The Advent of Murder (A Faith Morgan Mystery) Page 6
One of the investigating team came down the aisle, leaving the girl with the golden hair waiting behind him. She wasn’t very tall. In the half-light shadow of a soaring column, she looked cherubic with her head of pre-Raphaelite curls.
“Boss!” the officer said. He indicated the girl with a tilt of his head and a significant lift of his eyebrows.
Ben stood up.
“You’ll never make senior investigating officer,” he told Peter. “You talk too much. Fay,” he took leave of Faith with a nod. If Peter was surprised by his superior’s use of a pet name for her, he didn’t betray it.
Ben stepped past her. Faith closed her eyes momentarily as the rough wool of his coat brushed her face. Terre by Hermès; the aftershave she used to buy him. A clean, clear smell – and so familiar. She opened her eyes. Peter and Ben were walking away discussing something. They hadn’t noticed. She breathed out.
Peter turned back. He retraced a step or two, catching her unawares.
“You’re still on for supper Thursday?” he asked. Faith nodded, her lips pressed together in an overly bright smile. “Great!” he acknowledged. “Come early, if you can. The boys would love to see you before they’re put to bed.” He began backing away to catch up with his boss. “And Sandy told me to remind you to bring a plus one, if you fancy it.”
An hour later, Faith was frustrated and itching to go. So far her services as chaperone had been predictably spurned. Even the investigating officers seemed unsure of what role they wanted her to play. She felt as if she had sneaked in from the street to watch a rehearsal before a play had opened to the public. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have other places to be.
Adam Bagshaw. Lucas’s uncle. Ben’s distaste worried her. Last night Marjorie Davis had said Adam Bagshaw was a good man. Of course, she wouldn’t have known him very well, but the fond, grateful look on the old lady’s face stuck in Faith’s mind. Marjorie might be old, but she was no fool. She had been quite high up in the civil service before she retired. Faith’s curiosity smouldered and took hold.
Peter had said the Bagshaws lived in The Hollies, one of a number of developments put up on the city outskirts during the property boom before the bottom fell out of the market. An upmarket address for someone on a carer’s salary like Trish. Perhaps Adam owned the house outright, and had neither mortgage repayments nor rent to find. She found herself constructing a history for him – a good job, perhaps in IT or accounting, personal problems, then a break-up, divorce and drink. She had to tell herself to stop it. One thing she’d learned as a policewoman, which had only been reinforced in her recent role, was that human lives didn’t always follow the neat course of cause and effect.
Bagshaw. Not a local name. There shouldn’t be that many of them around. Unless the family were ex-directory, she could find the address online. Adam Bagshaw was, after all, doubly bereaved, she told herself. He might appreciate a pastoral visit. She got up to leave.
Jim Postlethwaite was standing in the shadows looking at her. How long had he been watching? He must be wondering about her connection to the police inspector and his sergeant. He might even think she had been spying on him on their behalf. She was surprised at how much she disliked the idea that the choirmaster might think her deceitful. She gave a friendly wave as he walked toward her.
“You’re going?” he asked, his expression blank. The relaxed friendliness of yesterday had vanished.
“I’m not needed here.”
Jim turned his face away from her toward the activity at the front of the chapel. “They say they’re finished with me,” he muttered.
Ben was standing by the marble statue, listening to a colleague. Faith felt the beam of his intense stare. Jim Postlethwaite wasn’t Ben’s type. She could almost hear his thoughts; the look on his face said it all: “Do-gooder” – what’s he covering up?
“Investigating officer seems a bit of a bulldog,” said Jim. “Do you know him well?”
Faith hesitated, not knowing how to answer. Jim stepped back, widening the space between them. The hazel eyes looked down at her coldly.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I appreciate the value of discretion.” He started striding toward the exit. She followed after him.
“I’ll walk out with you,” she said. They marched side by side a few yards. Faith felt tongue-tied. She searched for something to say.
