Wesley Peterson: The Blood Pit Part 27

He didn't really know much about Diane, apart from the fact she had studied archaeology at Reading University. But it was early days. They had all the time in the world. If they felt so inclined.

As he lay there restless, perhaps even a little bored, he began to think of all the things he should be catching up with on a Sat.u.r.day: shopping for the bare essentials; tidying up his flat so that it was fit for human habitation. He remembered the remains of last night's takeaway were still lying strewn on his coffee table but he supposed they could stay there another day.

Careful not to disturb Diane, he slid out of bed and crept across the bedroom on tiptoe, towards the chair where his clothes lay in an untidy heap. As he dressed, it struck him for the first time that perhaps his afternoon liaison had been a little unwise. He and Diane were colleagues they were contracted to work together on the training dig all summer and if it didn't work out between them, things might be embarra.s.sing at best and distinctly unpleasant at worst. He had always thought it a mistake to mix business with pleasure but there had been a few occasions when he'd broken his own rules usually with disastrous consequences.

He let himself out of the room. He needed coffee something to clear his head and once he'd put the kettle on, he flopped down on the sofa and picked up that day's newspaper. He didn't often have a chance to catch up with the news so he settled down to indulge himself until Diane woke up and joined him.

He glanced at the door, a sudden feeling of panic rising in his stomach. What if Diane expected more from the relations.h.i.+p than he was willing to give? But he tried to put the thought from his mind and flicked through the paper, his mind only half on what he read.

After a while, bored with the news, he stood up and wandered over to the tall bookcase in the corner of the room. You can tell a lot about people from the books they keep, he thought. He'd said that to Pam Peterson or Stannard as she'd been back then when they'd first met. But, being a student of English, Pam's selection of reading matter had been spot on. It was just a pity he'd been too lazy at the time to pursue the relations.h.i.+p and allowed his housemate, Wesley, to get there first. There had been times when Neil lay awake in the small hours, wondering how things would have worked out if he'd been more a.s.sertive. But then living with an archaeologist was probably as bad as living with a policeman as far as dedication to work was concerned, so Pam wouldn't necessarily have been any better off.

Diane's reading taste ran from historical mysteries, through archaeological textbooks to general history, especially the Tudor period, interspersed with a smattering of cookery and self-help books. But one book looked out of place: a dirty, decaying volume of great antiquity, encased in a clear plastic bag, which lay flat on the top shelf next to a book about the dissolution of the monasteries. Neil reached out and touched it. He couldn't help himself. Besides, Diane was asleep so she'd never know that her privacy was being invaded.

As he lifted the book, he realised there was something underneath. Bits of flimsy paper. Newsprint. Cuttings. Curious, Neil carried them over to the coffee table and began to read.

Diane must have cut the articles from the local paper. He read the headlines. 'Boys' grim discovery.' 'Bones found in wood.' 'Police appeal for information about skeleton.' 'Can you give a name to mystery skeleton?' 'Who is B I?' 'Bones belong to s.e.x offender.'

When the bedroom door opened he looked up guiltily. Diane was standing there dressed in a black silk kimono, staring at the newspaper cuttings in Neil's hands. He could see that her face had turned ash pale.

'What are you doing with those?'

'I found them on the shelf. Why? What's the matter?'

She marched over and s.n.a.t.c.hed them from his hand, ripping them, leaving Neil clutching the remnants.

Neil stood up. 'What's the problem? Do you know something about this skeleton business? If you do, you should ...'

There were tears in her eyes as she rushed over to the bookshelves. She picked up the book in the plastic bag and carried it over to the chest of drawers where her computer stood, still switched on, a screensaver of a firework display going through its silent routine. She hugged it to her for a few seconds then she thrust it into the top drawer.

'What's the book? It looks old. Is it ... ?'

'Just mind your own business. Leave me alone,' she snapped.

He walked over to her and put his arm round her shoulder. She was sobbing now. Shaking. In her agitation she had brushed against the computer mouse and the screensaver was replaced by a page of familiar-looking text. Neil stared at the words for a few moments, the truth dawning slowly.

He took hold of her shoulders and swung her round to face him. 'It was you. You wrote the letters.' He'd thought that when he came face to face with the author of his letters, he'd feel angry. But instead he felt stunned ... and confused.

