The Reluctant Detective (Faith Morgan Mysteries)

by Ockley, Martha

  “They say fifteen minutes.”

  “It’s more often twenty,” she corrected, just to be saying something. Was he going to come and sit back down beside her, she wondered? This could be a mistake.

  Ben leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets. He looked down at her with his head tilted back.

  “Have I mentioned the gun?” he asked.

  “What gun?”

  “Shoesmith had a current shotgun licence and the weapon’s gone missing.”

  “That’s worrying.”

  “Mildly,” he responded sarcastically, and pushed himself off the wall.

  “Who could have taken it?”

  “And when was it taken?” Ben capped her. He started to pace and then stopped. Ruth’s living room wasn’t really big enough for pacing and he had long legs. “For all we know, it could have gone walkabout months ago. The annual check was due next month. It’s not as if we have many witnesses to Trevor Shoesmith’s life.”

  He came back and sat down at the opposite end of the sofa, his arms sprawled out along the back.

  “What about those friends he stayed with on the weekend Alistair Ingram died?” asked Faith.

  “More pub acquaintances than friends. They don’t know anything about a shotgun.”

  “But if Trevor Shoesmith had a gun that day, wouldn’t he have used it?” Faith objected. “On the dog, on himself? That sounds as if it had gone missing earlier.”

  “Perhaps. On the other hand, when we first interviewed Jessica Rose, she suggested that Shoesmith didn’t like guns. She implied he didn’t have one.”

  “Did you ask her directly?”

  “Hadn’t turned up the licence at that point.”

  Faith was back again in that terrible moment, looking up at a body hanging in the dim light. She shivered. Why should she think of Richard Fisher now? It must be the parallels with Shoesmith’s wasted life – and being here with Ben…

  She didn’t want to think about that.

  Ben was watching her sideways; his long lashes were marked against the blue of his eyes.

  “I wondered why that barn,” she said suddenly, and cleared her throat.

  “It was where his brother died,” said Ben. His voice was even, professionally devoid of emotion. “Trevor was a fifteen-year-old showing off – he was parking the tractor, lost control. He crushed his brother. It was messy. The boy died of his injuries two days later.”

  “What utter misery.” Faith was baffled by the devastating consequences of simple human frailty, the incremental consequences of bad choices made in a moment.

  Sin shall not have dominion over you. How could that be true? The tragedy of that one moment of boyish recklessness had had dominion over poor Trevor. And one moment of Ben’s reckless anger had led to the annihilation of Richard Fisher – the consequences of that still had dominion over the both of them.

  Ben shrugged.

  “It happens.”

  She looked at the man beside her – every line of his face, the texture of his hair, the shape of his hands; they were all so familiar to her. Yet there was this intractable point between them: Ben who thought of God and redemption as childish fantasy; she, the woman who had given up so much to live by that belief.

  Then again, if she really believed that “sin shall not have dominion over you”, shouldn’t she forgive him?

  The sound of the doorbell brought her back to earth.

  “I’ll get it,” said Ben.

  She fetched plates and paper napkins and set them out on the coffee table in front of the sofa. The paper napkins were left over from Christmas, sprays of vivid crimson poinsettias against a gold background. No need to be uncivilized just because you’re eating with your fingers, she thought.

  Ben came back with two pizza boxes and set them on the table. He rolled back the sleeves of his white shirt. His phone rang in his jacket.

  “Sorry. Got to take this.”

  She opened the first box, and a whiff of pepperoni met her, redolent of indulgence and chemical taste enhancers. The other box was Ben’s: plain cheese and tomato. Straightforward and uncomplicated. Just how he liked it.

  Ben put his mobile away. He fished a bottle of wine from the fridge, and two glasses.

  “Budge up.”

  He sat down next to her. The coffee table wasn’t that large. They had to sit close. She was conscious of the pressure of his leg against hers. She resisted the urge to widen the space between them. I’m making too much of this, she scolded herself.