“So, how did you get involved in all this?” Jim asked. “Did you know before you accepted my offer of a mince pie and a cup of tea? Was the fainting an act too, to lure me in?”
“Please,” said Faith. “It wasn’t like that at all. I wasn’t sure until you showed me the flyer. Not even completely sure then.” She hurried on, determined to explain herself. “Lucas’s body was found on a parishioner’s land. I happened to call on the landowner to discuss some church business and ran into the police there.”
Church business – a visit to talk about the costume and role of Joseph in a Christmas pageant. How trivial that sounded now! For a moment she was disorientated by the disconnect. But the Bible was full of human tragedy, and she had faith in a God who made a difference in the face of it all. She felt the ground under her feet again.
They had reached the parting of ways, and stood at the point of a triangle of light pushing in through the open door. She didn’t usually find herself at a loss like this. There was something about Jim Postlethwaite; she sensed compassionate intelligence and guarded experience. He made her feel girlish in comparison, even though she must have been the older of the two.
“I can see you’re telling the truth,” he said. “I apologize for my suspicions.”
“That’s quite all right,” said Faith. “Tragedy like this – it… confuses things.”
He acknowledged the moment with his lopsided smile.
“Do you mind if I drop by at some point,” he said, “to see your church? These kids aren’t professionals; I find it useful to check the layout. You know, scope out any potential problems so all goes well on the night.”
“That seems very sensible.” No need for the “very”, she edited herself crossly in her head. “Of course. You’d be very welcome.” (Not again!) “Just let me know when – so I can be there to let you in.” He turned his body to go, his eyes still on her face.
“So you’ll let me know?” she said, by way of a farewell. His expression shifted into an “idiot me!” look, and he pulled something out of his pocket.
“I’ve got this for you.” He held it out to her. It was a scrap of music paper with a name and address written on it in blue ink from a fountain pen. “One of the girls works at an animal sanctuary… The owner’s a bit of an eccentric – an older lady; Ms Whittle. The Ms is important – don’t ‘Miss’ her, or you’ll rub her up the wrong way,” he added with his sly twinkle. “Anyway, the animals are sort of her family, but apparently there’s a donkey…”
“Thank you so much!” Faith felt herself blush pink with pleasure. She slipped the paper into her glove.
His smile lingered on her face as he walked away and she went out into the bright winter light, the paper crackling between her skin and glove.
CHAPTER
6
The Bagshaw house was number 5 in a cul-de-sac of modern brick houses with uPVC windows, single-width garages and pocket-handkerchief lawns. At lunchtime, it was a quiet place. These were family houses – the adults at work, the children at school. No. 5 had a stripped down, anonymous look. There were no signs of the Christmas lights and decorations of its neighbours. The snow in the driveway lay undisturbed. At the margins of the white covering, Faith could see that the garage door had old leaves and debris blown up against it, as if it hadn’t been opened for a long time.
The front door had a panel of frosted glass in its upper half. A light was on in the hall behind. Faith stood under the fanciful little vestige of a porch and pressed the doorbell. She listened to the chimes die away. No answer. No other footprints than her own disturbed today’s fresh fall of snow. The
phone directory listed this address for Trisha Bagshaw. She pressed the bell again. She thought she saw something come between the door and the light in the hall. Silence. She stepped off the path and took a couple of steps around the front of the house. The curtains to the front room were drawn back. She glanced behind her. The black holes of her footprints spoiled the pristine snow and reproached her. What right had she to pester the poor man? So what if he didn’t want to answer the door? She retraced her steps.
She had almost made up her mind to leave when she caught a strangled noise from inside. There was definitely someone in the hall behind the door. She knocked on the frosted glass.
“Mr Bagshaw? My name is Faith Morgan,” she called. “I am vicar at St James’s – I just wanted to see if you are all right.” This time she heard a distinct sob. She crouched down and looked through the letterbox. A man was sitting on the stairs in his shirt, socks and blue gingham boxer shorts, head in hands. He was crying.
