Wesley Peterson: The Blood Pit Part 8

'He mentioned something.'

'I found another one when I got home last night. I tried to ring Wes but I couldn't get through.'

'My fault. I was on the phone most of the evening trying to persuade my mum to babysit tonight. She kept coming up with excuses. Have you brought the letter with you?'

He had stuffed the plastic freezer bag containing the letter into the inside pocket of the combat jacket he was wearing. He handed it over and Pam read it in silence.

'Well? What do you think?'

She considered her answer. 'I don't really know. Whoever's written it seems to have a thing about monks ... and blood.'

'A weirdo.'

She shook her head. 'It's literate ... well thought out. The subject's important to him ... or her.'

'Think it could be a woman?' Neil sounded incredulous. He'd always thought of his tormentor as a man ... as one man in particular. Lenny. He told Pam about Lenny and his strange view of the world.

'I wouldn't jump to conclusions if I were you,' she said after considering the facts. 'Does your site have any connection with monks?'

'It does as a matter of fact. It was owned by Veland Abbey.'

'And blood-letting?'

Neil pondered the question. 'Monasteries often sent monks to outlying houses to be bled ... a sort of holiday, just like it says in the letters. Stow Barton might well fit the bill but that's only one possibility among several and I need to be sure before I say anything ... especially as it's going to be all over the TV. I don't want to make a fool of myself professionally.' He felt his cheeks redden. 'The TV people want me to do another slot on the local news. They say there's been a lot of interest.'

'Good.'

A silence fell between them, an amicable silence between old friends. After a while Neil spoke. 'There could be some evidence for the blood-letting theory. We found a metal object, very corroded but it might be a lancet I've sent it for x-ray. And there's a pit on the edge of the site with a dark deposit inside. I've done some research myself and found out that in York barbers who did blood letting got into trouble for dumping blood in the streets. They had to get rid of it somewhere, didn't they?'

'A blood pit?'

'I've sent samples off to the lab in Exeter and if the material in the pit does turn out to contain human blood ...'

'The monks went there for their holidays.'

She handed the letter back but he returned it to her, asking her to give it to Wesley. Then, after an awkward pause, he looked her in the eye. 'You've not seen that Jonathan again have you?' he asked in a low whisper, glancing at the playing children.

Pam shook her head vigorously. She never wanted to see Jonathan again in her life. Her whole being shrivelled with embarra.s.sment at the very thought of her brief lapse from the straight and narrow.

Neil took her hand and squeezed it. 'Give Wes my regards, won't you?'

He gave Pam a swift kiss on the cheek and left.

Carl Pinney lounged on the sagging Draylon sofa and grinned unpleasantly. Up till now he had enquired about Steve Carstairs's whereabouts, peppering the conversation liberally with references to 'his brief'.

Both Wesley and Heffernan could have cheerfully punched the smirk off his pale, spotty face. But that wasn't what they were there for. They knew they mustn't rise to the bait.

Attack is probably the best form of defence and at that moment Wesley reckoned they needed all the defence against the likes of Carl Pinney and his 'brief' that they could get. 'We sent the knife you used in the attack on DC Carstairs to the lab for tests.'

The expression of contempt on Pinney's face said 'So what?', but Wesley let the concept of the forensic tests sink in for half a minute before he spoke again.

Pinney scratched his crotch in a virtuoso display of boredom and contempt. Then he yawned and slouched back on the sofa, closing his eyes.

'The tests confirmed that your knife killed a man called Charles Marrick in Rhode, near Tradmouth. Someone stabbed him in the neck and he bled to death.'

Wesley watched Pinney's face carefully. But his expression still gave nothing away. The only thing he saw was what had always been there. Studied boredom and utter contempt for the police.

It was Gerry Heffernan who spoke next. 'What happened, Carl? Did you go to the house to rob Marrick? Did you threaten him ... ask for money? Then things got out of hand, didn't they, Carl? You lashed out and stabbed him in the neck and he started to bleed. The bleeding wouldn't stop and you got scared, didn't you? You did a runner back to Morbay and ...'

Pinney snorted. 'How did I get out to Rhode? It's miles away. And I ain't got wheels, have I? Use your b.l.o.o.d.y brains. I found the knife, didn't I?'

