Wesley Peterson: The Blood Pit Part 26

Gerry Heffernan scratched his head. He'd almost forgotten about their appointment with Colin Bowman. Or perhaps he'd put it out of his mind because it was difficult to face a postmortem on a sunny Sat.u.r.day.

But there were some things that couldn't be avoided. And duty was one of them.

Barty Carter hadn't ventured into Tradmouth for some time. But he needed to eat bread and milk and some tins to keep him going. In days gone by his wife had seen to that sort of thing but since she left he'd had to make occasional forays into town, scurrying in then scurrying out again, keeping his head down, courting an anonymity that was hard to win with the odour of the farmyard clinging to his battered waxed jacket.

Today he parked the mud-splattered Land Rover he'd bought when he arrived in Devon to give him the appearance of a genuine son of the soil, in a side street and made his way to Winterlea's supermarket. He had made a mental list of his requirements which included nothing stronger than a few cans of Boddingtons. Since he'd met Rachel Tracey, he'd felt more hopeful about the future. Even the pigs seemed to sense it.

When he was in London he'd held down a high-powered job dealt with contracts worth millions. The countryside had defeated him once but now he was going to get up and fight. It was Sat.u.r.day he'd ring Rachel and ask her out for a drink. He'd say he needed her advice on some agricultural matter. And if she refused, he'd try again. Never had the arms of the law long or otherwise looked so inviting.

He walked on, enjoying his pleasant daydreams, barely aware of the crowds of shoppers milling through the High Street. It wasn't until he almost collided with a woman emerging from a gift shop, that he was jolted from his reverie.

The face on the other side of the road looked familiar. But it was a while before Barty realised where he had seen it before. Back in his days at Belsinger he had seen that face most days ... but it had hardly registered on his consciousness.

When he saw Rachel Tracey again he would mention it to her. Who knows? She might be impressed by his powers of observation. He took his mobile phone from his trouser pocket and began to search for the card she'd given him with her number printed on it.

CHAPTER 12.

Extract from 'The History of Veland Abbey' available from all good local bookshops Late in 1535 the methodical John Tregonwell, a Cornishman and a subordinate of Thomas Cromwell, was ordered to visit various religious houses in the South-West and report back to his master. Of all Henry VIII's commissioners he seems the most reliable and independent and he didn't mince his words.

On visiting Veland Abbey he reported that 'The house is well repaired but 300 in debt. I send you a shoe called Mary Magdalen's shoe and St Helena's comb and St Margaret's tooth. I send you also a book of the miracles of St Petroc which I found in the library. The Abbot of Veland is a virtuous man. But his monks are more corrupt than any others in vices with both s.e.xes.'

Wesley Peterson and Gerry Heffernan strolled back to the police station. The postmortem was over, much to Wesley's relief.

Colin Bowman stuck to his opinion that Mortimer Dean had probably been poisoned and samples had been sent off to the lab. Although Colin, ever cautious, wanted to wait for the results before he committed himself to a formal report, he admitted albeit cautiously that hemlock was a possibility. The dead man had consumed whisky shortly before his death just like the others. But Colin concluded that this might just be a coincidence lots of people, including himself, enjoyed a drop of Scotch at the end of a busy day. Colin's tentative verdict was that Dean had taken his own life. But Wesley had seen that extra gla.s.s on the draining board, washed and wiped carefully of any tell-tale fingerprints. Someone had wanted it to look like suicide but he wasn't falling for it. He was certain that Mortimer Dean had known the ident.i.ty of the Spider. And now Mortimer Dean was dead.

And there was someone else who might know what, if anything, had happened at Belsinger School all those years ago. Frankie the recipient of Mortimer Dean's last e-mail. As soon as he was back in the office, Wesley looked up the phone number of Shenton Abbey and his call was answered by a Father Joseph who seemed rather excited at the prospect of a visit from the police. Wesley went to some pains to rea.s.sure Father Joseph that he only wished to speak to a potential witness and that there was no question of anyone at the abbey being hauled off to the cells. After this rea.s.surance, Father Joseph became almost gus.h.i.+ngly co-operative and confirmed that Francis Duparc was indeed at the abbey and that he was now known as Brother Francis.

