The Merchant's House (20 page)

‘I’d stake my pension on it. Such as it is in this place.’

‘How long did Sharon work here?’

‘About three years.’

‘So she’d have been entitled to maternity pay and maternity leave if she’d stayed. So why did she leave? She wasn’t signed off sick, was she?’

‘No. She definitely handed in her notice. She showed me the letter, asked me if it was all right, but she never said anything about having a baby. I mean, in this day and age nobody’d worry that she wasn’t married, and usually once girls here find out they’re pregnant there’s no stopping them talking about it.’

‘And did you ever see her again after she left? Did she ever come in to visit… show off the baby?’

‘Never saw her again. No, I tell a lie, I did see her in the street about a year later. But she didn’t see me.’

‘On her own?’

‘Yes. Near the Butterwalk one lunch-time.’

Rachel nodded. ‘Did she say where she was living?’

‘She didn’t say much about her domestic arrangements. But I reckon this boyfriend had her under his thumb all night.’

Rachel thanked Dot, who reluctantly returned to the routine of the day. A visit from the police had been a welcome respite from the tyranny of the computer screen.

When Rachel stepped out into the High Street, she began to walk towards the police station. Then, at the Butterwalk, she suddenly remembered what had been bothering her about Sharon’s flat in Morbay.

Last night my wife was awake and did ask me what business was so pressing that it kept me from my bed until this late hour. I lied to her and did claim to be counting the goods in my warehouse and making ready for our ships’ return.

Jennet doth always keep a modest demeanour before her. She can suspect nothing. I am sunk deep in my sin and want nothing more than to lie in Jennet’s fair arms. I know not what to do and I cannot call upon the Lord for guidance.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,
20 June 1623

Wesley put the phone down and walked into Heffernan’s office.

‘I’ve just been in touch with a mate of mine at the Met, sir. He’s going to St Catherine’s House to look up births, see if we can find out anything about this baby Sharon was supposed to have. He’ll let me know if he comes up with anything. I’ve been in touch with all the local adoption agencies too – drawn a blank.’

The inspector breathed deeply and played with his ballpoint pen. After a long pause he spoke. ‘Don’t you find all this a bit strange, Wes? I could understand if we were living fifty years ago when having a baby out of wedlock was a big disgrace. Girls got sent away to aunts at the seaside so that nobody’d know – it’d all be swept under the rug. But
today everyone’s doing it – film stars, the lot. It’s no great scandal any more. I don’t know if I agree with how things have gone, Wes, maybe the pendulum’s swung too far, but there we are, that’s the way things stand.’

Wesley nodded. ‘Maybe there was a reason for her hiding it. Maybe this Chris was married.’

‘Maybe. But from what we’ve heard of him, he didn’t act married. I suppose his wife might have held the purse-strings and he didn’t want to go so far as leaving her. In which case I’m surprised he didn’t persuade Sharon to have an abortion.’

‘Perhaps it was against her beliefs… or maybe she did. We’ve not talked to anyone who actually saw her heavily pregnant, have we? I’ve got Rachel checking all the maternity hospitals in the area, see if she comes up with anything. The child he was seen with in Morbay could have been his by his wife or even another woman.’

‘It’s all ifs and buts, isn’t it, Wes? What have we got? This Sharon, according to her landlady and her workmates, was a good little virgin until she falls into the clutches of the evil Chris; she gets pregnant and hides the fact; gives up her job and doesn’t get another till after the baby’s born… or maybe till after she gets over an abortion. She then disappears from her flat and her job and shacks up with Chris and some child he’s picked up on the way; then she gets herself murdered on a cliff top by person or persons unknown. It must make sense, but let’s face it, until we come up with this Chris character, we’re a bit scuppered.’

‘There’s one interesting thing, sir. I’ve just been on to the bank. The amount that’s usually paid into Sharon’s account, the two hundred pounds … it’s not been paid this month.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that whoever was paying it in knew she was dead on the twentieth of September. It was always paid in on or around the twentieth of the month. With the mix-up in identification, only the killer could have known she was dead then.’

