A Painted Doom (33 page)

Heffernan was listening with interest. ‘So the teenage Terry Hoxworthy was a hero. That’s a turn-up for the books. Funny he
didn’t mention it – or maybe he was just being modest. Did the paper say anything else?’

‘Terry was commended for his bravery, but from the report it wasn’t too clear how the girl came to be in the water. It doesn’t
say she fell in or got into difficulties while swimming. Papers usually tell you that sort of thing, but this report seemed
a bit … I don’t know, cagey.’

Wesley saw that his boss was standing there open mouthed. Steve had never displayed such initiative or insight in all the
time he’d known him. In fact he’d never seen much evidence of any sort of activity going on in the space between Steve’s left
and right ears before. But there had to be a first time for everything.

Some inner voice told Wesley that Steve’s discovery was important: they were definitely on to something. And yet, on the face
of it, it seemed unlikely that Terry Hoxworthy’s
moment of heroism all those years ago could be connected with the discovery of Jonny Shellmer’s body in his field thirty-five
years later. But it would explain his friendship with Angela Simms, the girl he rescued: owing your life to someone would
create a considerable bond. They would be visiting Terry soon to break the good news about Lewis, so there would be no harm
in asking about the incident while they were there.

Wesley sat down at his desk and opened the drawer. Jonny Shellmer’s photograph was still there, and he stared down at it.
It was so clear now, that he knew who the children were. Terry Hoxworthy, Angela Simms, Jonny Shellmer and, presumably, James
Simms. He studied the small blurred image of the unknown face: it was familiar but elusive. He closed the drawer and looked
at his watch.

Steve left the office after a dose of appropriate praise – all the psychology books Wesley had ever come across had said it
was important to reinforce good behaviour.

Gerry Heffernan had emerged from his lair and was waiting to get off to Hoxworthy’s Farm, almost bubbling over with glee,
anticipating the joy and relief on Jill’s face when she heard the news that Lewis was safe and unharmed. They left the station
and were soon driving down the narrow lanes to Hoxworthy’s Farm. It was good to be the bearers of happy news for a change,
even though Terry now had a few more questions to answer.

The manor house was emerging from the soil nicely and Neil Watson wondered, as he strolled to Derenham church, whether he
could persuade the builders of the new village hall to give him a few more weeks’ grace before the trenches had to be backfilled
and built upon.

He felt restless and unsatisfied. There were still too many questions that remained unanswered. Who did the decapitated skeleton
belong to? Why did the family suddenly disappear from the village when, judging by the letters he had read so far, there were
two healthy sons
and a daughter to carry on the Merrivale line? Why was the house destroyed and the site never built on again? And what was
the meaning of the peculiar image on the Merrivales’ tomb?

There would be some simple explanation, of course. The whole family might have been wiped out in a house fire – it happened
even today. The ‘wicked one’ might have been some peasant with a grudge who started the fire and was murdered and decapitated
by an angry mob of righteous villagers. It was a good theory, and Neil felt quite pleased with himself as he walked into the
gloom of the church.

The rest of the team were enjoying their coffee break, but Neil wanted to have another look at the Doom, to see whether it
held anything that might confirm his theory. He stood there staring at it and shuddered. Fire featured prominently, but apart
from that he couldn’t see much connection. Then something made his heart beat faster and he hurried to the chapel to take
a look at the Merrivales’ grand tomb. He was right; the rather smug-looking pair being ushered into heaven by an angel who
wore the obsequious expression of a maître d’ showing favoured diners into an exclusive restaurant were the spitting images
of the pious figures on the Merrivale tomb. Richard and Marjory were strolling through the pearly gates unchallenged while
the lower orders were thrown to the mercy of a battalion of devils who were clearly happy in their eternal work of torment
and torture.

Typical, thought Neil. Nothing ever changes. But his musings on social justice were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing
their throat a few feet behind him. He turned and was surprised to see Jeremy Sedley standing there.

‘Can’t keep away from it, can we.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ answered Neil, glancing at the Doom with distaste. ‘Have you ever noticed that those two smug bastards
being shown politely into heaven don’t half
look like those effigies of Richard and Marjory Merrivale on that tomb in their chapel?’

