The Advent of Murder (A Faith Morgan Mystery) by Martha Ockley Page A

conspiratorially. The press officer seemed to fill out as his confidence returned.
    “Maybe a whisper,” he said, with an arched eyebrow, “but nothing I could talk about just now.” He smiled, letting her absorb his superiority. “I must be off. We have to get something in the can by midday.”
    The press officer hurried off with a slight frown, head held high and his leather folder clasped to his left breast. As she watched him leave, she realized that he probably wanted her here as much as Ben did. She was a spy in both camps.
    As if summoned by thought, she felt the air shift beside her. Ben towered above her, wrapped in a heavy wool overcoat, his hands in his pockets and his collar turned up. He stepped over her and dropped into the seat beside her.
    “It’s damn freezing,” he said.
    “Don’t swear in the house of God,” she said, with a straight face.
    He leaned his head back and gazed up into the stone vaults of heaven above them.
    “Sorry,” he said, unconvincingly.
    The girls squirmed around in their pew. They were whispering to one another, throwing glances toward Ben. He tended to draw admiring looks from teenage girls. Probably due to the height, the intense blue eyes and dark hair. Faith glanced at his profile. His nose was a bit big and sharp, though, once you knew him. She wondered how she could distil the previous night’s gossip into what Ben would term “intelligence”.
    “So where were you, precisely, yesterday, when you called?” Ben was looking at his team and their interviews. “You hung up in a hurry.”
    Faith struggled to subdue the memory of blushing on Jim’s toilet seat the day before.
    “What’s it to you?” she said. “I’m not under caution, am I?”
    Ben snorted, but he was smiling.
    Time to take control of the conversation. “How’s the investigation going?” she asked. “Have you charged Markham?”
    Ben sank further into his upstanding collar. He flicked a glance at her, his eyes crinkling at the side. “What’s it to you?”
    “I am a curious person,” Faith replied.
    “Ain’t that the truth.”
    She smiled. “So – you must have some prelims from the post-mortem?”
    “Maybe.”
    Over by the marble statue, Peter had finished with his current interviewee. The young man in the beanie hat joined the blonde girl. Peter spotted Faith and came down the aisle toward them. He sat down in the row in front of them and, with a welcoming smile, stretched his hand over the pew back.
    “Hello, Faith.” They shook hands. “Has the boss been bringing you up to date?”
    “He’s was about to tell me about the PM,” she replied, reflecting Peter’s warmth in her own smile. “What’s the latest news?”
    Peter looked to Ben, and Ben shrugged. “May as well tell her.”
    “Death occurred more than twenty-four hours before the body was discovered,” said Peter.
    “And we know this because…?” she queried. For a moment she was back in the force, speaking as if Peter were her trainee. He didn’t seem to mind.
    “Condition of stomach contents – digested pepperoni pizza and black coffee,” he responded, pleased with himself. Peter was still fresh enough to the investigating team to betray his excitement with his trade. “Probably died sometime in the afternoon or later on Saturday. Pathologist said it was hard to tell.”
    “Taking into account the frost affecting decomp?” Faith asked.
    Peter nodded. “So that takes Oliver Markham out of the running,” Faith commented, just resisting slipping a pleased glance in Ben’s direction.
    “Could be.” Peter’s expression didn’t have the force ofagreement she was looking for. “Markham says he drove his family down to London on Friday night, and stayed with the family at their hotel through the weekend before driving back Sunday night.”
    “And you don’t believe him?” Faith addressed her query to Ben. His face gave nothing away.
    “We’re checking.” Peter’s response seemed more intended to