Dead Money (A Detective Inspector Paul Amos Lincolnshire Mystery) by Rodney Hobson Page B

all day. My wife helped me with my sermon for Sunday in the morning and we visited hospital in the afternoon. Visiting genuine deserving cases,” he added with a hint of sarcasm.
     
    Amos rose. "Thank you for your time - and for sacrificing your moments with the ladies of your parish," he remarked.
     
    Thornley looked without success to see if Amos was genuinely thanking him or being sardonic.
     As the officers were leaving, Amos turned suddenly and inquired: "Is the church left locked?"
     
    Thornley looked lightly apprehensive. He clearly did not know quite how to take Amos.
    "Yes, usually," he replied. "The key is at number 75, the house next door."
     As they got into the car, Swift also looked slightly puzzled. "What do you expect to find in the church, sir?" she asked.
     
    "Nothing in particular," came the reply, "but Jones was a regular churchgoer and so might his murderer have been. It would be rather remiss not to take the chance of looking inside when we are so close. Besides, Thornley seemed to clamp up suddenly and I wanted to unsettle him."
     

 
     
     
    Chapter 17
     
    Swift drove the short distance back to the church while Amos mused silently. She pulled up outside the caretaker's house but there was no need to go in search of the key, since the church door was ajar.
    “Do you think that Thornley was telling the truth about being with his wife all day Friday?” she asked. “I took it you were working on the similarities of the two surnames.”
    “Bit of a coincidence, Thornton and Thornley,” Amos responded. “But no, I don’t think that Mrs Vicar was the mystery visitor to Killiney Court on the fateful evening.”
     
    The two officers nonchalantly covered the few yards of pathway from the church gate and walked in. There was no obvious sign of life despite the perceived need to keep the church locked when it was empty. The women’s group were keeping their disappointment at the non-appearance of their beloved vicar private behind one of the doors leading off from near the rear of the church.
     
    Amos and Swift strolled up the aisle in conversation.
     "The thing that keeps coming back to bother me," Amos remarked as he gazed round, taking in the surroundings so familiar to the murder victim, "is why Sarah Miles waited until Tuesday before going round to Jones's flat. If she was so concerned about him, why didn't she check out the apartment on the Sunday?"
     
    "Perhaps she wasn't all that bothered after all," Swift returned.
     
    "She was that," came a slightly indignant voice behind them.
     
    Only now, as they approached the transept, did they notice the vase and bunch of cut blooms lying on the front pew. A few wilting flowers lay alongside.
     
    The woman who now addressed the police officers had come in to refresh the arrangements for the midweek service.
     
    "She was that," the voice repeated firmly.
     Amos and Swift turned to see a middle aged woman, dressed in tweedy clothing, carrying a jug full of water. Her attire was past its best, though by no means threadbare.
     
    "You were here on the Sunday night," Amos said as an assertion rather than a question.
     "I was that," came the reply. "Are you reporters? I can tell you plenty. How much do you pay?"
     
    "We're not reporters, we're police," Swift responded as she produced her warrant card. "And we don't pay."
     
    The woman looked disappointed.
     
    "As you can tell us plenty, perhaps you would like to make a start," Swift suggested firmly.
     The deflated flower lady hummed and ha-ed quite a bit until she got going: "Sarah Miles was a man chaser. She never caught one because she always scared them off. Ray Jones was her last chance and she certainly went for it."
     
    "I understood the relationship had cooled a little," Amos remarked casually, allowing the hope of provoking her to further comments to override a strict adherence to the truth.
     
    "You wouldn't have thought so on Sunday night," came the hoped-for retort. "You