The Merchant's House (18 page)

The phone rang and Wesley cursed under his breath. He needed some time without interruptions. But what he heard when he grabbed the receiver made him sit up with renewed interest. It was a jeweller who had a shop on the Embankment, calling to say that a boy had brought in a very interesting ring and that he should come round and have a look at it.

Wesley didn’t need asking twice. He pushed the papers on his desk to one side and put on his jacket. On the way he called for Neil, who left Matt and Jane to continue their painstaking excavations.

‘Found anything exciting?’ asked Wesley as they squeezed themselves against the walls of a half–timbered antique shop to avoid being hit by a passing car.

‘Only what you’d expect. A few coins, nails, pottery. We think we’ve located the midden: found some animal bones. Thought for one terrible moment that we’d found another skeleton. What did this jeweller say?’

‘Some kid brought him a ring, very old. It might not be connected but I thought you’d better come along just in case.’

The jeweller’s shop looked as though it had wriggled itself into a narrow gap between a restaurant and an estate agent’s. Inside, it was small and cosy; its dark wood counter glowed like a new conker. It was an old business, established
over a century ago, with an impressive array of antique jewellery on show in its small plate–glass window: the kind of jewellery Pam liked, thought Wesley, but could seldom afford.

The jeweller, a Mr Seddon, was younger than Wesley had expected: a plump man in young middle age, who wore an alarming waistcoat and velvet bow tie. Mr Seddon got down to business as soon as Wesley and Neil had introduced themselves, Neil’s unkempt appearance becoming instantly acceptable when the jeweller learned of his profession. Mr Seddon produced the ring from a brown envelope and Neil picked it up.

‘What a beauty. I’ve rarely seen anything like this so well preserved. Look at this, Wes: there’s an inscription inside.’

He handed it to Wesley and the jeweller provided a magnifying glass. Wesley read. ‘ “To Jennet with all my thanks. J.B.” Might not be contemporary with the ring, of course. It might be hard to prove it’s from the dig.’

He gave the ring back to Neil, who studied it carefully. ‘It certainly looks sixteenth–, seventeenth–century. Nice. I’d like to show it to someone at the County Museum.’

‘The boy who brought it in has a metal detector,’ said Seddon. ‘There’s a little gang of them hang around the Embankment at low tide. It could have come from the river, I suppose.’

‘It wouldn’t be in such good nick,’ said Neil, looking at the ring. ‘It looks almost as if it was buried when it was new.’

‘The lad’s here most evenings with his friends. I see them messing about making a nuisance of themselves by the castle ferry steps when I lock up. If you come back about six you might be able to ask him about it.’

‘Thank you, Mr Seddon. In the meantime, if you could keep it in your safe …’

Wesley thanked Mr Seddon for being so public–spirited and walked back part of the way with Neil, who was trying not to become too excited about such a desirable find. The truth would have to wait until the evening.

Wesley looked at his watch. It was nearly time to brave the bank manager.

* * *

Rachel looked out of the car window as they drove through Morbay and thought how the place had changed.

In her childhood the resort was the very pinnacle of respectability: retired colonels; tea dances among the potted palms; high–class shops; young families consuming ice cream while seated in municipal deckchairs on the beach below the ornamental gardens. She had been brought there as a treat. Parts of the town still retained the aura of bygone prosperity: the white villas perched above the town, one of them the home of Karen Giordino, were still leafy and desirable. But the town itself, Rachel noted, was showing signs of wear, like an elderly lady wearing too much makeup. The purveyors of luxury goods in the main street by the marina were slowly being replaced by amusement arcades. Hoteliers, hit by hard times, were accepting guests from the DSS rather than the rosy–cheeked young families of yesteryear. Gangs of youths roamed the streets in and out of season. The Drug Squad kept a careful eye on the place. It was not how Rachel remembered it.

She asked herself why she had allowed Steve to drive, knowing perfectly well it wasn’t one of his talents. She told him as much. ‘Your driving’s bloody lethal. I’ll make sure I come with Sergeant Peterson next time.’