  “That was the tech. He’s got a nice clean print from Mrs Rose’s window, but no match on the local databases.”

  “So that rules out the usual suspects?” She took a bite into hot cheese goo and spicy pepperoni. The crust was just right. Crunchy and delicious. Ben’s mouth was full. He shrugged and swallowed.

  “Another loose end.” He leaned over her to select another slice. “This whole case is nothing but loose ends. You’d have thought, wouldn’t you, that when a vicar is cut down during the Sunday service in front of his flock, the culprit would stand out? But oh, no!”

  “What, you expect Christians to be different?”

  He looked at her, with a faintly perplexed expression.

  “Well, yes. I suppose I did. This God changed you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said with an impatient gesture. “You know. Higher standards. Something better than the rest of us.”

  “Priggish, you mean?” she quipped, trying to turn the moment.

  He leaned back, stretching one arm along the sofa back behind her, deliberately casual. She felt a brief moment of relief. It was best they walk around this elephant.

  “You’re not priggish,” he said. He glanced down the arm that now lay behind her like a live electric fence. “But I suppose you always had that unyielding moral streak.” He paused. “That’s what broke us, wasn’t it?”

  He sat up. Tension bristled between them. She looked into the eyes she knew so well. To the outside world Ben Shorter was so confident – arrogant, even; but somehow she’d always been able to hurt him. She regretted that. She didn’t know how to bridge the gap but in that moment she wanted to so much.

  He leaned in to her.

  The moment his lips touched hers was so comforting – delicate, forgiving. A friend’s kiss…

  His hand slid round her back.

  One Christmas her father brought home a glittering carousel – all pink and silver – with a candle in the centre. It was a family ritual; a new decoration for the tree each year. She was three years old and she loved that glittering, revolving carousel, driven by the heat of the candle. She wanted to hold it. Her mother stopped her. That glittering, lovely thing would burn, she said. But she was a child. She picked it up and it burned her and crumpled in her hand. Faith remembered the moment, the loss, the surrender of putting it down.

  She felt the pressure of Ben’s arm shifting her weight towards him, beneath him.

  She was out of control. The half-glass of wine had gone to her head.

  She put both hands up against his chest and pushed him away. This was a bad, bad idea!

  She leapt to her feet, banging her shins on the coffee table. He just caught his glass of wine before it fell, then righted it, positioning it carefully on the tabletop.

  “I should go,” he said, standing and picking up his jacket.

  He stood with his weight on one foot, body turned towards the door. She didn’t know what to say. He looked devastated.

  “Well, goodnight.” His mouth clamped shut.

  She followed him to the door like a chastised puppy. She could still taste him on her mouth. She wanted to stop him, to say something.

  She shut the door against the cold night air, paused for several seconds, then walked back through to the other room. He was gone, leaving most of his pizza uneaten, and his wine untouched. She rubbed her head and caught the scratch on her forehead. It hurt. What a truly awful day!
/>   CHAPTER

  19

  FAITH WOKE ON THE SOFA. What time was it? She drew back the lounge curtains to let in the morning light and looked at the clock. Nearly seven o’clock! She couldn’t bear the idea of getting up again after a couple of hours, so she decided to make do with a bath and coffee.

  As she soaked in the bubbles, she dozed. The pieces of the puzzle shifted about in her head. Was the breakin at Jessica’s connected to Ingram’s death?

  As Ben had said, nothing but loose ends!

  Nothing seemed to connect. She hadn’t come across anyone who didn’t like Alistair Ingram. Why should anyone want to murder such a man?

  Because he was too good? That was ridiculous!

  The water was cooling. She topped the bath up from the hot tap, agitating the water to refresh the bubbles.

  Pat and her mysterious meetings with Alistair Ingram. She really wanted to find out about them.

  Why not ask her?

  That’s a bit radical.

  But then, do you really believe she is a likely poisoner?

  When she thought about it, Faith realized that despite the churchwarden’s sometimes unfortunate manner, there was a part of her that was warming to Pat. Perhaps she would give her a ring and see if she would mind her dropping in.