“Mr Bagshaw – Adam – please open the door.” She couldn’t just leave him. She could feel the misery radiating out toward her. He was alone in that house; floundering under the weight of such tragedy, his sister dead and now his nephew. From what she gathered, his whole family had gone. All at once he was left to cope alone. So what if he was a stranger to her?
“You shouldn’t be alone like this – please let me in,” she repeated. To her astonishment the figure on the stairs stood up. She straightened and took a step back. She heard the latch turn and the door opened halfway.
Adam Bagshaw was maybe an inch taller than her, with tousled hair – a short back and sides that had grown out. Above several days’ worth of stubble, his skin was smooth with fine pores. Late thirties, she guessed. The hand holding the door trembled. He rubbed the other across his chin and face, his eyes fixed downwards.
“Don’t know you, do I?” he mumbled. He stood there, swaying slightly. He didn’t smell too good – unwashed, with a lingering under-note of stale alcohol – and the open door was letting the icy air in. Time to take charge. She put a hand on the door, and pushed lightly. He stood aside to let her in.
“My name’s Faith Morgan,” she said again. “I am vicar at St James’s in Little Worthy. You go and sit down. I’ll make you a cup of tea.” She stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her. Her determination acted like a force field, shifting him before her into the front room, a plain, modern, open-plan rectangle. A brown leather sofa occupied one wall, with a matching armchair at an angle to it. It looked as if Adam had been sleeping on the couch. A pummelled pillow was jammed in the crook of one armrest and an unzipped sleeping bag flopped open, like a split fruit, its ruby inner lining contrasting with the military green outer quilting. The room was a mess. Faith removed an old newspaper from the chair and Adam Bagshaw collapsed into it, his bare legs smacking against the leather. She spotted a plaid blanket pooled on the floor by the couch. She scooped it up and draped it over his legs.
Kitchen units stood beyond the barrier of a breakfast bar at the top of the room. “When did you last have something to eat?” she asked. He murmured something she didn’t catch. He had stopped crying. He just sat, his eyes cast down. “Not for ages, I’ll bet,” she answered herself. “I’ll make some tea and find you something to eat.” As she moved purposefully toward the kitchen, her foot knocked glass. A vodka bottle. In her head, she amended the tea order to coffee; strong coffee.
The instant coffee jar was empty, and she couldn’t locate any tea bags. At first Faith thought she might have to resort to stale bags of ginger tea she found at the bottom of a tattered old box, then she discovered half a pack of ground coffee at the back of the bread bin. No milk in the fridge – just a pack of beer with three cans missing, and a foil container half-filled with what looked like Chinese takeaway. How long it had congealed there she didn’t like to think. There seemed to be nothing else of substance to eat. The kitchen cupboards looked as if no one had done any proper shopping since Trisha Bagshaw died. In the main cupboard, in the margins by the door, a couple of dog-eared boxes of cereal shared a shelf with a stack of cup-a-soup packets. At the back she could see the neatly ordered supplies of someone who had enjoyed cooking – herbs, spices and curry mixes; a tin of asparagus spears.
Faith made the coffee double strength and loaded sugar into it.
“Drink this.” Adam hadn’t moved. She put the mug into his hand. It shook. He wrapped his other hand around the ceramic to steady it, and took a sip.
“Thanks.”
A framed photograph of a younger Adam hung on the wall. Taken in bright foreign light, he wore a soldier’s uniform, shading his eyes with one hand, smiling shyly into the lens. Yes, she might have guessed he had been a serviceman – he had that toughened look she often saw in Christmas-time soup kitchens. He looked sweet and uncertain in the photo, though.
“Were you getting up or going to bed?” she asked, conversationally.
