Free River Deep by Priscilla Masters

said.
    “You are joking?”
    It was not the response she’d expected. “No. It really is my name.”
    “And you don’t …?”
    Now he was being rude. This was beyond the pale. “I don’t anything,” she said coldly. “I called in on the off-chance that …”
    “Not to gloat, I hope. You look too nice for that.” He tossed a scowl over into the corner. The insurance man didn’t appear to notice. “Help pick over the drowning pieces?” he said hopefully, “Give me a hand salvaging my future?”
    “I don’t know if there’s anything …”
    “Do you want to browse?” His eyes were flickering across to the insurance investigator’s scrutiny of fungus growing in the corner. Even to her untrained eye it looked more than a week old. “Yes,” he called across. That’s what happens when the flood waters recede and the weather’s warm. All this seagrass’ll have to be torn up.”
    The insurance investigator murmured something unintelligible and Finton turned his attention back to her. “So what is it? Browse or the personal attention?”
    Her eyes picked out a dark painting dangling from one of the beams. He followed her gaze. “Yes – nice, isn’t it?”
    She laughed, putting the faux pas behind her. “Antique shop owners always say that – praise the would-be purchaser’s taste.”
    This time he blushed. “Well,” he said gruffly. “What else would we say? Laugh because you homed in on the worst object in the entire place?”
    “Is it?”
    “Certainly not.”
    “Look – I don’t really see anything.”
    He lost interest in her. “OK. Fine. Do call again. Goodbye.”
    As the door pinged behind her she wondered whether Alex Randall and his team had called into Finton’s Antiques as part of their investigation.
    She continued up the hill towards the town, passing the
Lion & Pheasant
. Part pub, part small, cosy, private hotel, her mind flicked back to the puzzle of who lay on Mark Sullivan’s mortuary slab. There seemed no way it could be Haddonfield but if he wasn’t dead where was he? And if the body was Haddonfield’s how on earth had he magicked himself from Oswestry back to Shrewsbury, a distance of thirteen miles. Too far to walk. If he had returned why had he pursued the double journey? Had he forgotten something? Important? How had he returned? To his death? And what about the anomaly over the phone calls? And the timing? Martha shook her head. She didn’t envy Alex Randall unravelling this one.
    She reached the top of the steep hill, continued along the High Street and made her purchases in Appleyards, breathing in the scent of freshly milled coffee as she chose ham, olives, French cheese and sun-dried tomatoes. She called into Tanners wine shop on the way back down the hill and dawdled over the selection, finally picking a New Zealand Shiraz from the bin. She loved the place and its atmosphere of Georgian elegance. The best wine shop she’d ever been to. And that included London and the famed Fortnum & Mason’s. She felt released, free as she walked back down the hill, but as she reached the English Bridge her mobile phone rang. It was Mark Sullivan. She could barely hear him over the roar of the water still threatening. She was vaguely surprised to hear his voice. He didn’t usually approach her direct but dealt withJericho who then passed details on to her. Besides – she had not been aware that Mark Sullivan knew her mobile phone number.
    “Where are you?”
    “Believe it or not, on the English Bridge. I can just make out Marine Terrace.”
    Sullivan gave a huge chuckle. “Not turning private investigator, are you, Martha?”
    “Absolutely not.” She defended herself, “I was calling in at the deli and couldn’t resist a rummage through Tanners’ wine bins.”
    “Don’t make me thirsty.”
    “Did you want something?”
    “It’ll keep.”
    “Why don’t you pop over later, Mark,” she said impulsively. “I’ve bags of food and some very interesting