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

stairs stood up. She straightened and took a step back. She heard the latch turn and the door opened halfway.
    Adam Bagshaw was maybe an inch taller than her, with tousled hair – a short back and sides that had grown out. Above several days’ worth of stubble, his skin was smooth with fine pores. Late thirties, she guessed. The hand holding the door trembled. He rubbed the other across his chin and face, his eyes fixed downwards.
    “Don’t know you, do I?” he mumbled. He stood there, swaying slightly. He didn’t smell too good – unwashed, witha lingering under-note of stale alcohol – and the open door was letting the icy air in. Time to take charge. She put a hand on the door, and pushed lightly. He stood aside to let her in.
    “My name’s Faith Morgan,” she said again. “I am vicar at St James’s in Little Worthy. You go and sit down. I’ll make you a cup of tea.” She stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her. Her determination acted like a force field, shifting him before her into the front room, a plain, modern, open-plan rectangle. A brown leather sofa occupied one wall, with a matching armchair at an angle to it. It looked as if Adam had been sleeping on the couch. A pummelled pillow was jammed in the crook of one armrest and an unzipped sleeping bag flopped open, like a split fruit, its ruby inner lining contrasting with the military green outer quilting. The room was a mess. Faith removed an old newspaper from the chair and Adam Bagshaw collapsed into it, his bare legs smacking against the leather. She spotted a plaid blanket pooled on the floor by the couch. She scooped it up and draped it over his legs.
    Kitchen units stood beyond the barrier of a breakfast bar at the top of the room. “When did you last have something to eat?” she asked. He murmured something she didn’t catch. He had stopped crying. He just sat, his eyes cast down. “Not for ages, I’ll bet,” she answered herself. “I’ll make some tea and find you something to eat.” As she moved purposefully toward the kitchen, her foot knocked glass. A vodka bottle. In her head, she amended the tea order to coffee; strong coffee.
    The instant coffee jar was empty, and she couldn’t locate any tea bags. At first Faith thought she might have to resort to stale bags of ginger tea she found at the bottom of a tattered old box, then she discovered half a pack of ground coffee at the back of the bread bin. No milk in the fridge – just a packof beer with three cans missing, and a foil container half-filled with what looked like Chinese takeaway. How long it had congealed there she didn’t like to think. There seemed to be nothing else of substance to eat. The kitchen cupboards looked as if no one had done any proper shopping since Trisha Bagshaw died. In the main cupboard, in the margins by the door, a couple of dog-eared boxes of cereal shared a shelf with a stack of cup-a-soup packets. At the back she could see the neatly ordered supplies of someone who had enjoyed cooking – herbs, spices and curry mixes; a tin of asparagus spears.
    Faith made the coffee double strength and loaded sugar into it.
    “Drink this.” Adam hadn’t moved. She put the mug into his hand. It shook. He wrapped his other hand around the ceramic to steady it, and took a sip.
    “Thanks.”
    A framed photograph of a younger Adam hung on the wall. Taken in bright foreign light, he wore a soldier’s uniform, shading his eyes with one hand, smiling shyly into the lens. Yes, she might have guessed he had been a serviceman – he had that toughened look she often saw in Christmas-time soup kitchens. He looked sweet and uncertain in the photo, though.
    “Were you getting up or going to bed?” she asked, conversationally.
    “What?” He looked at her for the first time. Despite the swelling and red rims, his chocolate brown eyes had an appealing, lost puppy quality. She nodded down at his black-socked feet and bare calves protruding beneath the