The Merchant's House (10 page)

‘Nothing known, sir. Our best bet is to trace this boyfriend. Did the mother say anything this morning?’

‘She wasn’t really in the mood for a cosy chat. Poor cow, she’s not had much of a life, and now this …’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Rachel sympathetically.

The address the bank had given turned out to be a flat in a white-stuccoed villa in the better part of Morbay; 22 Peasgoode Avenue. Not a bad address, thought Steve Carstairs. Could do with something like this myself.

‘Nice place,’ commented Wesley.

Steve didn’t reply.

Wesley rang the doorbell marked ‘Flat 2’. There was no answer. He took the key that had been found in the handbag from his pocket and tried it in the lock. It didn’t fit.

‘Let’s see what the neighbours can tell us.’ He rang the bottom of the three bells. The door was opened by a well-dressed middle-aged woman, elegantly coiffeured and carrying a minuscule dog, the breed of which Wesley didn’t know, not being a dog lover himself. The woman looked them up and down with practised disdain, expecting them
to begin a sales pitch for a new concept in double glazing. Wesley thought it prudent to produce his warrant card. The polite, well-spoken graduate touch would be needed here.

‘Sorry to disturb you, madam, but we’re making enquiries about the tenants of Flat two. I wonder if you could help us.’

The woman, doyenne of the local neighbourhood watch and only too eager to be a good citizen, invited them in and provided tea and biscuits. Unfortunately, there was nothing much she could tell them. The couple had lived there only for six months and, as the cliché goes, kept themselves to themselves. Apart from a nod and a mumbled good morning if they happened to meet in the communal hallway, she had had nothing to do with them. She had noticed no visitors and she hadn’t seen them for the last month or so. No, they definitely did not have a baby; the walls were thick but not that thick; children weren’t allowed in the flats anyway. What did the man look like? Well, ordinary; mid-thirties – older than the woman; dark; average build; average height… just average. Yes, she would be willing to try to build a picture of him – anything to help the police. Wesley wished all his interviewees were so co-operative.

The inhabitants of Flat three weren’t. The immaculately dressed young couple who drew up in their red Porsche as Wesley and Steve were leaving made it clear that they had nothing to do with their neighbours, nor did they want to: they hadn’t time for that sort of thing, they explained frostily as they unloaded their brown paper bags full of French sticks and sun-dried tomatoes. They made it absolutely clear that they wanted nothing to do with the matter.

The landlord was the next step – a property company in the up-market redeveloped end of Morbay. Not cheap.

As soon as their warrant cards were produced, Wesley and Steve were hustled into the back office of the plushly carpeted premises as though the staff were afraid of contamination. A grey-suited woman with too much make-up introduced herself as Liz, found the relevant file and grudgingly handed it over. The flat was in Karen’s name and she had written the rent cheques. The deposit had been paid in cash. There was no sign of any references but then, Liz
explained, they weren’t always insisted upon. If tenants didn’t cause trouble and paid their rent on time, it wasn’t the job of a landlord to pry into their private lives, she added self-righteously as an afterthought.

When asked for access to search the flat, Liz looked at Wesley as if he’d made an obscene suggestion. Torn between exercising what she had learned in assertiveness classes and being accused of obstructing the police, the latter won. She produced the key disapprovingly and announced that she had better go with them.

When they asked Liz to wait outside the flat while they made their search, she was about to argue but thought better of it.

It was obvious that nobody had lived in the flat for a while. The fridge had been cleared out and the bread bin was empty. Karen had left the flat not intending to return for some time. It reminded Wesley of a house left by someone going on holiday for a few weeks. There were female clothes in the wardrobe and women’s magazines scattered about, but there was little sign of male occupation apart from a sports bag in the hallway containing a selection of casual clothes and underwear, all from well-known chain stores. Perhaps the man of the house had moved out some time before. Was that what this was all about? A lovers’ quarrel? Most murders, Wesley reminded himself, were domestic: find the boyfriend and you’ve found the murderer.

Steve was flicking through a small pile of CDs on a shelf near the fireplace. ‘No rap or reggae, I’m afraid, Sarge,’ he said with a smirk.

‘I prefer classical myself,’ replied Wesley casually as he searched through a selection of blockbuster paperbacks, brimming with sex and violence. He looked across at Steve, who was engrossed in one of the glossy magazines.

‘Come on, Steve, put that down and get searching that bureau. I’ll radio through and get them to send someone over.’

Steve hesitated and shot Wesley a resentful look.

‘Is there a problem?’ Wesley asked calmly. Perhaps he was imagining things.

Steve stood up slowly, his eyes downcast. ‘No, Sarge,’ he mumbled.

Wesley went over to the window and looked out. Liz was standing frostily by her car. She would have a long wait.

‘How’s it going, Rach?’ Heffernan burst into the office and flung his anorak onto the coatstand with some aplomb.

‘Fine, sir. Just entering this into the computer.’

‘Rather you than me. Any tea going?’ She looked up at him coolly and he thought better of his request. ‘No, love, don’t bother. Don’t want to be spending all afternoon in the gents’. Anything new?’

‘Wesley and Steve are searching the flat now, sir. They called in for some help so a couple of uniforms went down.’

‘Anyone in the flat?’

‘Don’t think so, sir.’

‘Rach, can you get down there and have a look through this woman’s things – see if they give you any ideas.’

‘Will do, sir.’

Rachel picked up her jacket and made a quick getaway before the boss had a chance to change his mind.

Heffernan opened the door to his office and looked at his desk, overflowing with paperwork. Something would have to be done. He sat down and began to sift through the mountain, putting things into piles: forensic reports; post-mortem report – he must look at that in more detail, maybe he would take it home tonight, though it would hardly make suitable bedtime reading.