‘Fancy him, do you? Is it true what they say about black men?’ Steve leered unpleasantly and put his hand on her knee.

Rachel hit the offending hand hard with her fist and turned on him, furious. ‘I’ve had enough of you, Steve. You’re getting as bad as Harry bloody Marchbank.’

‘Good copper, Harry Marchbank,’ said Steve with a smile.

‘He was an ignorant pig, Steve. And you’d better not follow his example or Gerry Heffernan’ll have you back on the streets handing out parking tickets. Understand?’

Steve was silenced for a few moments, but he knew he had touched a nerve. Maybe Rachel did fancy Wesley Peterson. It was a situation that would need watching.

The address they had been given was on a fairly respectable side of town. Rows of Victorian semis, only a few divided into flats, stood each side of Albert Road. Number
33 had two bells. Rachel rang the bottom one. There was no answer, so she worked her way up.

The door was answered by an elderly lady, still sprightly, with sharp blue eyes. Rachel thought that here was a good witness: nothing much would get past her. She asked if a Sharon Carteret lived there.

‘There was a young lady on the bottom floor. She introduced herself as Sharon, but she didn’t say her second name. They don’t nowadays, do they? She seemed a nice girl – quiet.’

‘Did she live alone?’

‘Dear me, no. She had a husband … and a little boy. Very sweet he was. Such a shame they didn’t stay long. I did offer to baby–sit, you know. Won’t you come in? I’ll pop the kettle on.’

Rachel was longing for a cup of tea, Steve for something stronger, but he’d make do. They followed the lady, who had introduced herself as Mrs Willis, up the stairs.

Her flat was cosy and filled with the memorabilia of a lifetime. She had obviously lived in this top–floor flat for many years. Rachel said as much.

‘Oh yes, dear. I’ve seen a lot of comings and goings in that bottom flat, I can tell you.’

‘Can you tell us about this family downstairs? Are they still living there?’

‘Oh no, dear. It’s empty at the moment. They moved out very suddenly while I was away.’ She suddenly looked coy. ‘My dancing partner thinks they did a moonlight flit, but I wouldn’t like to say.’

‘What were they like?’

‘As I said, she was very nice. He never spoke. Wore an earring.’ She whispered confidentially. ‘I think she might have married beneath her.’

Rachel nodded and tried to look suitably disapproving. ‘And the little boy?’

‘Such a sweet child – the image of his father.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Daniel. They called him Danny.’

‘And the father’s name?’

‘Chris.’

‘Did Sharon talk about herself?’

‘No. No, she didn’t. I came down and introduced myself. I always believe in being a good neighbour. Sharon was very polite, told me their names, but that’s all really. I don’t think he worked. If he’d been out during the day I would have invited her up for a cup of tea. It’s surprising what you can learn over a cup of tea. But then I suppose you know that in the police force. What have they done? Why are you after them? Have they robbed a bank?’

‘No.’ Rachel decided to spare Mrs Willis’s feelings. ‘It’s something quite different. What happened when they went? Did they say anything?’

‘I’m afraid I was away. I’ve just spent three weeks at my daughter’s in Brighton. When I got back yesterday they’d gone, just disappeared. I asked the landlord but he didn’t know any more than I did. The rent was paid till the end of the month so he didn’t worry. You know what these landlords are like nowadays, only interested in money. More tea?’

‘No, thank you, Mrs Willis. That was lovely.’ Rachel, ever a favourite with her numerous great–aunts, was good with elderly ladies. ‘Is the flat downstairs occupied now?’

‘Oh no, dear. It’s still empty.’ She delved into an empty vase and pulled out a key. ‘I’ve got this. The landlord’s left me one in case anybody comes to view it.’

Rachel took the key. ‘Thank you, Mrs Willis, you’ve been very helpful. I’ll bring back the key when we’ve had a little look.’ She smiled sweetly.

Rachel stood in the hallway looking at the key. She could tell Steve was growing impatient. She drew another key from her pocket.

‘Sergeant Peterson gave me this,’ she said. ‘It’s the one that was found in the handbag.’