‘I have indeed,’ said Sedley, looking rather smug himself. ‘And did you notice that a couple of people in the queue waiting
for judgement resemble the portraits of the Merrivale children on the side of the tomb, and that one of the damned is almost
definitely the one in the flames on the tomb – the “wicked one”. Which stands to reason, I suppose.’

Neil said nothing. That was one theory down the drain. Some murderous medieval peasant with a grudge would hardly have featured
on a posh, state-of-the-art tomb. The wicked one must have been closer to home: a maladjusted kid with a taste for arson?
John Merrivale, the delinquent son, perhaps!

‘I’ve spent a lot of time looking at this thing since it arrived here,’ Sedley said with unseemly enthusiasm. ‘It’s going
to make rather a dramatic backdrop to our history evening, don’t you think? But perhaps in my profession a love of the dramatic
is an occupational hazard.’

Neil nodded. He couldn’t argue with that.

Gerry Heffernan had been looking forward to breaking the news about Lewis, and he entered the Hoxworthys’ farmhouse beaming
like Santa Claus. In Wesley’s experience most police officers felt like this when any missing child was found unharmed, but
in this case his own feeling of elation was tempered by the knowledge that there was still a ruthless killer at large somewhere
in or near the village of Derenham.

Heffernan announced the good news to Terry and Jill like a quiz-show host awarding a million-pound prize to a pair of bemused
contestants. Jill burst into tears and clung onto her husband’s hand, sobbing with relief. The Gwynedd police were bringing
Lewis back and he would be home late that afternoon.

Jill murmured her thanks through her tears, and
Heffernan grinned back at her benignly. Now wasn’t really the time to mention that they wanted to ask Lewis a few questions
themselves about how the gun came to be in his possession. The bad news could wait.

As soon as Jill had left the room to prepare for the prodigal’s homecoming, Wesley and his boss faced Terry Hoxworthy.

‘We’d like to ask you some questions,’ Wesley began.

‘About Lewis?’

‘No. About something that happened thirty-five years ago. You rescued a girl from drowning.’

Instead of looking proud of his moment of bravery, Terry Hoxworthy swallowed hard. ‘So?’ he said after a few seconds.

‘You rescued Angela Simms.’

Terry nodded, still looking uncomfortable.

‘Can you tell us what happened?’

‘I’d rather not.’ He glanced over his shoulder, as though afraid Jill would overhear.

‘Why hide it? The reports in the paper said you were a hero.’

There was no response.

‘Whatever you tell us won’t go any farther if it’s not relevant to our enquiries.’ Wesley was trying to sound reassuring.

Terry thought for a few moments. ‘Okay. But I wouldn’t like this to be common knowledge. We tried to keep it quiet at the
time for Angela’s sake and …’ His voice trailed off. ‘I’ve sort of been … keeping an eye on Angela. Sometimes Jill doesn’t
understand. Angela’s not a strong person. She’s very vulnerable.’

Wesley detected the first signs of exasperation on his boss’s face. ‘Go on,’ he coaxed. ‘I can assure you that anything you
tell us will be treated as confidential.’

Terry hesitated. He studied a scar on the palm of his right hand and touched it absent-mindedly, running his finger across
the shining streak of flesh.

‘It was in the summer of 1966. I was about the same age as Lewis is now, and a group of us used to hang around together on
Derenham waterfront. There was Angela Simms, her brother James and her half-brother, Jonny, who came down from Liverpool every
year for a few weeks in the summer. Jonny was different from the rest of us, the odd one out. He seemed more worldly wise,
more glamorous. He’d formed a pop group with his mates at school and Angela adored him: she used to follow him around like
a faithful puppy.’

‘Why didn’t you say you knew Jonny Shellmer when you found his body?’

Terry Hoxworthy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t realise who he was at first, and then I panicked when I found out: I didn’t
want to get involved. And he was on my land, so if I’d admitted I’d known him once …’ His voice trailed off. ‘Then Lewis went
missing and I had more reason not to want to get involved. That’s all.’

‘You are involved,’ Gerry Heffernan said, a hint of threat in his voice. ‘He was found on your land and the gun that killed
him was found in your house. And on top of that you kept quiet about knowing him.’

‘And if I’d killed him don’t you think I’d have dumped him and the gun as far away as possible?’ Hoxworthy said quickly.