She let out a shuddering sob and slumped in his arms, tears and mucus streaming down her face. Neil put his arms around her and held her close, stroking her hair, comforting her like a frightened animal.

'I didn't mean to kill him. It was an accident. I didn't mean ...' Her voice was m.u.f.fled by sobs.

Suddenly he felt a thrill of fear. He was alone with a killer. A couple of hours before they had become lovers but now she was a different person. And the change terrified him. Wesley had suspected the letters might be linked to the Spider murders and, if he was right, he could be in real trouble.

'Why don't you tell me what happened?' he whispered in her ear, playing for time, feeling in the pocket of his jeans to make sure his mobile phone was still there. .

'I tried to tell you in the letters. But I just ended up writing rubbish ... playing games so I didn't have to face the truth. I wanted to tell you ... I did my best.'

'And what is the truth?'

She shook her head and said nothing.

'What's all this stuff about Brother William?'

She turned away and shuffled over to the chest of drawers slowly, like an old arthritic woman. She opened the drawer, took out the book she had just hidden and placed it into Neil's hand. 'I went to the archives,' she said almost in a whisper. 'I was looking for stuff about Veland Abbey and I found this. It's my own story ... what happened to me. I know it was wrong but I took it. I had to have it.' She looked at him and he saw that her eyes were br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears. 'I killed a man, Neil. I'm a murderer. I wanted to confess but I couldn't ...' She shook her head and began to sob again, her whole body shaking.

Neil took a step back. 'I'll take the book back for you,' he said quickly. 'I'll say it was taken out by accident with a pile of other books. Or, better still, I'll just put it back on a shelf and they'll think it's just been put in the wrong place.' He knew he sounded too eager. He was appeasing a mad woman. And madness frightened him. Scared him stiff.

He wished he was somewhere else. Anywhere. The woman standing there was a stranger to him. He felt the mobile phone in his pocket again. He needed to speak to Wesley. But he didn't dare make the call for fear of upsetting her.

'The kettle's boiled. I'll make some coffee, shall I?' He moved slowly, like someone backing away from an unpredictable animal and as he poured the coffee, he knew she was watching him.

Early Sat.u.r.day evening on neutral ground. That was the arrangement Rachel Tracey had made. Just a drink. Casual. Nothing heavy. She had told her housemate, Trish Walton, where she was going she felt someone should know, just in case and Trish had said she was mad. He'd threatened her with a shotgun after all.

But Rachel's instincts told her she'd be safe. Barty Carter was a man who'd been driven to the edge by circ.u.mstances and his ex-wife. As Sat.u.r.day afternoon had worn on, she'd experienced a few small doubts, of course. She'd made a mistake once a bad mistake that had almost cost her her life. But she kept telling herself that this time things were different. This time she could trust her judgement. Anyway, it was only a drink and she'd said she could only spare an hour or so because of the demands of work.

She'd arranged to meet him at the Tradmouth Arms at seven she thought it best that he didn't pick her up at the rented cottage that she shared with Trish just outside Tradmouth, even though it would be on his route. And Gerry Heffernan lived next door to the Tradmouth Arms so she'd feel that there was somebody there in the unlikely event of an emergency. Her mother would have laughed at her if she'd known about the precautions she was taking. She would have said that if she was that uneasy about going for a drink with someone, she shouldn't be seeing them in the first place. Mothers were always right, of course. But sometimes daughters felt the risk might be worth it.

She wore jeans and a white T-s.h.i.+rt high necked because she didn't wish to give the wrong impression and parked her small car by the waterfront. She'd timed it so she would arrive five minutes late. The last thing she wanted was to be waiting in the pub on her own. She might pride herself on being a woman with modern att.i.tudes but there were still some things a girl just didn't do.

He was waiting for her at a table near the door. He'd reserved a chair for her and stood up as she approached.

'Rachel. Nice to see you.' Barty Carter sounded nervous, which she found rather gratifying. He'd abandoned his worn, stained clothes and his disreputable Barbour for clean jeans and a blue linen s.h.i.+rt. They were well cut probably expensive: leftovers from his days of city prosperity perhaps. He looked good. Scrubbed up well, as her mother would say. 'What are you having to drink?' he asked eagerly.

She pondered the question for a few moments then opted for an orange juice. She was driving. And, besides, she wanted to keep a clear head.

