Catch the Fallen Sparrow by Priscilla Masters Page B

same with the ring. She stared at it, the looped ‘A’ that ran into an equally flourishing ‘L’, watched by an almost Masonic eye. Why leave money and the easily sold things – television, video, cameras ... a clock. Damn, she thought. It didn’t make sense. But if the house had not been burgled why would a family call the police and report a burglary? Could they have been mistaken? Forgotten? She leafed through the report again. Then there was the broken glass.
    And now the ring had turned up on a murdered boy...
    She rolled her pen between her fingers.
    Mike wandered in and perched on the desk and she looked up at him. ‘There’s something funny about this.’ She indicated the report. ‘I can’t quite see the connection but I bet a pie and a pint that there is one.’
    He picked up the folder and nodded, then asked in a casual voice that didn’t fool her for a minute, ‘Where is Levin anyway?’
    â€˜Cephalonia,’ she said sharply. ‘And he’s probably having a wonderful time.’ She met his eyes. ‘So can we drop the subject now?’

Chapter Four
    Joanna fingered the folder but Mike’s question had conjured up an unwelcome image – Matthew on a family holiday with his daughter and his wife. She had met Jane Levin twice. The first time had been at a restaurant. She had burst in on them, her guilty husband and his mistress, vengeful, furious, mad with jealousy. Matthew had followed her home, a penitent sheep, leaving Joanna to pay the bill and abandon the restaurant under the curious gaze of the other diners.
    The second time she had met Jane she had been under control, investigating the murder of a nurse. Matthew had been involved – more involved than he had at first admitted. She had had to question him further – and to save him embarrassment and suspicion, and herself from an unenviable ‘bringing him in for questioning’, she had driven to the farmhouse at the foot of the moors. There she had met Jane again ... Thin and unhappy-looking with a sharp edge to the clean and Nordic beauty that encased her like ice – and a child who mirrored her insecurity and clung to her like bindweed.
    Matthew’s wife she may have been but Joanna had never quite learned to hate her ...
    Mike was still watching her. ‘Thirteen hours,’ he said.
    â€˜Thirteen hours since we found his body. And no one’s come forward. Why not?’
    â€˜Maybe he hasn’t been missed,’ she ventured. ‘Parents away on holidays ... think he’s elsewhere – with a friend? I don’t know.’ She ran her fingers through her hair and frowned. ‘I don’t feel we can get anywhere in this investigation, Mike, until we know who he is. Somebody will come forward soon. Let’s clock off now,’ she suggested, ‘and have an early start in the morning. Maybe tomorrow will bring us an identity.’
    But tonight, as she neared home, she couldn’t face spending another evening alone. So instead of entering her own home she knocked on the next door, a stout old-panelled thing with a wrought-iron knocker.
    Tom Fairway opened it, still in his navy solicitor’s suit. He gave a broad grin when he saw her. ‘Jo,’ he said delightedly. ‘My prayers have been answered. A beauty has arrived to share my evening. Brilliant. Come in – have a drink.’
    Tom’s cottage was hazy with a warm smell of wood-smoke, and there were two deep armchairs either side of the fire. He poured two tall glasses of red wine and raised his glass to her with a grin.
    â€˜What brilliant luck,’ he said. ‘I was just wishing for company. The night is young; I’ve a fresh salmon in the fridge, given by a grateful client impressed by my skills as a defence counsel.’ He glanced at her severely. ‘You know you lot really can be quite cruel to elderly gentlemen with clean licences ...