The Reluctant Detective (Faith Morgan Mysteries) by Martha Ockley Page A

first sight of Trevor Shoesmith’s land was of a pony standing in a field of weeds.” She had his full attention. No one could listen like Ben, when he chose to focus.
    “Oh, I don’t know!” She spread her hands, appealing for his comprehension. “It was so sad and lonely and pathetic.”
    “And that’s how you see its owner?”
    “Something like that. From what I hear, Trevor Shoesmith is entirely alone. If he isn’t your man, just think what you…” she corrected herself hurriedly, “…the investigation must be putting him through.”
    He was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged.
    “Can’t afford to think about it. I have to follow the evidence.”
    The moment had passed. It was as if he had shrugged his armour back into place. They didn’t speak another word. By the time the scene of crime team arrived five minutes later, they were standing a minimum of ten yards apart.
     

    A crime scene photographer in overalls took pictures of the parcel in the piano case. Then they lifted it out and set it carefully on a pew for more photographs. Finally, Ben opened up the bag carefully and peered in. He looked up at Faith with the faun-ish expression she remembered so well.
    “Bingo!”
    Faith looked inside. It was a two-litre tin of pesticide. There were dark treacle-like stains around the cap.
    The scene of crime officer was brushing powder over the piano lid with neat, economical strokes, his face intent. Faith stood by, watching him. She didn’t want to stay, but she wasn’t sure if she should leave the church unattended. Ben finished yet another phone call. He spoke in her direction, barely looking at her.
    “I’ll need your formal witness statement.” He started walking to the door.
    He was dismissing her. Faith felt the old stubbornness well up inside her. No matter if she had no official right to be part of this investigation; she had a responsibility to the people of Little Worthy. She wasn’t going to allow her personal witness to be reduced to the insufficient bare words of an official statement. She caught Ben up. She had to put a hand on his arm to stop him.
    “Where are you going?”
    He frowned and looked deliberately down at her hand, pale against the dark wool of his suit.
    “The warrant’s come through. I am going over to the farm.”
    “I’m coming with you,” she said.
    She had to see Trevor Shoesmith for herself – this time she would take responsibility for her actions.
    “Suit yourself,” Ben said, and he strode out ahead of her into the daylight.

CHAPTER
9
    G REY CLOUDS HAD COVERED THE SKY . Rain was on its way. Faith could feel the first few specks in the breeze. Ben had long legs, and Faith struggled to keep up. She had only recently taken up jogging again. She congratulated herself on her foresight.
    As they crossed the lane, she noticed a dash of colour on the pristine picture of the green. An old, dull red Ford Escort was parked on the far side. The driver was still sitting in it. A man; at this distance, a vague presence. He didn’t get out. The first journalist, she thought. There would be more soon.
    They were approaching the brick farmhouse. Her foot slipped in a rut of the muddy track. She was wearing her favourite boots. They were a pleasing shade of toffee, and soft as butter. She glanced down ruefully at the splattered leather. She wasn’t sure they would stand up to this.
    Trevor Shoesmith’s home had no curtains visible in the windows. It gave the farmhouse a blank, derelict look. A police car was parked at an angle in front of the door, and beyond it, a white RSPCA van. There was no one in sight. No barking dogs. No movement.
    “I told the PC to be here. Where the devil is he?” muttered Ben, his face grim. The five o’clock shadow along his jawline was stark against his skin. He picked up the pace.
    The front door’s paint had once been ox-blood red but now, cracked and peeling, it had an unhealthy whitish bloom. Ben stopped short. Faith almost ran