Late of This Parish by Marjorie Eccles Read Free Book Online Page A

but resigned Mayo who sat back in the passenger seat while his sergeant, Martin Kite, put his foot down on the stretch of road in front. Tough luck that Castle Wyvering was situated at the furthest point of the division, just inside the boundary – another mile or two and it would have been Hurstfield’s pigeon. After a while, he settled down. Having had DC Farrar with him over the last couple of weeks while Kite had been conducting an investigation into a series of break-ins at local supermarkets, he was more than usually appreciative of his cheerfully capable sergeant by his side once more. Farrar was OK by his own lights – bright and alert and plenty of initiative, even if he did know it all and dressed like a male model. In fact nobody – least of all Farrar – could understand why he’d twice failed his promotion boards.
    â€˜Manage to get something to eat before we left, did you –?’
    Kite only just bit back the ‘sir’. He knew Mayo found too many of them boring and unnecessary between them but years of discipline and training made the habit hard to kick. He’d better watch it, though, or there’d be some caustic comment. Very sarky he could be when he wanted, the gaffer. Still, like most of the team once they were used to him, Kite considered himself lucky to be working with Mayo. He was fair, if you were fair with him, not soft but not case-hardened, either. He’d arrived in Lavenstock with a sharp reputation behind him. Wariness had changed to respect, respect to liking – though most of the team would have been hanged, drawn and quartered before they’d admit this.
    Another of Mayo’s little ways that Kite had grown used to was that he was inclined to forget about food when the job was under way. Not everyone shared this tendency. Especially Kite, whose metabolic processes kept him as thin as a long drink of water but demanded frequent stoking. He had, however, learned to suss out where he stood regarding meals and act accordingly, hence the question.
    â€˜An omelette,’ Mayo answered, sounding glum. As though it had been hastily gobbled and lay heavily on his stomach. ‘Left a mixed grill behind and all.’
    â€˜Shame. We had Lancashire hotpot. Sheila’s a dab hand – lashings of onions and the potatoes all crisp and brown.’
    â€˜I should be so lucky.’
    Kite looked smug and thought of Sheila and his two kids, and pitied Mayo. And envied him because he might, or might not have, Alex Jones. Or maybe pitied him for that, too. Sergeant Jones wasn’t anybody’s soft option.
    Mayo asked abruptly, ‘What’s the form then, Martin?’
    Kite relayed what he’d been told: that a parson by the name of Willard had been found dead in his church. That the doctor called in hadn’t been the dead man’s usual one, but a locum who wasn’t satisfied that it was a natural death. That Ison, the police surgeon, had been contacted at a formal dinner party and would arrive as soon as he could. In sum, no more than Mayo already knew. He added, ever optimistically, that it would like as not turn out to be nothing.
    â€˜Let’s hope you’re right, and we can all go home.’ Not every suspicious death was murder and not every murder by any means required a prolonged and intensive investigation. More often than not, the murderer would be waiting for them, shocked and speechless at what had happened in a moment of uncontrolled rage, wife, husband or some other relative dead at their feet. ‘The Press’ll have a field day, if not. Imagine the headlines!’
    Kite was more concerned with finding his way. Surely there should’ve been a signpost before this, he was asking himself when Mayo spoke again, asking to be put in the picture about this benighted spot they were making their way to. ‘I suppose you’ve been here before?’
    Kite, locally brought up, was used to briefing