Heffernan sat back and looked up at his sergeant in admiration. ‘Good thinking, Wesley. I think you’ve got something there.’

‘I’ll do some checking, sir.’

‘You do that.’

A few phone calls later, Wesley returned to Heffernan’s office with the results ofhis investigations. Results that Wesley found puzzling to say the least.

They were interrupted by Rachel’s return. She gave an obligatory knock on the inspector’s door and burst in; she obviously had something to say. Wesley and Heffernan looked at her expectantly.

‘I’ve checked the maternity hospitals. No record of Sharon having a baby at the time in question. She might have used a different name; there’s no way of knowing.’

Heffernan sighed.

Rachel obviously had something else to report.

‘And I’ve just remembered, sir. I knew there was something wrong when I wentto Sharon’s flat in Morbay. It was a furnished flat and the woman who owned her old flat said that it was unfurnished. What happened to her furniture? If she left it there it might mean she left in a hurry. Why?’

Her colleagues stared at her, trying to make sense of what she was saying.

Wesley spoke. ‘She could have put the furniture in storage. Get someone to contactall the local firms.’

‘I’d like to go over to Queenswear again. See if she left anything interesting behind.’ Rachel looked determined.

‘It’s worth a try,’ said the inspector. ‘You two get over there.’ He looked at Wesley. ‘What were you going to tell me before Rachel came in?’

‘It’s interesting, sir. Those monthly payments into Sharon’s bank account… they were made in cash through various branches in the north-west, mainly the Manchester area.’

Heffernan sighed. ‘This is all getting very odd, Wes; very odd indeed.’

Stan Jenkins’s heart beat faster as he approached Hedgerow Cottage. Was it nerves? Blood pressure? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he didn’t want to be there.

The WPC who was driving the car looked at him, sensing how he felt. ‘We’re here, sir.’

There was no need to tell him; he knew. Hedgerow Cottage had become as familiar as his own house. But whereas his home conjured up thoughts of evenings by the television and dull domestic security, the thought of Hedgerow Cottage brought with it the mental demons of despair and hopelessness. He didn’t want to see Elaine Berrisford; didn’t want to look into her eyes.

He had expected her to be alone. But the door was opened by a man; her husband. Stan had met him only a few times before, although of course he’d spoken to him often on the phone; he had had to return to work, had a business to run. He shook hands with him solemnly.

‘My wife’s gone to bed, Inspector.’ Alan Berrisford looked tired. ‘Is there any news?’

Stan suddenly hated himself for not being able to supply balm to this couple’s suffering. ‘I’m very sorry. We’ve followed up a few sightings but they’ve all come to nothing, I’m afraid.’

Alan Berrisford poured himself a whisky. He offered one to Stan, who refused in the best traditions of the police force. Berrisford was a good-looking man in his mid-thirties; about five foot ten, he had dark hair, blue eyes, a charming smile and an easy manner. Elaine Berrisford must once have considered herself a lucky woman.

‘My wife tried to go back to work, you know. She teaches in further education. But she found she could only stick it one day. Couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t keep her mind on it. I tried to tell her not to come back here but she insisted.’

Stan nodded. He understood. ‘Is there anything you need? Would you like me to arrange for a WPC to stay?’

‘No, thank you, Inspector. You’ve been very kind. I’m going to have to go back up north soon. I really can’t stay too long. Business, you understand. I’ll try and persuade my wife to come back with me. I think it’s unhealthy for her being here, where it happened.’

‘Quite, sir. We’re doing our best, you know. God willing, we’ll find him.’ Stan tried to make himself sound convincing.

