A Painted Doom (35 page)

‘Can we have a word, Mr Hoxworthy?’ Heffernan began.

Terry nodded. He could hardly refuse.

‘How well did you know Jonny Shellmer?’ There was no more time for the niceties.

‘I told you, he was Angela’s half-brother. He used to come down to stay during the summer when we were kids. I hardly knew
him at all.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything at all?’ said Wesley gently. ‘What about Angela Simms’s family? How did
they react to her suicide attempt?’

Terry hesitated. ‘All families have their secrets and I suppose the Simms were just a bit worse than most. They swept the
whole thing under the carpet, I reckon, and hoped it’d go away. Only things like that never go away, do they? Look, I don’t
know anything for definite. I can only guess what really went on.’

‘What happened when Jonny left that summer?’

‘I don’t remember much about it. I only remember going round to the Simms’s house one day and overhearing Angela’s mother
saying Jonny was a liar and that Angela was covering up for him. Of course, I didn’t know what it meant at the time, but I
put two and two together later on. Then Jonny left and never came back.’

‘And what about Angela? What happened to her after that?’

‘Angela’s always been a bit … I think odd’s the only word I can think of … or fey, sort of not quite with us, if
you know what I mean. She started her angel shop with the money her dad left her when he died, and she’s never had a boyfriend
or anything like that, even though she isn’t bad looking.’ He blushed. ‘I’ve always kept an eye on her. I don’t know why,
but I’ve always felt a bit responsible. I’d go round to her place every so often and meet her for a drink sometimes. Not that
Jill understands. I don’t always tell her if I’m seeing Angela – she’d get the wrong idea.’

‘Did Angela mention Jonny coming back to the area? Did she say she’d seen him?’

‘Before he died I hadn’t seen her for a month or so and it wasn’t until he was shot that she got in touch with me again. She
was really upset, but she didn’t confide in me or anything like that. She never even mentioned Jonny’s name.’ He thought for
a moment. ‘Something in the local paper upset her. There was a picture of that ugly great painting they found in my old barn,
and when she saw that she asked me to meet her in the Red Bull … said she needed to see me. We had a drink and then we went
for a walk. She began to cry, and then she told me that … whatever had happened had happened in the hayloft and she’d seen
the picture then … all the devils and that. She said it brought it all back.’

‘And she didn’t mention calling on Jonny?’

Terry shook his head.

‘What about Angela’s brother James?’

Terry thought for a moment. ‘He went away soon after Jonny left and we never heard from him again, so I’ve no idea what became
of him. I was fifteen when he went and he’d have been about eighteen, so I doubt if we’d recognise each other even if he stood
right in front of me.’

‘Didn’t you think that was strange, him going off like that?’ Heffernan asked.

‘Not really. The Simmses were a strange family – not like our conventional set-up. The father had another woman up in Liverpool
and, as far as I can see, the mum was expected to accept that – and Jonny coming down and
reminding her every summer. I think Angela’s dad considered himself a bit of a bohemian, a free spirit. The trouble was that
her mum didn’t see things in quite the same way. I’m sure she resented Jonny.’

‘What was James like?’

‘He was a big-headed, arrogant sod. He used to go to some drama group in Tradmouth and word had it that he was a very good
actor, but I don’t know. I don’t remember that much about him.’

‘What do you think happened to Angela the day you rescued her?’

Terry thought for a while. ‘I think she was probably messing around with Jonny in our barn and he did something … perhaps
he attacked her. Or perhaps it was just a bit of horseplay that got out of hand.’

‘Maybe we should ask her outright instead of pussyfooting around,’ said Heffernan bluntly.

‘No. I think you should leave her alone. I tried to ask her years ago and she just clammed up … went all withdrawn. You don’t
know what harm you might be doing if you rake it all up again.’ He looked at the chief inspector pleadingly. But Gerry Heffernan
wasn’t going to promise anything.

‘Jonny became pretty famous. Didn’t you follow his career at all?’ Wesley asked innocently.

‘Knowing what I did about him, I was never exactly a fan.’

‘So how did you feel when you heard Jonny was moving back to Derenham and giving money bold as brass to the village hall fund?’

‘I was worried for Angela. It was strange – she’d always followed his career and even kept pictures of him. I couldn’t understand
it.’

‘Angela says her brother James is dead. Could Jonny have had anything to do with his death?’ Wesley decided on the blunt approach.