'We've only got your word for that,' said Wesley leaning forward. 'And I'm sure lots of your friends have access to cars ... or aren't afraid to pinch them. Let's face it, Carl, in the exalted circles you mix in, nicking cars is a skill learned in primary school.'

'Reading, writing, arithmetic ... taking without consent,' Heffernan said. 'All part of the curriculum on the Winterham Estate, isn't it, Carl? The excuse that you don't have a car hardly applies around here, does it? If you want one you just smash the driver's window, hotwire the thing and Bob's your uncle.'

Carl Pinney looked from one man to the other, quite unconcerned. 'You can't prove nothing.'

'What was it like, killing a man? How did it feel, Carl? Why don't you tell us?' Wesley watched his eyes and saw a flicker of something that looked like excitement. 'I bet it was good killing that rich bloke. Watching him bleed to death ... seeing the fear in his eyes when he saw your knife.'

The two policemen watched for a reaction. But Carl pressed his lips tightly together. He was staying silent. They couldn't prove he didn't find that knife just like he said. They couldn't prove anything.

'We'll need the clothes you were wearing on the night of Charles Marrick's murder.'

'They've been washed, haven't they?'

'What about your shoes?'

'Chucked 'em out, didn't I?'

'Why?'

'They got a hole in. Mum put 'em in the rubbish.'

'That's very convenient.'

Pinney shrugged his shoulders.

'Did Marrick offend you in some way, Carl? Did he deserve all he got? Or did he have cash that you needed for drugs? Did he refuse to give you any?'

Carl Pinney s.h.i.+fted his body until he was sitting up, stiff and straight. He looked Wesley in the eye. 'No f.u.c.king comment,' he spat before folding his arms across his chest and slumping back.

While Wesley and Heffernan were encountering the low life on the Winterham Estate, Rachel Tracey and Trish Walton were living the high kind in their quest to confirm Annette Marrick's alibi. First of all they'd called at Betina's an exclusive little boutique on Foss Street set amongst the art galleries, bistros and expensive gift shops. Foss Street was narrow, quaint and pedestrianised. And it was where the well heeled shopped.

Rachel had hovered outside the shop for a while, looking in the window, coveting a saggy handbag made of leather soft as silk. But she had never spent a three figure sum on a handbag in her life and her thrifty upbringing on the farm ensured that she didn't consider the option seriously now. Besides, the rent on the cottage she shared with Trish was due ... and the electricity bill.

She tore her eyes away from the temptations of the window as Trish opened the shop door. A bell jangled somewhere in the back and a woman appeared. She was stick thin and her leathery skin suggested that she'd spent too much time on sunbeds over the years. Her coa.r.s.e, dead straight, blonde hair was a couple of shades lighter than Rachel's own. But then Rachel didn't have to resort to the bottle. It was hard to guess her age, but there was no doubt that she was older than she'd like to be.

She looked at the two policewomen enquiringly with a smile that bordered on the obsequious. But the smile disappeared when they introduced themselves, asked her if she was Betina Betis and said they'd be grateful for a word in private.

Betina whispered a few words to her a.s.sistant a girl in her own image but with twenty years advantage before leading Rachel through to the back of the shop, past racks of colourful designer dresses to a neat little kitchen. There was a small melamine table and Rachel and Trish were invited to sit. The woman's manners were stiff but impeccable. Rachel wondered what she was hiding.

When it was clear that tea or coffee wasn't going to be offered, Rachel came straight to the point. 'You'll know that Annette Marrick's husband was found murdered on Wednesday?'

'You can't really avoid it, can you? It's been on every news bulletin. It must be awful for poor Annette.'

'You've spoken to her since it happened?'

Betina shook her head. 'You don't know what to say, do you? I sent her a sympathy card.'

Betina Betis wasn't a good liar. Somehow Rachel knew that she wasn't telling the truth when she said she'd had no contact with Annette.

'Tell me about Charles Marrick,' she said, tilting her head to one side. 'What kind of man was he?'

Betina gave the question some consideration. Then she said, 'I must admit, I didn't like him very much.'

'Why's that?'

'We mustn't speak ill of the dead, must we? Bad manners and all that ... or bad luck ... can't remember which. And to be truthful, I hardly knew him. Only met him a couple of times.' She gave Rachel a small, apologetic smile which suggested that she'd said all that she was going to say on the matter.