There was a noise behind him, the opening of a door. Stan turned and saw her. She stood in a long white nightgown, her hair uncombed, her eyes staring and sedated. He was
reminded of that poem he’d done at school; the one by Tennyson. ‘The curse has come upon me, said the lady of Shalott.’ Her face looked blank, exhausted, showing all the empty despair of the damned. Some curses were worse than Tennyson’s.

As Wesley followed Rachel into the entrance hall of the police station, he nodded to Bob Naseby on the desk and noticed that Bob was looking him up and down speculatively.

‘Sergeant Peterson, can I have a quick word?’

‘Sure. What about?’

Bob leaned forward confidentially, as if it was important that Rachel didn’t hear. ‘Do you play cricket at all?’

Wesley, whose mind had been firmly fixed on murder, was unprepared for the sudden change of subject. ‘Er, it has been known … but I’m no Brian Lara. Why?’

‘We’re a bit short of men for next season. Wondered if you fancied …’

‘Can I give you an answer nearer the time, Bob? We’ve only just moved here and …’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I quite understand. You think about it. What are you, then? Batsman, bowler, all-rounder?’

‘Er, bit of everything, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m an all-rounder. I’ll have a think about it and let you know.’

When he’d made his escape, Rachel looked at him. ‘Cricket, was it?’

Wesley nodded.

‘Bob’s what’s known as a fanatic. Take my advice and don’t get involved. Your wife won’t thank you for it. It’s not like football, ninety minutes then it’s over. It goes on for hours, days on end. Your wife’s got her career – she won’t want to hang about a muddy field all weekend making sandwiches in her spare time. Just like I didn’t. I speak from experience.’

Wesley detected bitterness in her voice. So that’s what had happened to Rachel’s last relationship. He had wondered.

‘I told Bob I’d think about it. I didn’t say I’d do it. Anyway, I doubt if I’ll have the time.’

Rachel smiled. She was a pretty girl; she reminded him a bit of Pam when they had first met.

‘How did you get on at that clinic?’ she asked gently. ‘Have they said anything?’

‘Pam’s got to go in for an investigative operation.’

‘My sister-in-law had the same trouble, you know. She had all the tests going and they found nothing wrong. Then the doctor told her to relax and forget about it ‘cause it’s quite common, apparently, for people to adopt or give up hope then find they’re pregnant once the pressure’s off. She’s got three kids now – little horrors, all of them.’

Wesley smiled at Rachel. If only Pam possessed her gift of common sense. They walked on.

Rachel still refused to go to Queenswear by car. Why pollute the place when you could take the ferry and get a bit of exercise into the bargain? she explained to Wesley, who had to accept the logic of her argument. They took the boat across the river.

Wesley was becoming used to travelling by water. He would have to, living in Tradmouth: the whole town centred on the river. The mouth of the Trad had been mentioned as a haven in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and the port had thrived in the Middle Ages and beyond, but, unlike the inspector’s native Liverpool, it had been spared the curse of nineteenth-century expansion by its relative inaccessibility. If Wesley wanted to settle here, he would have to learn to live with water – and the noisy seagulls that screeched overhead.

When they got to Queenswear, Rachel and Wesley climbed the steps to number 38 and rung the bell to Flat 1. Of the two residents, Wesley reckoned that Mr Jackson would be the more amenable. Fortunately they found him in.

‘Sorry to bother you again, Mr Jackson. If we could just ask you a few more questions?’ Jackson let them in and mumbled something about putting the kettle on. He seemed resigned to their presence but not nervous.

They looked around the flat. The carpets were good-quality Axminster, but old and unfashionable. The furniture was an eclectic mixture; the type picked up over the years
in second-hand and junk shops: no better than the contents of the flat in Morbay, but no worse either.

When Jackson brought the tea in on a cheap tin tray decorated with stylised 1970s orange flowers, Wesley decided on the direct approach.

‘This furniture, Mr Jackson … is it yours?’

‘Good Lord, no. My wife kept all the furniture – everything. She got the lot,’ he spat out bitterly.

‘So where did it come from?’