Brother Francis wouldn't be available to speak to him until Monday, during his recreation period. The words were said with a certainty that brooked no argument. Brother Francis answered to a far higher authority than the police he was out doing G.o.d's work that afternoon and an interview on the Sabbath was out of the question. Wesley, using all his store of tact, asked whether he could spare half an hour that afternoon as the matter they were investigating was rather serious. Somehow he didn't like to mention the word murder to this man he imagined to live on a higher, more unworldly plain than most mortals. In the end Father Joseph relented and told him that Brother Francis was helping out a priest at an inner city parish in Plymouth that afternoon. The monks at Shenton Abbey weren't an enclosed order, he added they involved themselves in the community and the life of the area. He told Wesley where he could be found and Wesley wrote down the address.

The fact that Brother Francis was helping at a Catholic church in the middle of a Plymouth council estate made Wesley uneasy. If he'd been a member of an order that had no dealings with the outside world, he would undoubtedly have been safe. But if he was out and about, anyone could get to him. And that included the killer.

But he told himself that Brother Francis would almost certainly be working with others and then he would return to the abbey where privacy would be a rare commodity almost like the boarding school he had attended in his youth. He would eat in the abbey refectory with the other brothers. No risk of a hemlock nightcap. Unlike the other victims, he'd be perfectly safe.

As they didn't want a wasted journey, Wesley called the presbytery of St Giles' church to make sure Brother Francis was still there. A woman with a soft Irish accent, possibly the priest's housekeeper or a stalwart lady of the parish, said that Brother Francis would be there helping at the homeless drop-in centre till five. She sounded disapproving, as though she imagined the presence of the police would set the cat amongst the charitable pigeons. Perhaps she imagined that they were coming to hara.s.s the unfortunates who came to the church hall seeking shelter and a bowl of soup. But when Wesley told her that all they wanted was a chat with Brother Francis about something he might have witnessed, she softened a little and said she'd tell the brother to expect them.

When Wesley broke the news to Gerry Heffernan that they had an appointment with Francis Duparc, the DCI didn't seem as excited as Wesley had expected him to be.

'Before we see him, I want another word with that Norman Hedge,' he said. 'He knows more than he's telling if you ask me. With a little persuasion, he might be able to give us the low-down on Duparc. And, who knows, he might know who "our friend" is.'

Wesley looked puzzled.

'Mortimer Dean's e-mail to Frankie: I'm frightened for our friend. Who's he talking about? That's what I want to know. Mind you, it'd be just our luck if this Brother Francis has decided to take a vow of silence.'

'That's the Trappists, Gerry. He's a Benedictine.' He looked at his watch. 'Well I suppose Norman Hedge lives on our route so we can have a quick word if that's what you want.'

When they left the office Rachel was talking on the phone. She blushed when she caught Wesley's eye and he wondered why. Perhaps all would be make clear in due course.

Neil called in at the dig on Sat.u.r.day afternoon, just to check that everything was okay. When he arrived he saw no sign of disturbance. Just an archaeological site with the foundations of a substantial, high-status building, clearly visible now and laid out before him like a plan in the rough brown earth.

He hadn't heard a word from Annabel since her despondent call the previous day when she'd reported that the last abbot's journal was missing. Someone had taken a contemporary account of life at Veland Abbey from the archives either that or some wannabe librarian on work experience had put it in the wrong place. These things happened. But he was still curious. He wanted to know exactly what had gone on at the seyney house. And whether Brother William had ever actually existed.

He looked around. Everything was ready for an early start on Monday and there was nothing more to do. The powers that be had declared the training excavation a success, for which Neil was truly thankful. The archaeological unit's funding was always a headache and at least the payments from the trainees had helped to fill the coffers a little as well as spreading the word.

He was just about to leave the site, locking the gate behind him, when his phone rang. He heard Diane's voice on the other end of the line and his heart lifted a little. She was asking what he was doing. She was inviting him round. Things were looking up.

Half an hour later he was at Diane's door. She lived in a flat on the outskirts of Neston a slightly rundown Victorian house with flaking green paint. Cheap and not particularly cheerful.

Diane led Neil to her flat on the first floor which turned out to be more s.p.a.cious than he had imagined. Diane had tried to conceal its basic shabbiness, cheering it up with bright Indian throws and wall hangings which, as Neston was known for that sort of thing, had probably been bought locally.

'I've just been to the dig to check things over,' Neil said as he made himself comfortable in a sagging armchair.

'No sign of Lenny?'