Terry pressed his lips together. ‘What did Angela say exactly?’

Wesley didn’t answer.

‘I don’t know what happened to James, honestly.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell us about Jonny?’

Terry shook his head. ‘I’ve told you everything I know.’

‘And about James Simms?’

Another shake of the head. ‘For all I know Angela could be right. James might be dead.’

‘What if Jonny was responsible for James’s death?’ asked Heffernan.

‘It’s possible.’

‘I’ll get someone to do some more checking on James Simms – see if there’s any record of his death,’ said the chief inspector,
watching Terry’s face carefully.

Wesley said nothing. The more he thought about this case, the more confused he was.

Pam Peterson greeted her husband at the front door, holding the wriggling baby in her arms.

‘My mum’s been,’ she said, handing him the baby. ‘You’ve just missed her.’

Wesley attempted to look disappointed but failed miserably. ‘Have you given her her Rock Boat albums back?’

‘She says we can keep them a bit longer if we like.’

‘Good. I want to listen to that song again – “Angel”.’

‘Getting to be a fan, are you? There’s a programme about Rock Boat on telly tonight – a tribute to Jonny Shellmer. I suppose
you’ll want to watch it.’

Wesley shrugged. He supposed watching the programme would be in the line of duty – but he couldn’t say he was looking forward
to it.

‘Neil called in too. He dropped off a book – said it was some letters he’d promised to let you see.’

‘He’s a bit late. I’ve already got copies from someone else.’

Pam smiled. ‘I wouldn’t tell him that if I were you. He said he’d come out of his way to deliver them.’

She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving him to entertain Michael. But after the seventh game of peek-a-boo, the
devoted father’s mind was beginning to wander back to the puzzling code painted on the Derenham Doom. He had been rudely interrupted
by a phone call the last time he had tried to crack it, but now he was determined to put his theory to the test. He carried
Michael over to the bookcase and took out the Bible his parents had given him on his marriage, a gift for his new home.

Tamar. A local river or something else? He could hear Pam humming a familiar tune in the kitchen – ‘Frère Jacques’ again.
He wished she’d choose something else; the repetitive melody was beginning to get on his nerves.

But he tried to block out the sound as he began flicking through the pages – and just as Pam called to say the dinner was
ready, he found what he was looking for. He had cracked the code.

He remembered the copies of the ancient letters that Lewis Hoxworthy had given him, and he put Michael in his playpen while
he retrieved them from his coat pocket in the hall. As he read through the letters, copied carefully in Lewis’s neat handwriting,
and compared them with the ones in the book Neil had left, he knew he was on the right track.

If only he could say the same about the investigation into Jonny Shellmer’s murder.

Yossa Lang sat on a bench by the river at Tradmouth, flanked by his two cronies, Daz and Mick, who raised Coca-Cola cans to
their lips in the fading light.

There wasn’t room for Lewis Hoxworthy on the bench so he stood, shifting from foot to foot, hands in pockets.

Yossa kicked out at a curious seagull that had landed near his feet, then he glanced up at Lewis, an expression of studied
boredom on his face. ‘Hey, Lew. Got much cash left?’

Lewis shivered. It was getting cold now that the weak sun had gone. ‘Not much. Blew it all, didn’t I. Had champagne most nights.’

The three boys on the bench looked at him, unimpressed, and exchanged knowing smirks.

‘Bet you didn’t. Bet you spent all your time looking round old castles.’

‘I didn’t,’ said Lewis quickly. ‘I never went anywhere like that.’

‘Meet any birds?’ asked Daz, a gangling youth whose pasty face was decorated with a fine array of pimples.

‘Loads,’ came the answer. ‘They’re all over you if you’ve got money.’

Yossa took a long swig from his Coke can. ‘Were you bullshitting about the shooter?’

‘Nah. I found it by the dead body when I did that big house.’

‘Still got it?’

‘The filth took it away.’

‘Shame,’ mumbled Yossa. ‘What does a dead body look like? I never seen one,’ Daz said with what sounded like genuine curiosity.

Lewis shrugged. ‘It wasn’t scary or nothing.’

‘What did that Yank pay you for them old letters, then?’ asked Yossa.

‘Two grand,’ Lewis answered. A bit of exaggeration wouldn’t do his image any harm.

‘And you spent it all?’

‘Yeah, easy.’

There was a long silence as Yossa stared at a swan floating past on the water.

‘Did you see the murderer, then?’ asked Mick, tall, swarthy and the best looking of the quartet.