'In a murder enquiry, we do need people to be honest with us,' said Trish, speaking for the first time. 'If we get to know the victim, it can help us find out who killed him and why.'

This didn't seem to go down well with Betina. She shook her blonde head and kept her mouth tight shut. She either couldn't or wouldn't dish the dirt on Charlie Marrick. And all Rachel's instincts told her that there was a lot of dirt to dish.

'Where were you on Wednesday afternoon?'

Betina was prepared for this question. She answered it with all the confidence of a child reciting a poem she'd learned by heart. 'Annette and I met for lunch then we went to Celia's yacht. We shared a bottle of Chardonnay or two and discussed a charity dinner we're organising.' Her eyes darted from one woman to the other, anxious to be believed.

'What time did Annette leave?'

'I can't really remember. We had a lot to discuss. It must have been just before I did ... around four thirty ... five. Something like that. Sorry I can't remember exactly.'

Rachel forced herself to smile, hiding her irritation. 'Perhaps Ms Dawn will remember.'

There was a flash of something that Rachel suspected was alarm in Betina's eyes, there for a split second then gone. 'I don't think she'll be able to tell you any more than I can. Really I don't.'

Rachel knew she had to speak to Celia Dawn. But doing it before Betina had a chance to contact her to get their story straight might be a tall order.

They left the shop and made straight for Burton's b.u.t.ties. They'd grab some lunch and make straight for Celia Dawn's place.

'I feel like a regular customer,' Gerry Heffernan said with satisfaction as Wesley parked the car outside Le Pet.i.t Poisson.

'But hardly a valued one,' Wesley replied, looking at his watch. It was almost eleven o'clock. 'Maybe we should have come here before we went to see Pinney,' he sighed. 'They'll be getting ready for lunch.'

Heffernan gave a wicked grin. 'Fl.u.s.tered ... that's just how I want him.'

Wesley smiled and shook his head. There were many ways of catching suspects off their guard ... and Gerry Heffernan knew all of them.

'You ready for your jaunt tonight? What is it? Romantic meal for two and a night in the honeymoon suite?' He gave Wesley a nudge and winked theatrically.

'Something like that. Pity I've got to turn in for work tomorrow.'

'Aye. It was inconsiderate of Marrick getting murdered like that. Take your time tomorrow, eh Wes. I'm sure we can cope for an hour or two,' Heffernan said with a benign grin.

When they finally arrived at Le Pet.i.t Poisson, they were told that Chef wasn't there but he'd be back that evening for the Sat.u.r.day night rush. Wesley felt a little annoyed with himself for not considering this possibility. As a young child he'd gone through a phase of believing that his teachers actually lived at the school and, in the same way, he'd a.s.sumed that the great chef spent all his waking hours in his kitchen. Perhaps the fact that his home life and family were never mentioned on his TV programme had helped this a.s.sumption. But now they'd been given his home address they turned the car round and drove back through Tradmouth then out to the small village of Ashworthy a tiny settlement that in times gone by had been considered too small to deserve a church or a pub.

The Colbert residence was a converted farmhouse acquired by the chef when the resident farmer, traumatised by the foot and mouth outbreak, cashed in his remaining a.s.sets and retired to the seaside. Modernised to a high specification, the rambling old house set in the rolling Devon fields with its huge modern kitchen, gleaming paintwork and gravel forecourt where the farmyard had once been, had shed its slurry pits, oily tractors, smelly livestock and acres of land to become the sanitised version of the farmhouse, fit for city folk to live in. There were so many houses like this now in the south-west snapped up by downsizing Londoners or the simply rich who had no roots in the rich Devon soil. Rachel Tracey, Wesley knew, resented the newcomers. And if Wesley had come from a family like hers, he might just have felt the same.

The door was answered by a slim woman with glossy black hair and a slightly oriental appearance. She wore tight-fitting jeans and a white T-s.h.i.+rt and she was beautiful enough to render Gerry Heffernan speechless. When Wesley asked if they could have a word with Monsieur Colbert, she led the way into a cavernous kitchen with an Aga against one wall and a monumental steel fridge against the other. The cupboards were hand painted and expensive and Fabrice Colbert was sitting at a breakfast bar in the centre of the room, sipping a cappuccino and reading a tabloid newspaper. When he saw the two policemen enter, he slid off his tall stool and asked them if they wanted a coffee. Marie would get them one. No problem.

