The Merchant's House Part 3

Rachel smiled to herself. Gerry Heffernan rarely swore only when discussing Detective Sergeant Marchbank.

'I know, sir. I ...' She hesitated.

'What is it, Rach?'

'It's, er, well, I've heard Steve Carstairs making a few comments. Not to Sergeant Peterson's face, of course. When he thinks he can't hear. You know the sort of thing.'

'He'll have picked up nasty habits from Marchbank. He thought the sun shone out of his backside. What a role model, eh? You did right to tell me, Rach. I'll keep an eye on things.'

'Sergeant Peterson found Marchbank's little comics, sir.'

'Did he now?'

'Didn't know how to get rid of them. Wasn't going to put them in the bin and shock the cleaners.'

The inspector chuckled again. 'I'm sure we'll think of something.'

'And a call came through half an hour ago. There's been another theft building materials. Looks like the same gang.'

'Send Steve Carstairs over, will you? And tell him I want a full report. In joined-up writing with full stops and capital letters.'

'Will do.'

He turned his attention back to the pile of plastic bags. 'Now then, what have we here?'

'There's nothing to identify her, sir. No handbag.'

'Do you ever go out without a handbag, Rach?'

'No ... no, I don't. You've got to have somewhere to keep your purse and your keys and all that.'

'So we can a.s.sume her handbag's been taken. Either by the murderer or someone who found it lying about.'

'Her murderer could have driven her there and she left it in the car.'

'Mmm, could be. Anything found in the pockets?'

'Only this.' Rachel produced a smaller plastic bag containing what looked like a business card. 'Hairdresser's, sir. The card was in her jacket pocket. It's fairly new and Gwen from forensic said they found bits of hair all over her sweater. Like when you have your hair cut and you keep finding bits of hair on your clothes for the rest of the day. I reckon she'd just been to the hairdresser's.'

'Let's have a look at that card.' He studied it closely. 'Anything from missing persons?'

'n.o.body fitting the description on this patch, but I've been in touch with some other local forces. There's one here ... Newquay. A surfer and his girlfriend staying in one of those backpackers' hostels. She walked out and he reported her missing. Blonde, medium height ... I've written down the details.'

'Do these look like backpacker's clothes to you?'

'Not a chance.' She picked through the plastic bags, studying the labels on the clothes. 'She was wearing a skirt. Far too conventional. And this jacket this stuff's not cheap.'

'Worth following up, though. She might have come into money and fancied a change of image. Anything else?'

'Girl from Dorset ... sort of fits the description. She had a row with her mother's boyfriend and walked out.'

'Check on that as well. And this hairdresser's ... do you know it?'

'Snippers and Curls. I know of it.'

'Ever been there?'

Rachel looked disdainful. 'No. There's someone comes to the farm to do our hair.'

'Well, get over to this Snippers and Curls place. See if they can come up with a name.'

'I'll find out who did her hair. They might have chatted.'

On her way out Rachel looked in the mirror, then in her purse to see if she could afford Snippers and Curls' prices.

An hour later Rachel found herself opening the art deco front door of Snippers and Curls. She wished she'd had a chance to wash her hair that morning. She was certain she looked a mess.

A young woman in her late teens, sitting behind the reception desk, greeted her with an insincere smile.

'Have you got an appointment?' Her voice had an automatic quality.

Rachel showed her identification and the smile disappeared.

'Do you want to speak to Mr Carl?'

Rachel wasn't going to let her get away that easily. 'Did you work on reception last Sat.u.r.day ... the seventeenth?'

The girl looked worried. 'Er, yeah.'

'Can you remember a customer, a young woman in her early twenties: slim, five foot seven, blonde hair?'

The girl hesitated, looking uneasy.

'Why don't you have a look in the appointments book? Might jog your memory.'

The book was examined. The girl shook her fas.h.i.+onable curls. 'They're all regulars.'

'Anybody who might fit the description I gave?'

'Well, Mrs Bolton's blonde ... but she's eight months pregnant.' She looked at Rachel enquiringly.

'Anyone else?'

'No. But she might have come in without an appointment.'

'Everything all right, Mich.e.l.le?' The girl jumped to attention as a tall, waistcoated man in his thirties with a ponytail glided towards them.

'Oh, er, this lady ...'

'Are you the manager, sir?' Rachel thought she'd better relieve Mich.e.l.le of the awesome responsibility of explanations.