She tried it in the lock. It opened the door. They hadn’t needed Mrs Willis’s spare key after all.

The flat had a chill air, an unoccupied feeling. The furniture stood plain and unadorned, waiting for the next tenant to add their touch of individuality. The place was cleanish, modern and unpretentious. Rachel had seen better… and much worse. But there was something bothering her,
something at the back of her mind. And she couldn’t think what it was.

Wesley had once considered accountancy as a career, but after several seconds’ thought had dismissed the idea. His visit to the bank confirmed the wisdom of that decision. Rows of figures had never been his strong point.

The bank’s records, now neatly consigned to computer, had revealed that the large sum had been paid into Sharon Carteret’s newly opened deposit account roughly two years ago; the monthly payments had begun a year after that. All the transactions had been conducted in cash. Where, Wesley wondered, had the money come from? He sat at his desk back at the station and looked at the information the bank had given him. It didn’t make sense … yet.

The bank’s records also showed that Sharon had changed jobs a few months before the money was paid in. She had once worked for a building society in Tradmouth. Another line of enquiry.

He worked till six, managing to reduce the size of his paperwork pile by more than two–thirds. After explaining to Heffernan where he was going and being offered the services of PC Johnson, he set off for the Embankment. Johnson’s presence in uniform would add a useful element of officialdom when he tackled the boy with the metal detector.

Mr Seddon had been right about the boy’s routine. A few youths, too old for school and at a loose end, were hanging about at the top of the castle ferry steps. They weren’t doing anything illegal, or even very antisocial, just slouching aimlessly, consuming cans of drink and cigarettes. Two of them clutched metal detectors like wands of office. The ferryman tied up his small blue–painted craft below and eyed the boys with some suspicion. Wesley strolled over to them casually. Johnson followed behind. He recognised some of these lads as younger alumni of his old school, Tradmouth Comprehensive. He hoped they wouldn’t recognise him.

Wesley showed his warrant card and asked who had taken a ring to the jeweller’s. Darren, who had never been mixed up with the police, stared at Wesley with hostile interest,
but stayed silent. The boys all shook their heads and tried to look as blameless as a gaggle of choirboys. But unfortunately for Darren, Mr Seddon chose that moment to come out of his shop to lock up. The jeweller saw the policemen and started to approach the group, but Darren spotted him first and took to his heels, clutching the metal detector, his prized possession, to his chest. Johnson gave chase; he had not been Tradmouth Comprehensive’s 800 metres champion for nothing.

The rugby tackle grazed Darren’s elbow and his pride but didn’t damage his metal detector. The other boys scurried away as Johnson brought Darren back. The police were bad news. They didn’t want to get involved.

Darren looked as if he’d rather be anywhere than being frogmarched along the Embankment by a six–foot spotty policeman.

‘Is this the boy, Mr Seddon?’ Wesley said quietly. The lad stood pathetically in front of him.

Seddon nodded. ‘I’ll unlock the shop, Sergeant. You can talk to him in there.’

Darren, in Wesley’s judgement, told the truth – or the truth according to Darren. ‘It was only a bit of waste ground. I only dug it up like I do on the river. What’s wrong with that? It don’t belong to no one.’

Wesley explained patiently and in the simplest of terms about private property and archaeological digs. Darren hung his head. ‘I’ve not got to go to court, have I? Me mum’ll kill me. I never knew it were against the law. I never …’

The boy looked so small, so pathetic, that Wesley found himself feeling sorry for him. Strictly speaking he should have charged him, but he decided on this occasion to use his discretion.

‘Darren, I’m going to ask you to come to the site with me and show us exactly where you found the ring and anything else you took that night. Okay?’

Darren nodded. His eyes had begun to fill with tears.

Mr Seddon watched them go. The ring was a nice piece; he could have made a few bob on it, he thought, but it wouldn’t do to get on the wrong side of the law in his business. He shrugged and locked the shop.

Neil was surprised to see Wesley in the company of a boy in a baseball cap and a young uniformed policeman. Darren hung back, looking guilty, as Wesley explained the situation and returned the jewel of the dig to its rightful keeper.