When he returned with the drinks Rachel asked him how his animals were. The pigs, he said, were well. And he was keeping the sty clean. He'd started doing jobs round the smallholding all the things he'd been putting off doing since his wife left. It had taken Rachel and Steve's visit and the incident with the shotgun to shock him out of his downward spiral. He'd reached the bottom and now the only way was upwards. He had Rachel to thank for bringing him to his senses for stopping him feeling sorry for himself, he said, looking at her like an adoring puppy. He was taking stock of his life. Seeing where he should go from here.

Rachel made encouraging noises. It wasn't often she was credited with saving someone's sanity. But the burden of his grat.i.tude lay heavy on her shoulders and she found that she wasn't altogether comfortable with the role of rescuer.

Their hour was soon up and Rachel began to regret her self-imposed time limit. To her surprise she found herself enjoying Barty Carter's company. He mentioned his ex-wife from time to time but he didn't harp on about his troubles, for which she was exceedingly grateful. Self-pity makes for a long evening.

When she told him she'd have to be off soon, he asked her how the case was going. Were they any nearer cracking the Belsinger connection? Rachel gave the usual noncommittal reply the enquiries were still ongoing.

'It's funny,' he said, frowning. 'I saw someone I knew from Belsinger in Tradmouth today. Well I didn't really know them more knew of them. Saw them around all the time. I'm sure it was the same person. I'm good on faces.'

Rachel was suddenly alert, like a hound that had caught the scent of its quarry on the breeze. 'Who are you talking about?'

Barty Carter proceeded to tell her, chatting away oblivious to the fact that he might just have become a key witness in a murder enquiry.

The killer flicked through the pages of Sat.u.r.day's paper. They were using that name again. The Spider. It was a name to frighten children. Tabloid shorthand for a monster. It was mocking the killer's purpose. Mocking all that suffering.

The killer put down the paper, picked up a small address book and began to turn the pages. There he was. Francis Duparc. The killer recalled his face. Serious, dark, eyes wide with fear. And something else fascination.

The clock in the corner told the killer it was nine o'clock. It was time to return to life. To put on the mask of normality.

Pam Peterson was having a dream, not a pleasant one. She was being chased up a hill by somebody or something she couldn't see and her legs would only move in slow motion. Her pursuer was catching up fast. And when she turned round she saw that it was Jonathan. She woke up sweating and breathless, her heart pounding, and looked at Wesley who appeared to be fast asleep beside her.

Della had turned up to babysit the previous evening, still unrepentant about letting them down the week before, talking as if she was doing them a huge favour. They'd had a pleasant meal at the Angel but Pam's mind had been on the Sunday lunch she was due to have with Maritia and Mark later that day. Jonathan would be there and the thought made her feel slightly sick. She'd feel safer if Wesley could have been with her. But, on the other hand, if Jonathan decided to make life awkward for her and drop hints about what had happened ... Wesley was a detective, after all. He would be bound to pick up the undercurrents.

She glanced at the alarm clock it was seven forty-five. Wesley would probably have to call into the police station that morning but first he'd promised to go down and make her breakfast. She turned back to him and kissed him gently on the forehead.

He stirred, a small smile playing on his lips, and was about to reach out to her when the phone beside the bed began to ring. Wesley muttered something softly under his breath and opened his eyes. It had to be for him. n.o.body but the police station would call at that time on a Sunday morning.

He rubbed his eyes and sat up before picking up the receiver. It turned out that he was half right. It was Rachel Tracey but she wasn't yet at work. However, she did have some news.

Wesley put the phone down and turned to Pam. 'Sorry. I've got to go into work right away.' He smiled. 'Well as soon as I've made your breakfast.' He grabbed his towelling bathrobe from the end of the bed. 'Rachel had a date last night and discovered something rather interesting.'

Pam was about to say something risque but decided against it. 'About this Spider?' she asked.

'Possibly. And if she's right it rather turns everything on its head.' He hesitated. 'I'll try and make it to Maritia's for lunch ... promise. I'll tell Gerry I ...'

'Don't worry. Maritia'll understand,' Pam said quickly.

'I know. But I want to have Sunday lunch with you and the kids,' he said before darting off downstairs to make the breakfast.

An hour later he was at the police station, perched on the edge of Rachel Tracey's desk, listening to a word for word account of Barty Carter's revelations.