Neil shook his head. 'I reckon we gave him the fright of his life when we turned up that night. He seemed remarkably quiet yesterday, didn't he?' He hesitated. 'I've had another letter.'

Diane began to finger the beads around her neck. 'What does it say?'

'It rambles about this monk who lived at Veland Abbey. Brother William. I've asked Annabel to go through the archives for any reference to him but ...'

'But what?'

'I'm just scared the letters might have something to do with these Spider murders. My mate Wesley's working on the case the victims were left to bleed to death and ...'

The colour drained from Diane's face. 'But why should the killer write to you?'

'I was on telly, wasn't I? I stuck my head above the parapet.' He paused. 'Whoever wrote these letters is interested in history. He knows all about the abbey and the seyney house.' He thought for a moment. 'Norman Hedge was a history teacher and he's interested in the history of Veland Abbey. He was the first to put his name down for that trip to the abbey ruins next week.'

Diane considered this possibility for a few seconds. 'You think it could be him?'

'Probably not. He seems remarkably sane. Lenny's probably a better bet with all his bronze age ritual stuff. Or is it the Aztecs?' Neil said, earning himself a smile. 'Very big in Devon, the Aztecs.'

Diane sighed. 'Poor Lenny.'

'You're not sorry for him?'

'Aren't you? Just a little bit?' She sat on the arm of Neil's chair. He could smell her perfume Patchouli oil, the scent that was the biggest seller in Neston's foremost New Age supermarket.

She bent towards him and he reached out to touch her face. Before he knew what was happening they were kissing, tentatively at first, then with more pa.s.sion. Diane stood up and held out her hand. Neil took it, clasping her fingers tight, and allowed himself to be led towards the bedroom.

On the way to Plymouth, Wesley and Heffernan had stopped off at Norman Hedge's little modern bungalow on the outskirts of Millicombe. But even though his pale blue Ford Fiesta was parked in the drive, Hedge wasn't at home or he wasn't answering his door.

They gave up and drove to Plymouth. St Giles' church was easy to find. It was stark and modern built in the architectural nadir of the 1960s as was the church hall attached to it. Sat.u.r.day was the day St Giles' church entertained the homeless and there seemed to be rather a lot of them, Wesley noted with a little sadness. A local doctor had come along to give medical treatment and advice in one of the small offices off the main hall and there was a long queue for his services. Brother Francis was doling out bread and steaming soup with the parish priest, exchanging a few words with the men as they collected their food, asking how they were and generally exuding sympathy.

Brother Francis looked the part. Tall and thin with the long, sensitive pale face of the ascetic scholar, he wore a small neat beard. He could have come from any century in his dark monk's habit. But his surroundings were firmly rooted in the present day.

Wesley felt awkward standing there watching the gaggle of men and a few women who were lining up so patiently for their humble meal. He knew that a good proportion of them would have seen the inside of a prison at some time in their life and he also knew that they'd probably consider him as an enemy. A representative of the society that had rejected them and kicked them in the teeth.

He waited patiently until the queue had dwindled, Gerry Heffernan standing silently at his side. 'Poor sods,' was his only comment. Unlike many in CID, Wesley had always known that the boss had a marshmallow heart.

Brother Francis looked wary as they approached. If he worked with the homeless, he was probably used to the police coming to call. And ready to leap to the defence of the underdog.

Wesley showed his ID discreetly, not wanting to cause alarm. 'Brother Francis?'

The monk nodded.

Wesley smiled sweetly. 'We're sorry to bother you. Very good work you're doing here.'

'Very necessary work, Inspector ... unfortunately. How can I help you?' There was still some wariness there, despite Wesley's best efforts to appear sympathetic and unthreatening.

'I believe you received an e-mail recently from a gentleman called Mortimer Dean.' It was a statement not a question.

Brother Francis nodded. 'That's right. Mortimer was my teacher. My housemaster in fact. We've kept in touch over the years and ...'

'I'm afraid I've got some bad news. Mr Dean was found dead yesterday morning. I'm very sorry.' Wesley bowed his head he thought it was appropriate while Gerry Heffernan looked on, solemn as an undertaker.

Brother Francis made the sign of the cross and mumbled a prayer. When he'd finished he looked up. 'How did he die? Was it a heart attack? A stroke?'

Wesley glanced at his boss and knew that it was up to him to do the talking. 'At first we thought he might have taken his own life ...'