  Reinvigorated by her plan, she pulled the plug and reached out for a towel.

  The first task of the day was transport, she thought, dressing in her bedroom. She didn’t even know the state of her car. As she was thinking about it, her mobile rang. It was Peter.

  “The boss’s asked me to let you know about your car.”

  So Ben was keeping his distance after last night. Wasn’t that what she’d wanted?

  “It’s been towed in.” Peter gave her the details of the garage and a police incident number for her insurance. Ben might not be talking to her but he had been thorough on her behalf. She asked Peter to convey her thanks; they exchanged a couple of pleasantries and rang off.

  She fetched the insurance card from her purse. An hour later she had arranged for a courtesy car to be delivered to her door. She congratulated herself that for once the extra premium on her policy had been worth it.

  An oval card table with delicate Georgian legs stood in the window; next to it, a chair was positioned to watch over the green. A bird book and a small pair of binoculars rested on its honey-glazed surface. A large grey cat with dense, fine fur looked up from the sofa.

  “That’s Mr Marchbanks,” said Pat briskly. She indicated an overstuffed Victorian chair opposite with a gracious wave of her plump hand.

  “How do you do?” said Faith politely to the cat as she sat down. The seat was hard and slippery. Good for the stomach muscles, she thought, bracing herself. Her eye was caught by three little funeral urns lined up on the mantelpiece. They looked too small to contain a human being. Had Pat divided her husband into three? Pat followed her eyeline.

  “Mr Marchbanks’ predecessors,” she explained. “I suppose it may seem strange to some but I take comfort in it.” She blinked rapidly.

  “Of course,” Faith said.

  Pat shifted in her chair. Faith had a sudden association; it was as if Pat were composing her limbs neatly like her cat.

  “I am told you are helping the police with their enquiries,” she pronounced.

  Faith wasn’t sure what to say.

  “I also understand,” the churchwarden continued in her stately manner, “that there have been comments made about Alistair Ingram’s financial past?” The round powdered face was severe.

  Who’d told her? And where was Pat going with this? Faith found herself staring into the cup of tea she held. She hadn’t tasted it yet. What if Pat was a serial poisoner after all? She felt her throat close.

  Pat took a deliberate sip from her own cup.

  “My husband, Gordon,” she stated, “was one of the investors caught in the fraud to which Alistair Ingram’s name was linked before he came to Little Worthy. He left me in quite a position.” She looked around the room, her expression detached. “I nearly lost this house.”

  Pat inclined her torso stiffly from the hips. Faith wondered if she wore stays.

  “I will tell you the truth, Faith,” she confided. “It was a matter of greed. The returns offered were much too good to be true. But then, Gordon always was a fool about money.” She sat with her back ramrod straight.

  “But I married him and I stood by my bargain to the end,” she concluded.

  Pat’s expression was formidable. Faith considered the departed Gordon and what his life might have been with such a wife.

  Pat put her cup down on the saucer dead centre on the coaster on the polished side table.

  “That was just about the time Alistair Ingram came here.”

  “Alistair Ingram was involved in the fraud?” asked Faith.

  Pat shook her head vigorously.

  “Oh, dear me, no! He was a consultant of some sort.”

  Pat seemed to approve. She probably thought of a consultant as a superior sort of doctor.

  “It all happened while his wife was dying. Alistair told me again and again that he blamed himself for his lack of professional care. I never blamed him. He was caring for his wife as a husband should. And after he came here and heard of my troubles he did what he could. He gave me good advice and would never take a penny for it. He steered me towards some sound investments. He encouraged my little talent and I turned things around. Women can be quite good with money too, you know.”

  Faith looked at Pat’s neat-featured face. In the round eyes she caught a glimpse of the effort it cost Mrs Montesque to keep her public mask in place. The woman had dignity. She felt guilty that it had taken her so long to notice it.