The new section had been cleared ready for the detailed dig. It was a slow process but Neil by nature was a patient man; he had to be.

The flags of the original cellar floor, photographed and documented, were carefully laid aside and the painstaking trowelling and brushing burrowed away into the foundations in the hope of finding an earlier building on the site; a glimpse into Tradmouth’s more distant history.

Seagulls circled overhead, shrieking so loudly that Neil almost missed Jane’s voice calling him over.

She stood back from where she’d been digging and Matt,
sensing an important find, strolled over to her. The three of them stared down at the disturbed earth.

‘Could be an animal bone,’ said Neil optimistically.

Anne is gone and Jennet hath resumed her duties. I am grieved to find my old feelings do return but with prayer we can but hope to drive out sin.

Elizabeth feels well once more and doth not now keep to her bed. Yet she is still much fatigued and I should not presume upon her to resume the full duties of a wife at this time. But my body hath needs and when I cast my eyes upon Jennet I am reminded of them. I pray for strength.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,
30 April 1623

Gerry Heffernan was partial to church bells. They reminded him of his childhood when they had summoned the faithful out of their pebbledashed Liverpool semis to prayer at the red sandstone church on the corner of the main road. He had been in the choir then,
Beanos
and gobstoppers hidden beneath the angelic white of his surplice, and he was still singing now, minus
Beanos
and sweets and with a considerably deeper voice. The bells increased in volume as he approached the church and he felt his step lighten as they swung in celebration.

His spirits needed raising on this dull Sunday morning. He had just called on Mrs Giordino, who had politely refused his tentative invitation to church. She was a Catholic, she explained, lapsed. Heffernan had left, saddened that he could offer so little comfort.

Taking his place in the oak choir stalls behind the elaborately carved and painted screen, reputedly one of the finest in Devon, he was aware of a grey curly head in the row in front. Dorothy Truscot’s grim discovery hadn’t affected her warbly singing voice adversely.

After the service and the unmemorable sermon, he emerged from the porch of St Margaret’s as so many had done since the days of the fourth King Henry, when the church had been built with money donated by prosperous local dealers in wine, fish and wool whose earthly remains had long ago been consigned to the crypt and forgotten.

When he arrived home he checked the carrier bag that contained the food. He had told Wesley half past twelve – best time for the tide and the working lunch he had planned; a chance to get away from the office and the paperwork; to clear the mind and get the facts in some sort of order.

The invitation had come as a relief to Wesley. He had left Pam preparing for tomorrow’s lessons. She had seemed so preoccupied with her work and her own thoughts that she hardly seemed to notice him going out. The atmosphere in the house was still somewhat chilly.

Heffernan greeted his sergeant heartily and invited him in. Wesley looked round the living room, making a quick appraisal.

It was neater than he had expected; no sign of the squalor that had surrounded him in his own single days. The walnut baby grand piano dominated the room; sheet music scattered over its top showed that it wasn’t there merely for decoration. The plain white walls were hung with pictures of ships of varying types and sizes, and a brass sextant lay in pride of place on the oak sideboard. If Wesley had had to hazard a guess about the owner of such a room on one of the more popular television quiz shows, he would have suggested it belonged to a musical sailor. No sign of a police connection, but then his own house was hardly adorned with handcuffs and copies of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. Home was a place of escape.

Heffernan emerged from the kitchen carrying a large carrier bag and led Wesley outside onto the cobbled quayside. He was expecting a pie and a pint in the Tradmouth
Arms but Heffernan was heading across the quay towards the water.

‘Here she is,’ the inspector announced with obvious pride.

Wesley looked around, expecting to see a woman approaching down the quay – a hidden aspect of his boss’s private life. But there was nobody in sight. Heffernan had climbed aboard a small yacht moored a few yards away from his front door. Wesley prayed silently that the seasickness he had experienced on the storm-tossed cross-Channel ferry last year wouldn’t return today. He eyed the vessel nervously. The weather was calm, hardly a breath of wind; he stood a chance.

‘What do you think of her?’ Gerry Heffernan gazed at the boat lovingly.

Wesley had seen some men get like this about their cars, but hadn’t known the phenomenon extend to boats. ‘Very nice, sir.’

‘Got her three years ago and did her up. Completely refitted her and gave her some new keel bolts.’

Wesley nodded, trying to appear knowledgeable.

‘She’s a sloop, East Anglian class. Twenty-seven foot nine, four-berth,’ Heffernan continued proudly. ‘She was in a state when Ï got her, I can tell you.’

Wesley tried to look enthusiastic as he clambered aboard. He didn’t know one end of a boat from another, but he was loath to let his ignorance show.

Once aboard, in the surprisingly neat cabin, the carrier bag was opened to reveal the delights of fresh crab, prawns, salads and what appeared to be a home-made fruit pie.

To his astonishment, Wesley found he was hungry. They ate at anchor. The meal, washed down with a chilled bottle of Chardonnay, was as good as it looked. But the trip downriver to the sea which followed left Wesley feeling distinctly queasy. His boss observed happily that even Lord Nelson had been prone to seasickness.

‘I hadn’t expected this,’ Wesley said as Heffernan steered the streamlined craft through the waves.

‘Just thought we could do with a change of scene.’

They stood for a while on deck, Wesley watching as the craft was navigated skilfully round the headland, topped
with the twin castles that guarded the entrance to the River Trad.

‘You seem to know what you’re doing. Been sailing long?’

‘Seems like all my life. I was in the merchant navy – first mate – before I joined the force.’

They stood for a while in amicable silence, watching the waves and the receding ruggedness of the cliffs.

‘What made you join the force, Wesley?’

Wesley thought for a while. He had not been prepared for the question and he wasn’t even certain of the answer. He did his best. ‘It was always assumed that I’d become a doctor like my parents – and my sister read medicine at Oxford.’