Brother Francis looked horrified. 'I can't believe that. Mortimer had no reason to kill himself.'

'But now we think there's a possibility he might have been murdered.' Wesley watched the monk's face. There was a flicker of horror there, swiftly suppressed.

'n.o.body would want to kill Mortimer. He had no enemies. He was a retired schoolmaster who ran a bookshop an inoffensive man. Well liked.'

'You don't know how he died yet,' Heffernan observed, neglecting to add that they didn't either. All they had was guesswork until Colin Bowman received the toxicology report he was waiting for. 'For all you know he could have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time a stranger could have killed him in the course of a robbery nothing to do with his personality at all.'

Brother Francis swallowed hard. 'How did he die then?'

'We think he was poisoned.'

Brother Francis looked stunned. 'I can't believe it. He must have taken something by accident. n.o.body would want to harm Mortimer,' he reiterated. But he looked a little less sure of himself now.

'He mentioned someone in his e-mail our friend. Who was he talking about?'

The monk turned pale and his eyes widened in alarm. 'I ... I ...'

Wesley could almost see his brain working, trying to get out of answering the question without actually committing the sin of lying. 'Well?' he prompted.

'It was just someone Mortimer helped once a long time ago, that's all. It can't possibly have anything to do with his death.' He pressed his lips together. That was all he was prepared to say on the subject.

Wesley tried a fresh approach. 'Did you know Charles Marrick?'

The monk looked wary. 'Yes. We were at Belsinger together.'

'What about Simon Tench and Christopher Grisham?'

'Likewise. We were all in Tavistock House.'

'You'll know they're all dead. Murdered by the same person. The papers are calling the killer the Spider.'

'I had heard, yes.' He shook his head, a look of genuine sadness on his face. 'Terrible.'

'The only thing the victims seemed to have in common was Belsinger School ... and Tavistock House in particular. Unless you can think of anything else ...' Wesley looked at him expectantly but the only reply was a shake of the head.

'Can you think of anyone who'd want these men dead?' Heffernan asked bluntly. 'Anyone who had a grudge against them? Anything they'd done during their time at school or after they left?'

'I know I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, Chief Inspector ... or pa.s.s judgement on my fellow man, but Charles Marrick wasn't how shall I put it a good influence.'

Wesley picked up on the carefully phrased reply. 'But he was an influence? He was the sort of boy others followed?'

'Ever read Lord of the Flies, Inspector?'

Wesley nodded. He'd read William Golding's novel about the primitive nature of boys left to their own devices pretty early on in his school career.

'It's often the strongest who become the natural leaders, not the most virtuous. The Devil works very efficiently in the hearts of men, Inspector. Boys admired Marrick. They looked up to him.'

'And you?'

'I discovered the nature of the beast pretty early on. In spite of my calling, I've rarely encounter real evil. But there were times I thought I saw it in Marrick.'

'So you can understand why someone would want to kill him?'

'He must have hurt a lot of people in the course of his life. Perhaps he pushed someone too far. But we have to understand what made him like that. His parents divorced when he was young and he was rejected by ...'

Gerry Heffernan rolled his eyes. He was a churchgoer himself but sometimes he found conspicuous virtue rather irritating. 'Oh please. Don't make excuses for him. What about the other two Tench and Grisham? What were they like?'

'Just ordinary boys ... like myself I suppose.'

'So who'd want them dead?'

Brother Francis said nothing for a few moments. Then he shook his head. But something in his eyes told Wesley that he knew more than he was admitting. A gaggle of scruffily dressed men had just entered the hall and were making their way towards the soup like lions approaching a water hole.

'I'm sorry, gentlemen. I've told you all I can,' Brother Francis said as he stirred the blood-red tomato soup, ready to ladle it into the bowls that stood stacked at his side.

Wesley and Heffernan knew they weren't going to learn any more so they thanked him and left. At least they knew where to find him.

As they walked to the car, Wesley had the feeling that something Brother Francis had told them was very relevant to the case. Maybe it was just something small he'd said, a pa.s.sing comment. When Gerry Heffernan asked him what was on his mind, he didn't answer. He was trying to think.

Neil Watson had never been able to sleep during the day. And even if he'd had that happy ability, he rarely had the opportunity. So after he and Diane had made love, he lay awake, watching her sleep, listening to the soft sound of her breathing and wondering what had brought about his sudden rush of good fortune.