The chef seemed more relaxed than he had done in his restaurant. Perhaps he didn't know that what he thought of as his cast-iron alibi had, like all cast iron, a tendency to develop cracks.

Wesley and Heffernan accepted the coffee. They both felt they needed a rush of caffeine to stimulate the brain. Marie wasn't introduced to them so they were a little unsure of her status whether she was wife, partner, friend, mistress or up-market domestic help. Wesley wondered whether to ask but, before he had a chance, his boss began to speak and the moment was lost.

Heffernan came straight to the point. 'We've checked out your alibi for Charles Marrick's murder. Not very satisfactory is it?'

Colbert, still relaxed, gave a cla.s.sic Gallic shrug. 'You tell me. If I'd known I was going to need an alibi I would have been careful to get a good one. But as I am innocent and I did not know Charlie was dead until the next day ...'

Heffernan asked him to go over his story again, looking for discrepancies. There were none which meant either he had a very good memory for what he'd told the police before or he was telling the truth.

It was Wesley who asked the next question. 'Have you ever heard of a man called Darren Collins?'

Wesley watched the man carefully and saw a flash of something that looked like panic flicker in his eyes, swiftly suppressed.

'No,' Colbert replied. He made a great show of thinking for a few moments. 'Did he work in my kitchen? Some of the staff do not stay for long and I cannot be expected to remember their names. And we have washers-up and ...'

'So the name means nothing to you?'

The chef shook his head. 'As I said, someone of that name might well have worked in my kitchen for a short time but ... No, the name means nothing to me.'

Wesley felt he had to fill the time, to justify their visit, so he asked him again about his relations.h.i.+p with Charles Marrick, going over old ground, listening for any slip that digressed from the authorised version. But Fabrice Colbert was word perfect. And calm. There was no tempestuous kitchen devil here he had been left behind at Le Pet.i.t Poisson. Wesley had suspected from the beginning that the whole thing was an elaborate act. The punters expected a temperamental French chef and that's exactly what they got.

Their coffee cups were empty and there was no sign of Marie to provide a refill. Wesley stood up. 'I think that's all for now, sir. Thanks for your co-operation.' He glanced at Heffernan who was smiling benignly as he admired the view from the kitchen window. 'Er ... I know this is a bit of a cheek but you know that recipe for creme brulee you did on your last TV show ... ?'

Colbert nodded. 'What about it?'

'Well my wife took it down and now she can't find it. I just wondered if you'd be good enough to write it out for her. I'm sorry to trouble you but ...' He took a chubby pen wrapped in a sheet of folded paper from his inside pocket and pa.s.sed them to Colbert.

Wesley made suitably grateful noises as Colbert scribbled down the recipe. Then, as he rolled the recipe up carefully around the pen, he thanked him again. With an ego such as Colbert's a bit of humility never came amiss. The man would end up thinking he had the local police in his pocket. And that's exactly what Wesley wanted him to believe.

By the time they took their leave, Fabrice Colbert was all smiles. And Wesley had the recipe together with the pen Colbert had used to write it safe in his pocket.

As they drove off, Fabrice Colbert watched as their car disappeared down the drive before picking up the telephone receiver and dialling a number he knew off by heart.

While his father was consorting with prominent chefs, Sam Heffernan sat in the pa.s.senger seat of the Land Rover. He glanced at the man beside him in the driver's seat. At thirty-one, Simon was the youngest partner in the practice. He was dressed for the countryside as usual in an ageing Barbour and brown corduroy trousers and Sam knew his overalls and wellingtons were in the back of the car, along with Sam's own. Fas.h.i.+on went by the board when you were standing in some manure-ridden barn with your arm up a cow's backside.

Simon turned the vehicle on to a dark lane lined with a wall of tall, impenetrable hedges, relieved only by the occasional pa.s.sing place and the odd farm gate that gave a glimpse across the rolling green fields. Being used to the terrain, he drove with confidence along these narrow, snaking thoroughfares that frightened the life out of the tourists.