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

Ben crossed the field at a rapid stride. Peter followed with Faith at a more reasonable pace.

“Do you have an ID?” Faith asked.

“Not yet. I don’t recognize him. I somehow doubt he’s a churchgoer.” Peter blushed. “Sorry, that’s uncharitable of me. See what you think.”

Faith avoided a patch of mud with an ungainly skip. “You don’t think Markham’s involved?”

Peter’s flat tone as he reeled off his answer took her by surprise. He was in professional mode – it felt strange to see him like that. She found him so open and approachable as a friend.

“He’s got some explaining to do. He says he’s on his tractor clearing debris brought down the river by the rain at the weekend. The postman has an accident and ends up in the ditch. He sees Markham on his tractor; goes over to ask him if he’ll give him a pull out so he can get back on his rounds – Christmas rush and all that.”

“And?” Faith prompted. She couldn’t see anything so bad so far.

“The postman sees the body down there by the river just yards away from where Markham’s sitting high up on his tractor. It’s the postman who calls it in. Markham claims he never saw it.”

“Perhaps he didn’t,” said Faith.

“Hm,” said Peter.
He sounds like Ben
, she thought. “There’s the history too, though.”

“History?”

Peter stopped, and blew out his cheeks. “Seven weeks ago, we got a call that Markham threatened some kids with a shotgun. We investigated – he said he thought it was someone stealing his oil, but his wife had complained a few times about youngsters hanging around on their land. The kid who called didn’t want to take it any further. Still, there’s paperwork, y’know.”

“Oh!” said Faith. That didn’t sound so good, but she wasn’t surprised Oliver hadn’t mentioned it to her. She thought of Oliver Markham as she had seen him, a craftsman who could be absent in his own world among his beloved timbers; a man who cared about making beautiful things. She thought of the family at the village fete that August – Markham clowning around with his daughters and throwing beanbags at coconuts to win prizes for them. “Sounds like he lost his temper a bit,” she said.

“Doesn’t do him any favours in the boss’s eyes,” said Peter. He glanced down at her, less formal for a moment. “Do you know him well?”

Better than Ben
, she was about to say. Thinking about it, though, how well did she really know Oliver Markham? She compromised. “The Markhams only moved here in the summer. But I’ve seen quite a bit of them – they seem a nice family.” Or at least, he seemed a fond father to his girls. Faith
suddenly realized that his wife didn’t feature in any of her memories of the Markhams. The gossips said Mrs Markham didn’t spend more time at home than she had to.

The field dropped gently down to the river. The farm sat in a long bend of the waters’ course. The landscape here was quite flat. The river ran like a horizon along the margins of the frozen soil. The recent heavy rain that had caused the river to flood was receding, the water level dropping back to leave a blurred margin of mud and debris, now solidified and laced with frost only just beginning to thaw as the sun rose higher. A circle of white-suited figures grouped around a sodden mass near the river’s edge. Ben stood over a woman with red hair, vivid against the frosted grass and white forensic suits. She was crouching down by the body, but with her face lifted toward him, his concentration full on her as she talked. They broke off as Peter and Faith approached. The woman nodded to Peter and introduced herself to Faith: “Harriet Sims, pathologist.”

Faith glimpsed shrewd speculation in her eyes. “Ben tells me you’re the vicar – but you were in the force with him once? I’d better not shake hands.” She had pulled the forensic gloves on carefully; not a wrinkle to mar the elegant outline of the hands she held up in illustration. She readdressed them to their task of picking delicately through the victim’s clothes.

He was a teenager – maybe sixteen, seventeen, thought Faith. A stud decorated his left eyebrow. The metal protruded, a jarring addition on that half-childish face. His hair was dyed dead black and styled in a long fringe cut to cover his face to the chin, except that someone had pushed it back – leaving three-quarters of his vulnerable features bare to the bright winter light. A wave of compassion and sour sorrow washed through Faith, almost overwhelming her.

“So – is he one of yours?” Ben’s question carried an edge of anger. Faith recognized his disgust. Her congregation at Little Worthy was comfortably off, for the most part. He knew it wasn’t likely to contain a boy such as this. She felt acutely guilty. Ben always said that she was running away from reality, playing at being a vicar in such a picture-perfect place. To her own ears, at least, she managed to keep the emotion out of her voice as she answered.

“No. I’ve never seen him before – as far as I know.”

Ben ignored her words. “You’re formal for a Monday.” He jerked his chin, indicating the dog collar that could be glimpsed under her winter wrappings. “Where’ve you been?”

“Telling the Christmas story to five-year-olds,” Faith answered absently, her eyes still on the corpse.

The dead boy’s hair was fine. In life it must have obscured half his face all the time; irritating, you would have thought. Now river mud had mixed with oozing blood, tangling it into matted streaks around the lad’s temple.

The team junior finished his phone call and turned expectantly to his boss.

“Anything?” Ben asked him.

“Not local, sir. They’re running the national database to see if anything sparks.”

“No ID on him, just keys and maybe £15 in cash.’ Harriet held up an evidence bag containing a battered mobile phone. It oozed river water, puddling the sides of the plastic. “There’s this phone. It was in his hip pocket – but the case is cracked. It must have taken quite a knock.”

Peter took it from her – holding the bag up against the light to examine it. Faith could see that the casing had come away, exposing the inner workings of the phone.

“We might get something off it,” Peter said dubiously. Ben joined him for a closer look.

“After it’s been in the river? Waste of time – but we’ll process it anyway.”

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.