"This is Mr Carl, Artistic Director,' Mich.e.l.le chipped in helpfully as Rachel showed her identification again.

'I was enquiring whether a blonde lady in her early twenties had her hair done here on the seventeenth ... last Sat.u.r.day.'

'Have you looked in the appointments book, Mich.e.l.le?'

'Yes. There's n.o.body like that, but I wondered if she came in on the off-chance. I can't remember anyone, but it happens, doesn't it, Mr Carl?' She looked at her boss anxiously for support.

He spent a moment in obvious thought. 'I can't remember anyone that day. I'll have a word with my staff. I've got another salon in Neston so I'm in and out. May I ask what it's about?'

'We're trying to identify a body found at Little Tradmouth yesterday. Her hair was newly cut and she had one of your cards in her pocket.'

Rachel thought she detected relief on the man's face. 'I leave those cards round in a lot of places ... cafes; that beauty place up on Fossway Hill. She probably just picked it up. It doesn't mean she had her hair done here.'

'If you could just ask your staff, sir.'

Rachel waited while he went round the chairs, whispering to the snipping staff. Each of them shook their beautifully designed heads.

'No. Sorry. Looks like she went somewhere else.' Mr Carl studied Rachel, looking her up and down with a practised eye. 'Have you ever considered a perm? Nothing strong, just a gentle one ... give you a softer look.'

Rachel shook her head and left, making a mental note to ask her hairdresser, Gladys a motherly creature a world away from Mr Carl and his staff about perms.

Mr Carl watched her go. The police were asking questions: that meant trouble. He went into the back office and picked up the phone.

Chapter 4.

The s.h.i.+ps sailed today for the Newfoundland. I pray G.o.d that the voyage be safe and prosperous and I beg His blessing upon my s.h.i.+ps.

Robert, the apprentice, hath been taken with the toothache and did ask Master Webb, the apothecary, for physic when he did visit my wife. Elizabeth fares a little better with Master Webb's mixture and the child doth seem to grow well. I keep from her bed as Master Webb doth advise.

Last night I did see Jennet in her s.h.i.+ft through the open door to her chamber. She is slender with full b.r.e.a.s.t.s and I did feel much roused with desire. She spied me and did shut the door. Lead us not into temptation, oh Lord.

Extract from the journal of John Banized.

14 March 1623.

'So what have we got?' Heffernan sat down in the swivel chair which rocked precariously under his weight.

'I've seen Mrs Truscot, guv. She gave me a better description of the young couple she saw on the coastal path. And she reckons the girl was carrying a handbag a small one which didn't really go with the rest of her get-up, if you see what I mean.'

'Put out a description of this pair. Someone might have seen them. Or better still, know where they are.'

'They could be miles away by now.'

'You know what you are, Wesley. A born pessimist.'

'Just being realistic, guv.'

'Well, be realistic in your own time. And don't keep calling me guv. Sounds like something out of The Sweeney ... and I've never driven a Ford Capri in my life.'

Wesley suppressed a grin. 'Sorry, sir.'

'Never mind. Anything else?'

'No sign of the murder weapon. But if it was chucked over the cliff, the tide would have carried it away.'

'Could have been caught in all that vegetation on the way down. Ever do any climbing at that university of yours?'

'Can't stand heights, sir.'

'There's a DC over at Neston who climbs. Can't remember his name but Rachel might know. See if you can sort something out. Any luck with that reconstruction expert at the university?'

'He's away on a lecture tour in the States. I could contact some other places if you want.'

'No. Leave it for now. We'll see if anything turns up first.'

The door opened.

'Come in, Rach.' Heffernan looked her up and down. 'It doesn't look any different.'

'What doesn't?'

'Your hair. I thought you were getting it done.'

'Not at those prices I wasn't. Looks as though our murder victim didn't get hers done there either. They said she hadn't been there. I even saw the Artistic Director, as they call him Mr Carl.'

Heffernan snorted. 'Mr Carl? You mean Charlie Grubbing? We did him for drink-driving about eighteen months back. Did you try anywhere else?'

'Every hairdresser in Tradmouth, sir. Nothing. I could try Neston next.'

'Good idea.'

'There was one thing, sir. That Mr Carl ... Charlie Grubbing; he seemed nervous about something.'

'Did he, now? Let's hope he hasn't been driving that BMW of his while he's still banned. If only the good ladies of Tradmouth knew that their hair was in such reckless hands. Anything from forensic, Rach?'