The Merchant's House (28 page)

‘She’s not going to give anything away, is she, sir?’ Wesley was perched on his boss’s desk. They had made the journey back to the station in virtual silence, neither liking to intrude on the other’s thoughts.

‘I reckon I put the wind up her with that DNA stuff, though. We should get the results soon. And what’s the betting they’ll show I’m right. Did you see her face?’

‘Yes. I reckon you touched a nerve there, sir. But we need proof. Anyway, surely if you’re right the tests’ll show Chris wasn’t the father.’

‘Not necessarily, Wes, not necessarily. Pity your wife’s not in the force – she’d be perfect to do what I’ve got in mind, what with Downey knowing her already and …’

‘What have you got in mind?’ Heffernan was like a foxhound in pursuit. Wesley just hoped that what he was contemplating didn’t go against the regulations.

‘Ever used an
agent provocateur
, Wes? Or don’t they speak much French in the Met?’

Wesley felt uncomfortable. He hoped the inspector wouldn’t go too far. The powers-that-be held a very dim view of officers who didn’t stick to the guidelines. ‘How do you mean, sir?’

‘Is Rachel about? Tell her to come in, will you.’

Rachel was at her desk, wrestling with reports. She sensed
Wesley’s unease and followed him into Heffernan’s office with some apprehension.

The inspector was at his most jovial. ‘Sit down, Rach, sit down. I remember a few years back you used to be in the divisional drama society.’

‘That was when I first joined the force, sir. I haven’t done much acting since.’

‘How would you like to do some more … in the line of duty, of course?’

Wesley listened with growing unease as the inspector explained to Rachel what he wanted her to do.

Rachel sat in Downey’s office the next morning in her interview suit – very expensive; bought in last year’s sales in Plymouth – and her mother’s best pearl earrings. She hoped she was convincing.

She carried on with her tale of how she had had an abortion at eighteen which had left her infertile; how the adoption agencies had turned her down because her husband was so much older than her. Her performance, she thought, brought tears to the eyes. She really must try the drama society again.

She was enjoying herself. They were rich, she and her fictional husband, but no amount of money could make up for what they longed for – a family. She sat back, extracted a tissue from her handbag and dabbed her eyes. Dr Downey was watching her with speculation. Rachel looked up at him and for the first time felt uneasy. Had he seen through her act?

Downey leaned back in his deep leather chair, still watching her. ‘Who recommended me to you?’

Rachel swallowed. This was the hard bit. ‘A lady called Jenny. I don’t know her well but I got talking to her last week. She was due to come in here for tests, I believe. Our husbands know each other. Please, Dr Downey, there must be something you can do for me. Please … I’m desperate.’

‘I could make the arrangements, you understand, but if you were to find someone willing yourself, a friend or relation perhaps, that’s sometimes easier. Then I would
arrange the medical side. The cost would be substantial but of course the result would be virtually guaranteed.’

‘What do you mean … someone willing?’

Dr Downey explained. Rachel listened intently.

Wesley sat in the hut waiting for Neil to finish talking to Matt and Jane. The office had been quiet; everyone was out and he needed some company. He wondered how Rachel was getting on. Heffernan shouldn’t have put her in that situation, and he wasn’t sure it was even permitted. If the super got to hear … If anything went wrong … He found himself worrying about Rachel more than he felt to be appropriate.

‘You’re quiet today, Wes. Pam okay?’ Neil came in and carried on cleaning some finds, broken pottery mostly. They were down to the next layer – a house that had been on the site in the fourteenth century and burned down.

‘Yeah. She’s fine … back at work.’

‘Glad you called in. Got something to show you.’ Neil wiped his hands and opened the drawer of his desk. He handed Wesley a Polaroid photograph. It was the head of a young woman; a small nose, high cheekbones, a wide, sensuous mouth, long blond hair. ‘It’s her. Our skeleton. Jennet. The prof’s made a good job of it, hasn’t he?’

Wesley stared at the face. ‘She’s beautiful.’ He was suddenly filled with pity for this good-looking young woman who had ended up buried in a cellar. ‘I wonder why she was killed … what happened.’

‘She’s certainly a bit of all right, isn’t she? Poor lass. Can’t have been more than twenty, the pathologist reckoned. I’m still on the Boscople trail. Not found him yet. Might have moved out of the area.’

‘I’m sure I’ve heard that name somewhere recently. I’ll look through my case notes. I’m sure it was to do with work.’