Wesley nodded. He had a point. ‘So what happened to Angela?’

It was a few seconds before Terry spoke. ‘One day I went down to the waterfront where we used to meet. There was nobody there
and I was about to go home. Then I saw Angela thrashing about in the water. I was a good swimmer so I waded in and rescued
her. When my dad found out what I’d done he told the local paper I was a hero. I could have killed him.’

‘Why?’ The vehemence of his words surprised Wesley – but then parents can be a terrible embarrassment to a teenage lad.

‘Because I thought Angela had tried to kill herself and I didn’t want it splashed all over the papers.’

Gerry Heffernan looked surprised. ‘What made you think that?’

Terry swallowed hard. ‘Angela was very pretty … everyone called her Angel. I didn’t know why she’d done it until …’

‘Go on,’ Heffernan prompted impatiently.

‘I overheard my mother telling my dad that Angela had been taken to Tradmouth Hospital. She said she’d heard from someone
who worked there that …’ He hesitated. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this. If Angela knew I’d been talking about …’

‘Please, Mr Hoxworthy, it might be important.’ Wesley spoke firmly. This was no time for scruples.

‘I heard – and I don’t know if it was true – that Angela threw herself into the river because she’d just been raped.’

‘Did you ever ask Angela what happened?’

Terry shook his head. ‘Of course I didn’t.’

There was a long silence. ‘Do you know who raped her?’ Wesley said gently. Terry Hoxworthy looked down, studying the scar
again. ‘I was at the top of the stairs listening to my parents talking. I couldn’t hear clearly but I’m sure they mentioned
Jonny’s name. It must have been Jonny – her own bloody half-brother. He could be an arrogant so-and-so, always getting his
leg over with the local girls when he was down here. And Angela used to spend a lot of time with him, always following him
around.’ He paused before delivering his final verdict. ‘I think Jonny raped her.’

At Tradmouth Hospital Nurse Jenny Chang noted the patient’s blood pressure and recorded her observations on a clipboard in
small neat letters.

She looked down at the small figure on the bed. ‘You’re doing well, Angela. Doctor will be pleased with you.’ She had felt
awkward speaking to unconscious patients when
she had first begun nursing, feeling that she was talking to herself. But now she always made the assumption that they could
hear and told them what was going on around them. Her instinct told her that it helped: a world of silence would be a terrifying
place.

‘I’m just going to check your drip, Angela. Okay? And can I just have a look at your dressings while I’m at it? Make sure
you’re comfortable.’

As Jenny Chang touched the bandage on Angela’s head, the patient’s right arm made a sudden movement. She looked at her face.
The eyelids were flickering.

‘Angela.’ Jenny bent over and touched the woman’s face. ‘Angela, can you hear me?’

Nurse Jenny Chang’s question was answered this time by a whispered gasp as Angela Simms’s brown eyes slowly opened.

The news was good for a change. Just as Wesley and Heffernan were contemplating Terry Hoxworthy’s revelations, an excited
PC Wallace rang from the hospital with the news that Angela Simms had regained consciousness. Wesley suggested that it would
be best if Rachel Tracey paid her a visit. A rape victim, even after so many years, would need the gentle touch.

Rachel didn’t seem surprised at Terry’s revelation. ‘There you are, then,’ she said brusquely. ‘Arrogant pop star thinks he
can get his leg over with anything in a skirt, even his own half-sister. Then he turns up in Derenham again and tries to get
all pally and act as though nothing had happened.’

‘Could she have killed him?’ asked Wesley.

‘It’s possible. And I can’t say I’d blame her if she did.’

‘We can rely on you to provide a sympathetic ear, then,’ said Wesley. ‘What about the attack on Angela?’

‘It might have been a bungled robbery … no connection with the Shellmer case.’

Wesley thought about this for a few seconds and nodded.
‘Do you want me to come with you to the hospital?’ he asked.

Rachel turned away and picked up her coat. ‘No thanks. I’ll take Trish with me. I’m sure she’d rather talk to women.’

Wesley, as a mere man, felt he had no option but to agree. He left Rachel briefing Trish and headed for Heffernan’s lair,
where he found his boss leaning back dangerously in his swivel chair, feet on the desk.