  “Alistair was a generous man,” Pat said gruffly. There were tears in her eyes. “He would come and watch the news with me sometimes. Gordon always liked to watch the six o’clock news. A gin and tonic and the news, it ‘settles the appetite’.” She gave a little nod, acknowledging her dead husband’s phrase. “Alistair would come and watch the news with me and we’d have a little chat about finances. He was very knowledgeable.” She gave a tiny, ladylike sniff. Her hands searched around the edges of the cushion of her chair. She came up with a lacy handkerchief and dabbed her button nose. “I shall miss him.”

  Mr Marchbanks got up and stretched. He walked delicately along the back of the sofa, then jumped into his mistress’s lap and positioned herself languidly. His amber eyes fixed Faith with a calm, superior stare. His purr reverberated softly in the room. Pat stroked his fur.

  “It’s silly getting attached, of course, but they are good companions,” she said with a touch of her old briskness. “And one misses them when they’re gone.”

  Faith sat in her courtesy car, thinking about their conversation. Another suspect ruled out. After a week, that’s all she seemed to do – convince herself that suspects were not suspect at all. There was something about cars. It kept nagging at the back of her brain. What is it?

  The car her insurers had provided was small and shiny and smelt of plastic, with a Sat Nav incorporated in the dashboard. She’d never had one of those before. The steering wheel felt tiny between her hands. The garage mechanic had said her own car could be fixed eventually.

  Faith gazed idly across the green. The stretch of grass by the car was mossy. I wonder who maintains the green if it’s open land, she pondered. Is it like a communal garden or…Moss. The colour and texture reminded her of something. Green bouclé. Sitting in that uncomfortable chair in the bishop’s office…

  The flying tomato needs a tune-up; it’s making a terrible racket…

  She heard her own sharp intake of breath. No. That was a crazy idea. Wasn’t it?

  Like a series of slides, fragments came together. She saw Little Worthy green under that grey sky on the day Trevor died and that dash of red – the old model Ford Escort in dull red parked by the grass. Then the same car standing beyond the TV station vehicle in front of the
diocesan offices. And Fred’s account of the man crying in his car parked in the dark at the top of Shoesmith’s lane. And little Richard Shelley’s face as he told them about the sound of the car engine driving away after Jessica’s breakin.

  She concentrated, recalling the stifling sense of being trapped in that green bouclé chair in the bishop’s office. My wife’s old car, Bishop Anthony had said. It’s always developing some rattle or other.

  How to check? Pat was the one-woman neighbourhood watch. She might know. Faith snatched up her bag and fumbled for her phone. Pat answered on the third ring.

  “Pat – it’s me again, Faith. I’ve just thought of something – you haven’t by any chance noticed a strange car around the green recently?” She recalled Fred’s account. “Dark blue or maybe red?”

  “No. That doesn’t ring a bell,” Pat said.

  The effervescent excitement ebbed. It was a long shot after all. “Thanks Pat. Sorry to have disturbed you. I just thought I’d ask.”

  “Not dark blue, but red…” Pat cut across her. “Well, there’s that car the bishop’s son drives, of course. I’ve seen him about the village once or twice lately sitting in his old red – Escort or some such, don’t they call them? Rather downmarket for a man of his background, but then, some charity workers do like to make a point. And I suppose one should make allowances – it’s never easy growing up with a limp. Children can be so cruel. Polio as a child.”

  The rush of adrenaline made Faith feel dizzy. She hardly knew what she said to Pat. She rang off.

  The pieces came together like a kaleidoscope pattern. Jessica’s failed romance with the married charity worker. Fred had told her how Jessica had volunteered at a diocesan sponsored project in Tanzania that day in the church hall. Then there was Mrs Beech’s concern about the state of her son’s marriage – dear Lord! It was right under her nose.

  But how could it be true? The bishop’s son!

  Simon Beech limped, Pat said.

  A man with a limp…

  Doesn’t that sound like a murderer?

  Don’s glass man; the stranger he gave the key to on that Saturday before Alistair Ingram died, the stranger who rocked when he walked.