no problems – Ruth liked to know she was getting a refill of her favourite perfume – and Sean, her nephew, had been considerate about letting her know a couple of things he would be happy to receive. But Mother – she must find something nice. She hadn’t been able to get over to Birmingham to see her for a couple of weeks now because of the Advent rush. Ruth had been dropping dark hints that they “needed to talk” about their mother. She must schedule some time to find out what that was about.

  Medieval and Tudor timbered buildings looked on benignly through the falling snow. “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer” played from a sound system somewhere. Along the high street, crowds of serious shoppers, bulky with bags, mixed with rushed mothers hoping to pick up some Christmas presents in the last hour before the school run. Such a fuss surrounded this winter holiday – it was as if the whole street pulsed with illuminated anticipation of the one day in the year when happy families would exchange the perfect gifts and enjoy the perfect day.

  Faith made for the shelter of the porticoed shops of the Pentice, just the sort of place she was bound to find a suitable present. On the way, she spied a nifty calendar clock in an electrical store’s display. That would be useful for the kitchen – never again need she forget what day of the week it was. The clock could tell her the day, the date and the time as she made the morning coffee. The thought of herself standing in her kitchen brought her up with a start. Christmas food. Oh dear! She hadn’t got back to Ruth about that either. The problem with being a vicar at this time of year, Faith meditated, gazing at an incongruous pink teddy bear in a Santa’s outfit, is that there just isn’t enough time to organize Christmas with your own family.

  Ruth usually had Mother over since Dad died, and nephew Sean would be back from uni for Christmas at least (New Year was another matter). Ruth would be expecting Faith to join them. Faith’s elder sister was a born hostess. She liked cooking and laying out feasts for other people. Ruth even found time to maintain Mother’s old tradition of constructing elaborate Christmas table decorations. As a child, Faith’s favourite had been a cardboard boat with painted sides and aluminium foil sails, chocolate coins covered in gilt paper concealed in its hold. That one had lasted for years (minus the chocolate, of course). It was probably still in Mother’s attic somewhere.

  She drifted closer to a shop window framing an enticing Christmas scene. The sight of all those perfectly wrapped boxes surrounding the silver gilt tree brought to her mind Peter’s words about young offenders stealing other people’s Christmas presents. The atmosphere curdled around her as the horror of the morning returned. The black and white of the dead boy’s face came between her and the glow. He’d never see another Christmas.

  Flakes of snow found their way inside her collar and dripped cold on her skin. Faith tried to move toward the shelter of an awning, but she found herself elbowed out of the way by a group of excited young people, absorbed in their conversation. Suddenly the glut of festivity seemed terribly shallow, feverish and misplaced.

  She shook herself, physically and mentally. The boy’s death was a tragedy, but she had to get on with her day. Others were relying on her. She ventured inside the shop and selected a beautifully carved bird table for her mother’s garden.

  Having paid, she looked at her watch. Mr Postlethwaite had said he would be rehearsing until three. She still had time to visit her avenue.

  Its parallel lines of graceful trees always took her breath away – and today the sparkle of frost and snow had transformed them to a fairyland. The cathedral’s west front, snow-dusted, soared like an intricate ice palace against violet cloud-banks heavy with snow still unshed.

  She savo
ured every moment of walking through her avenue of winter trees in stately rank, turning back as she reached the steps of the cathedral to appreciate its loveliness from another angle.

  Faith had never met the junior choirmaster, and wondered what he would be like. Postlethwaite – wasn’t that a northern name? She imagined a small, portly Yorkshireman with a balding head. Mr Postlethwaite, it seemed, had had some success running youth choirs locally, but the collaboration with the cathedral was a new venture entirely. George Casey, the diocesan press officer, had been circumspect about the appointment, which in Faith’s eyes was as good an endorsement as any. Pat too, and that added a further naughty satisfaction.

  She crossed the threshold into the chill, lofty space, looking up at the medieval builders’ attempt to encapsulate eternity. They had certainly captured peace. At this time of day a hush fell over the cathedral, its few visitors dwarfed in the vastness. Her rubber-soled boots padded silently across the stone. Her white breath suspended in space for a moment as she exhaled.

  From a side chapel she heard voices singing with energy and without accompaniment. Captivated by the joyous energy of song, she followed the sound.

  A blast of hot air basted her as she passed a garden-style heater. Beyond, the choir ran through rehearsals with its back to her – maybe twenty or more young people, teenagers mostly; early twenties at the most. Their attention was focused on someone invisible from where Faith stood. She slipped into a pew to listen. A young man’s voice came in a beat late. He broke off with an exclamation of frustration.

  “That’s just slightly off…” The choirmaster’s voice was calm. “But we’re getting there.” Voices dropped and Faith heard a murmured altercation with the soloist. Two girls in the back row noticed her sitting behind them, then several other heads turned.

  “OK. We’ve run out of time. Thank you, one and all.” Chairs scraped back and a rising hum of young voices drifted over as the group before her fragmented. The junior choirmaster’s voice rose a notch. “Wednesday, 6 p.m.; meet in the choir room. Text alerts will follow.”