“What?” He looked at her for the first time. Despite the swelling and red rims, his chocolate brown eyes had an appealing, lost puppy quality. She nodded down at his black-socked feet and bare calves protruding beneath the blanket on his lap.
“Were you getting up or on your way to bed?” she repeated.
“What time is it?”
“Late lunchtime. Nearly two o’clock.”
He didn’t seem to have the reserves to answer her question.
“You used to be in the army?” she asked. He nodded reflexively, but there was a residue of pride in the firmness of his answer.
“Signal Corps.”
“My grandpa was in the artillery during the war. He used to say a shave was as good as a rest.” He looked at her, bemused for a moment. “Why don’t you go up and have a shower? Get dressed,” she prompted. “I am sure it’ll make you feel more like yourself. I’ll tidy up down here while you do that, and then you can have something to eat.”
He obeyed her. He got up and climbed the stairs. He seemed to be grateful to be told what to do. Trisha, his big sister, must have been the one in charge.
Faith looked around her, feeling a twinge of guilt. He had acquiesced to her so easily. She hadn’t been planning to snoop. At least, not consciously.
She imagined the sceptical curl of Ben’s lip. Of course you hadn’t, vicar.
Someone else had made an attempt to tidy up in the not too distant past. They had gathered bits and pieces into a cardboard box and left it neatly flush with the wall. She wondered if that had been Lucas – had the bereaved boy been struggling all year to care for the only adult he had left? She used the box as a repository, piling up stray newspapers and magazines. Even though she’d heard plenty about Adam’s problems with alcohol, the extent of his dependency became disturbingly apparent as she restored order in his home. Among the debris and takeaway wrappings she found another two vodka bottles. One still had a third of the clear alcohol left in it. She dumped the empties in the trash and stood undecided with the other bottle in her hands. Maybe they drank together – Lucas and his uncle – using the alcohol to dull their lost-ness. Except the forensic tests said Lucas had gone into the river sober. She placed the bottle in a cupboard and put the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. The chow mein, or whatever it was in the fridge, smelled all right. It would have to do. She emptied it into a bowl in the microwave, ready to reheat. On a bleached pine table by the window, she set a place with cutlery and added a glass of water for them both, so she could keep Adam company while he ate.
All in all it didn’t take very long. The chaos was superficial, a bachelor wash over Trisha Bagshaw’s shipshape home. She thought of Pat and Mavis Granger’s speculations about Lucas and his lifestyle the night before. He never seemed short of money… how could she afford it on a carer’s salary? There weren’t that many luxuries about that Faith could see. The TV must have been relatively new and there was an Xbox with a small-ish pile of games – but nothing stood out to suggest anything other than a comfortable but low income home.
She stood listening. Upstairs the shower was running. She had never known the dead woman, but she knew instinctively Trisha Bagshaw would hate to see the dust cloaking her possessions. She might as well make herself useful while she waited. She found a clean duster in a kitchen drawer.
Faith made quick work of the mantelpiece and moved on to the whatnot standing in a safe corner by the window beyond the table. Sundry ornaments vied for space with numerous framed photographs. Trisha Bagshaw evidently had eclectic taste. A pretty silver engine-turned 1920s bedside clock sat beside a cheap and cheerful painted 1950s model of a Neapolitan horse and cart. A fairyland lustre bowl took pride of place on the top shelf. Faith had seen something similar in a recent episode of Antiques Roadshow. As she remembered, the one on the television programme had been quite valuable. She picked up photographs from the level below, dusting them thoughtfully. Pictures of Lucas at various stages of growth: in his mother’s arms – one of those badly lit, amateur photographs that pull at the heart; the toddler with huge, long-lashed eyes, standing precariously in a romper suit printed with blue cars; a little boy giggling uncontrollably in the arms of his teenage uncle. And centre stage, the three of them together in a park somewhere – Trisha between her boys, hugging them fiercely; a small, strong woman between a man and a gangling youth. The pictures radiated love. Faith felt tears welling up.