'Do you think it's important?' she asked, thinking that perhaps, in her enthusiasm, she was making too much of it.

Wesley thought for a few moments. 'I don't know. Is Carter willing to make a statement?'

'I should think so.'

He hesitated. 'What if ... ?' He stopped himself. 'Look, I'm going to call Ches.h.i.+re police. There's something I want them to chase up.' He looked across at Gerry Heffernan's gla.s.s-fronted office. It was empty. The boss was probably having alarm clock malfunction problems they happened to him regularly. 'When the boss gets in, tell him I need to have a word with him. Tell him it's urgent.'

'Right you are,' answered Rachel, wondering whether she should volunteer to be the one to take Barty Carter's statement.

Diane had confessed to killing a man and Neil wasn't sure what to do about it ... or whether to believe her. When she was a child she'd killed him in the woods and left him to rot there. She'd nursed her terrible secret for years and at times she'd almost forgotten it, shoved it away into the dark recesses of her mind. Until she'd come across the story of Brother William, a story that had seemed to mirror her own.

When the two boys discovered the bones, Barry Ickerman had sprung back to life a grim Lazarus who n.o.body welcomed back from the dead. Least of all Diane. Neil hadn't stayed the night at her flat. It hadn't seemed appropriate somehow. After the first shock of discovery he'd decided not to call Wesley for the time being. Diane had seemed too fragile to face police interrogation. And he'd needed time to think.

She had seemed calm enough when he'd left her but he hadn't taken the book the journal of the last abbot of Veland home with him as he didn't want to push things. There would be plenty of time to return it to archives.

As he sat there sipping coffee alone in his Exeter flat, he considered his next move. Diane had only been a child when it had happened so surely there was no chance of her being prosecuted. He had told her this when he suggested that she should contact Wesley herself and speak to him but she'd said she couldn't face it and begged him not to betray her secret. He'd agreed after all, it had happened a long time ago and a few more days wouldn't make much difference.

The story she had told him kept running through his head. The isolated woodland, the man, the terrified child. The penknife that had been her only form of defence against his strength. The shock of metal meeting flesh as he lunged at her. The horrible gurgling sound as he collapsed in the undergrowth, his hands grabbing at her clothes, blood gus.h.i.+ng from his wound.

She'd left him there, bleeding to death, fighting for life and for years she'd pretended that it had never happened. But the event had haunted her. She'd seen the man in her nightmares. She'd seen him in dark corners, watching her. Reaching for her out of the shadows beneath her bed; from the recesses of her wardrobe; from every doorway of a darkened street.

The torment had eased over the years and often she went for weeks without thinking of it. And when something did trigger the memory, she found she could pretend it never happened that it was only a bad dream that had no substance. After all, no body had ever been discovered so perhaps she had imagined it all.

But when she'd visited the archives to discover what she could about the Stow Barton site, she'd found the book and Brother William's story had hit her immediately like a hammer on the skull. She had known exactly what the man wanted, even back then. And she had watched his blood spill out on to the earth.

She understood Brother William. She almost felt they were one. Brother William would have known exactly what she went through.

Neil had listened as she'd poured out her story and now he wondered what his next move should be. What if she wasn't willing to confide in Wesley? Should he tell him himself or should he keep his new knowledge to himself ?

The police were looking for whoever killed Barry Ickerman, the man in the woods. And he'd told Wesley about the letters so he could hardly fail to mention the fact that he now knew the ident.i.ty of their sender. On the other hand, if he said nothing and the letters stopped, the whole thing would just remain a mystery. Another unsolved puzzle.

It was something that needed a lot of thought.

Vespers was almost over and the chanted prayers made Brother Francis feel a little calmer. He had wrestled in prayer for most of the day, pleading with G.o.d for guidance. And now he knew what he had to do. He had to seek Father Joseph's advice.

As he knelt, the images flooded unbidden into his head. The beach. The laughter. They had used a sheath knife, specially sharpened for the purpose. They had all submitted to the ritual, holding out their forearms for the cold touch of the knife. There had been no worry about infection in those days. And even if there had been, the fear of Charlie's displeasure would have trumped any misgivings about bacteria. Charlie had decreed it, therefore it was law. And shy boys like Frankie Duparc, anxious to be accepted into the chosen pack, would have walked barefoot over hot coals if Charlie Marrick had told them to.

