clunking sound. Someone’s bound to investigate.”
He took a slim torch out of an inner pocket.
“Want to bet?” he said, shining the torch inside the case. He turned towards her and beckoned her over with one latex-gloved hand. She crossed over to him and looked in. There, lit up in the torch beam, was a brown paper bag wrapped around something about the right size.
“It would seem Mrs Rose isn’t musical,” he said.
Oh Jessica! She thought. What have you got yourself into?
Ben was dialling his phone.
“What are you going to do?”
“Get SOCO in. This should give us enough to move on Shoesmith.” He read the look on her face and put his head down bullishly.
She stared down into the shadowy bowels of the case at the lighter patch that was the paper bag. She couldn’t deny the obvious circumstantial evidence, but the people just didn’t seem to fit the scenario. She was sure that something was badly wrong.
Ben finished his call.
“We have to wait until they get here. Damn! Should have kept the sergeant with me,” he muttered.
She could feel his impatience to be off. He was as restless as a thoroughbred in the starting gate, bristling with energy.
“What?” he challenged her.
“You’re so sure Trevor Shoesmith fits the bill?” Faith asked.
“You’re not?” He stilled, searching her face. “You think I’m making it fit,” he said slowly.
She didn’t know what to say.
His expression froze. It was as if a trap door had opened up beneath their feet and they were back somewhere raw and intimate.
“His name’s not Fisher,” he said in a low voice.
She felt pierced by his eyes. There was anger behind them, and frustration and pain. Her throat closed. Her insides felt as if they were pushing to climb out of her mouth.
“I know.”
“But you thought it.”
It was true. She had thought of Richard Fisher. She tried to hold still but she couldn’t help glancing down.
“No.” She faced him squarely, her voice firm. “That was an entirely different case; a different time.”
“Yes,” he said. “It was.” And he turned his back on her.
One pace away, he changed his mind and spun back.
“You’re never going to forgive me for that, are you?” he demanded.
“It’s not about forgiving you,” Faith protested. “It’s more about…” She swallowed the word she was about to use and substituted another. “…concern.”
“Tcht!” Ben made an angry, dismissive noise.
Faith took a step towards him. “You don’t pay enough account to humanity – the faces in the midst of all this; the individual persons.”
Now she’d made him angry. He seemed to expand with energy and frustration.
“You know this job! I can’t get all touchy-feely about the…” – he made savage air quotes around the word – “… persons . Do that and you lose your judgment. You make mistakes.”
“Or you make mistakes because you don’t.”
She had a sudden comic vision of them facing off like cats in the house of God. Then it didn’t feel so funny.
“But we’re not talking in general. This is about Trevor Shoesmith,” she said.
Ben shot her a cynical look.
“It doesn’t seem to me that he fits with this…” – she waved a hand at the brown paper bag and its contents – “…this circumstantial evidence.”
Ben snorted derisively. “You’ve never even laid eyes on the man!”
“But I’ve seen his farm; I’ve talked to people who know him. Everything points to a vulnerable man; a victim, not a murderer.”
“Victims can pass it on.”
She had to give him that. Violence and abuse often did breed the same. But then, although Trevor had suffered the trauma of his brother’s death, there had been no murmur of anything else. According to her mother, the Shoesmiths had been an ordinary family that had suffered an extraordinary tragedy.
Ben was watching her think. His expression was warmer somehow. He cocked an eyebrow in silent query.
She acknowledged it ruefully.
“My
He took a slim torch out of an inner pocket.
“Want to bet?” he said, shining the torch inside the case. He turned towards her and beckoned her over with one latex-gloved hand. She crossed over to him and looked in. There, lit up in the torch beam, was a brown paper bag wrapped around something about the right size.
“It would seem Mrs Rose isn’t musical,” he said.
Oh Jessica! She thought. What have you got yourself into?
Ben was dialling his phone.
“What are you going to do?”
“Get SOCO in. This should give us enough to move on Shoesmith.” He read the look on her face and put his head down bullishly.
She stared down into the shadowy bowels of the case at the lighter patch that was the paper bag. She couldn’t deny the obvious circumstantial evidence, but the people just didn’t seem to fit the scenario. She was sure that something was badly wrong.
Ben finished his call.
“We have to wait until they get here. Damn! Should have kept the sergeant with me,” he muttered.
She could feel his impatience to be off. He was as restless as a thoroughbred in the starting gate, bristling with energy.
“What?” he challenged her.
“You’re so sure Trevor Shoesmith fits the bill?” Faith asked.
“You’re not?” He stilled, searching her face. “You think I’m making it fit,” he said slowly.
She didn’t know what to say.
His expression froze. It was as if a trap door had opened up beneath their feet and they were back somewhere raw and intimate.
“His name’s not Fisher,” he said in a low voice.
She felt pierced by his eyes. There was anger behind them, and frustration and pain. Her throat closed. Her insides felt as if they were pushing to climb out of her mouth.
“I know.”
“But you thought it.”
It was true. She had thought of Richard Fisher. She tried to hold still but she couldn’t help glancing down.
“No.” She faced him squarely, her voice firm. “That was an entirely different case; a different time.”
“Yes,” he said. “It was.” And he turned his back on her.
One pace away, he changed his mind and spun back.
“You’re never going to forgive me for that, are you?” he demanded.
“It’s not about forgiving you,” Faith protested. “It’s more about…” She swallowed the word she was about to use and substituted another. “…concern.”
“Tcht!” Ben made an angry, dismissive noise.
Faith took a step towards him. “You don’t pay enough account to humanity – the faces in the midst of all this; the individual persons.”
Now she’d made him angry. He seemed to expand with energy and frustration.
“You know this job! I can’t get all touchy-feely about the…” – he made savage air quotes around the word – “… persons . Do that and you lose your judgment. You make mistakes.”
“Or you make mistakes because you don’t.”
She had a sudden comic vision of them facing off like cats in the house of God. Then it didn’t feel so funny.
“But we’re not talking in general. This is about Trevor Shoesmith,” she said.
Ben shot her a cynical look.
“It doesn’t seem to me that he fits with this…” – she waved a hand at the brown paper bag and its contents – “…this circumstantial evidence.”
Ben snorted derisively. “You’ve never even laid eyes on the man!”
“But I’ve seen his farm; I’ve talked to people who know him. Everything points to a vulnerable man; a victim, not a murderer.”
“Victims can pass it on.”
She had to give him that. Violence and abuse often did breed the same. But then, although Trevor had suffered the trauma of his brother’s death, there had been no murmur of anything else. According to her mother, the Shoesmiths had been an ordinary family that had suffered an extraordinary tragedy.
Ben was watching her think. His expression was warmer somehow. He cocked an eyebrow in silent query.
She acknowledged it ruefully.
“My
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