‘Yeah. I got a good look at him but he didn’t see me.’ Daz nudged Yossa. ‘Bet he didn’t. Bet he’s bullshitting again.’

‘I did. I saw him.’

‘Do you know him? Do you know the murderer?’ Lewis hesitated. ‘Sort of. I know where he lives.’

‘He’s making it all up,’ Yossa said dismissively.

‘I’m not. I saw him. Honest.’

Daz stood up. ‘Let’s go. Coming, Yossa … Mick?’ He avoided Lewis’s eyes.

But Yossa was staring at Lewis, an unpleasant smirk on his face.

‘Want to earn yourself another couple of grand, Lew?’ There was something in Yossa’s voice that made Lewis uneasy, but he
answered in the affirmative, knowing that any hesitation would make them leave without him.

‘Yeah. How?’

‘If you’re telling us the truth, it’ll only take a note through the murderer’s letterbox. Dead easy. Don’t be too greedy.
Just ask for another couple of grand.’

Lewis latched on quick. ‘No way.’

‘You’re scared. Little Lewis is scared.’

Daz and Mick began to make clucking noises. ‘He’s chicken,’ they chorused. ‘Chicken. Chicken. Chicken.’

Lewis’s chest began to tighten. He felt in his pocket for his inhaler.

Yossa grinned, enjoying his victim’s discomfort. ‘Just keep the note simple,’ he said before draining his can. ‘Just put something
like … “I saw you”.’

He saw the fear in Lewis’s eyes. ‘And if you don’t get the money we’ll know you’re chicken, won’t we, lads?’

The other two nodded and resumed their soft clucking. ‘And you know what happens to chickens,’ Yossa said before striding
away, the hint of a threat in his voice.

The next morning Neil Watson’s Mini chugged and spluttered its way to the City of Exeter. Neil was constantly amazed that
the faithful old thing kept going. He managed to find a space in a municipal carpark, just outside the Roman city walls, from
where he marched briskly through the drizzle to the county records office.

Half an hour later he was gazing at the will of Richard Merrivale. He had read quite a number of medieval wills in
his time, and he had always found their hypocritical piety and their desperate last-minute scramble for spiritual merit points
faintly amusing. But he didn’t feel like smiling as he read this one.

He made a copy of it before he left and walked back to his car feeling mildly depressed. But he told himself he had to look
on the bright side. At least the Derenham Doom made sense at last.

He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled the number of Tradmouth police station.

‘According to your friend Dr Kruger, Shellmer couldn’t have fired the gun and killed himself, but what if she was wrong? The
gun was fired at close range.’ Gerry Heffernan leaned over the sketch that Lewis had made of the position of the body and
the gun.

Wesley didn’t answer. He was thinking. He had watched the tribute to Jonny Shellmer on the television the night before. They
had all been there – the great, the good and the bad of the rock music scene in Jonny’s time. Liz Carty gave a brief interview
and expressed what seemed like genuine affection for her ex-husband. Even Chris Pauling had been enticed out of his rural
hideaway to give his own simple and moving tribute. He had been a good bloke, the best. A bit wild, perhaps, but good hearted.
And a man who’d rape his own sister? Wesley was beginning to have his doubts.

‘Suicide,’ Heffernan repeated. ‘Could Jonny have killed himself after all?’

‘I’m sure that’s what we were meant to think,’ Wesley answered decisively. ‘Until Paul Heygarth went in and messed up the
murderer’s carefully staged tableau. Jonny was buying a new house, starting a new life. And anyway, why would he do it in
a strange house, a house he was thinking of buying? And what about the angle of the bullet hole … and the forensic evidence
that Shellmer hadn’t fired a gun. And he didn’t leave a note. I think we can rule out suicide.’

Heffernan looked disappointed. ‘Shame. It would have saved us a lot of time and effort. So if we rule out suicide have you
had any more ideas about who shot him?’

‘The paedophile theory has come to nothing,’ said Wesley, watching his boss’s face carefully. ‘And I think we can eliminate
Paul Heygarth – no motive. And Hal Lancaster was trying to get the group together again – it would hardly have been in his
interests to get rid of the lead singer, and Lancaster strikes me as a man who puts his financial interests first. Also I
can’t really see Alec Treadly carrying a gun when he went to help himself to the knick-knacks up at the Old Vicarage – and
shooting someone who walked in on his little scam would hardly be his style.’