Charlie was pack leader. His word was law. And he liked to surround himself with boys who were weaker than himself. Simon the Swot Tench. The sensitive, artistic Chris Grisham. And of course there'd been Frankie. Frankie the weedy child with the slight stutter who'd spent his life in penance for what had happened back then.

Vespers was over. He stood up for Father Joseph's final benediction. Soon he would have to decide whether to reveal everything to the police. Or to stay silent.

Monday morning dawned bright and sunny. Perhaps, Wesley thought optimistically, they would soon make a breakthrough. Barty Carter had already given Rachel a detailed description of the person he'd seen in Tradmouth but Wesley wasn't sure how useful it was. The fact that somebody might have had a.s.sociations with Belsinger School at one time hardly made them a murderer, and it was always possible that Carter was mistaken. But at least it was another line of enquiry.

Wesley felt refreshed after the weekend, even though he had spent a good deal of it at work. He had made it to lunch at Maritia's, unlike Mark's friend, Jonathan, who had had to return to London late on Sat.u.r.day for some unspecified reason. Wesley had been rather relieved. He hadn't really taken to Jonathan he was far too shallow and materialistic for his taste and he was rather surprised that he and Mark had remained close. Wesley's brother-in-law, the Vicar of Belsham, hardly seemed Jonathan's type. But then they had known each other since their school days so there was probably some deep bond there that Wesley knew nothing about. He sensed that Maritia wasn't that keen on her husband's friend either. But she had never said anything. Maritia had always been one to keep the peace, even when they were small.

Pam had enjoyed the lunch, he could tell. But perhaps her good mood was due to the fact that the summer term would soon be at an end and she was antic.i.p.ating six weeks of freedom. Wesley had secretly been looking at holiday brochures weighing up the options. He fancied France this year. Pam loved France and a slice of suns.h.i.+ne and history would do them all the world of good.

His dreams of pepper pot towers, mellow medieval squares, good food and abundant wine were interrupted by Lee Parsons. He had been quiet since disgracing himself with the lady of the press. If Gerry Heffernan had his way he'd make a rapid return to uniform as soon as the Spider case was resolved. But in the meantime they needed the manpower.

'Sir, there's been a call from a DI Heath Ches.h.i.+re police headquarters in Chester. He wants you to ring him back. I've left his number on your desk, sir.'

Wesley thanked the young constable who, these days, was the picture of contrition the sinner repentant. Perhaps he'd have a word with Gerry and recommend mercy. After all, he was in rather a good mood.

He dialled John Heath's number, hoping he had something juicy to report, not just a sorry tale of how he'd come up against a brick wall.

Heath sounded cheerful almost too cheerful for a Monday morning. Someone had been round to the hotel where Grisham's girlfriend, Jenny, worked and had a word with one of her friends a girl who'd been on holiday when Jenny was interviewed following Grisham's death.

The friend a pretty Polish girl called Magda who seemed to have made quite an impression on the interviewing officer had said that Jenny was a quiet girl who never talked about her background. Magda, who spent a lot of time in a local cyber cafe, had received an e-mail from Jenny just the other day saying that she was enjoying Germany. As far as Chris Grisham was concerned, Jenny hadn't talked about him much and she'd applied for the job in Germany before he died which made Magda conclude that theirs wasn't exactly the romance of the century.

Wesley thanked John Heath. He didn't know whether all this information was relevant. Jenny Pringle up in Chester had gone out with Christopher Grisham. Grisham had died supposedly by his own hand and then she'd taken a job in a hotel abroad. End of story.

He was about to end the call when Heath spoke again. 'We didn't find any pictures of this Jenny at Grisham's flat but Magda's got a photograph of some of the hotel staff and Jenny's on it. Shall I e-mail it to you?'

Wesley hesitated, wondering if it would be a waste of time and effort. But then he decided that it would do no harm and thanked John Heath again. They might as well cover all possibilities.

As soon as he put the phone down, it rang and when he picked it up, he heard Neil's voice on the other end of the line.

'Wes, can we talk? I'm at the dig. Can you come out here?'

'Have you had another letter?'

'No, but I need to speak to you ... in confidence.'

'Look, I'll come out as soon as I get the chance.' He looked up and saw Gerry Heffernan approaching his desk. 'Sorry, Neil, I've got to go.'

He put the phone down. Neil would have to wait.