‘That’d be a help.’

Wesley heard a voice outside the hut, an unmistakable voice; the Scouse accent carried across the site. The door opened and Gerry Heffernan loomed in the frame, blocking the light.

‘I thought I’d find you here. Get back to the station quick,
Wes. There’s been a development. Rachel’s Oscar-winning performance did the business. We’ve got enough evidence now for a search. Come on.’

Neil, a man who didn’t like to be hurried, looked at his friend sympathetically and raised a hand in farewell.

They walked quickly back to the station.

‘So what happened?’

‘Our Rachel’s missed her vocation … should be in the Royal Shakespeare Company by the sound of it. He told her the lot. How he arranged things, everything. What we need now is solid evidence. You’re not telling me there aren’t records of this lot somewhere in that place.’

It didn’t take long to organise. The warrant was obtained and the clinic’s records searched systematically. Wesley kept a low profile. All he could think about was what the staffs’ attitude would be should Pam need more treatment. He would hardly be a welcome visitor after all this.

Administration staff stood about awkwardly as the search through the files and computer systems continued. Dr Downey was on the golf course, though no doubt he would have been notified on his mobile phone by now.

Everything seemed to be above board. Dr Downey seemed to have left no trace of his less-than-legal activities. But in a locked drawer in the doctor’s office Wesley eventually made the discovery. A computer disk.

‘Go on, then, Wes. I’m computer-illiterate … you have a go.’ Heffernan stood back while the sergeant inserted the disk into the appropriate hole and pressed a few buttons.

The information came up on the screen. Names, dates, addresses, medical details. Among the names were those of Elaine Berrisford and Sharon Carteret. Sharon’s pregnancy was detailed: her weight, blood pressure, urine tests – the lot. She’d certainly been well cared for. The doctor’s fee appeared in the list of details. It had been a very lucrative business, exploiting people’s innermost needs.

Wesley and the inspector left the team to get on with the search. Heffernan would see Dr Downey later and no doubt there’d be charges. But there were more pressing matters. Stan Jenkins had to know the truth.

* * *

‘So you mean Jonathon isn’t her child.’ Stan had just about got the message but was still staring at Gerry Heffernan in disbelief. ‘But I could have sworn she was the child’s mum. She seemed so …’

‘Well, I suppose adoptive parents feel just the same. And I suppose he is her husband’s biological child. I believe that’s the usual arrangement. It certainly said so in the records – child conceived by artificial insemination.’

Stan was starting to recover from the shock. ‘So he’s alive. Jonathon … he’s alive, he’s okay?’ From the relief in his voice Heffernan would have supposed Stan to have known the child, even been a relative. Maybe Stan was right; he was getting past it, getting too involved.

‘I think we should all go and break the good news to Mrs Berrisford, don’t you, Stan?’

‘But we haven’t got the kid back yet.’

‘She’ll want to know he’s alive. And I wouldn’t mind a little word with the lady myself.’

‘Shouldn’t we go and get the kid first?’

‘Oh no. It’s a bit delicate, you see. It may take time before we know what’s what.’ Stan looked puzzled. Heffernan continued. ‘I just want to nip back to my office on the way, if you don’t mind, Stan. I’m expecting the results of some tests. They should be back by now. When we’ve got them, I’ll be ready to go and see Mrs Berrisford with you.’

Stan Jenkins thought Heffernan looked smug. He wished he knew what was going on.

I did take Jennet’s child to Elizabeth who cried over it and did feed it. I did say to Jennet that she could have any sum she asked.

Jennet did help me bury my sweet Thomas in the cellar in the dead of night that none might have knowledge of the deed. I did give the child a Christian burial and read the words from the prayer book. I pray the Lord will understand. I did confess all to Elizabeth about my dealings with Jennet so that she will feel the child to be rightly hers as it is mine. We named the little one Thomas and he doth continue to thrive. Elizabeth is his mother now and Jennet doth seem well content with the arrangement. I did give her a goodly sum of money and a costly ring as a sign of my gratitude that after so many years without an heir she hath given me a son. The ring I had engraved on the inside. She took it and put it on her finger. I trust all will be well.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,
28 February 1624

Heffernan had not visited Hedgerow Cottage before. A nice property, he thought – beautifully renovated. The rambling rose round the stripped wood front door bore the last blooms of the season; a final desperate effort before its winter death. The small leaded windows sparkled in the
October sun. It was a cottage from a Sunday supplement, a desirable second home. It must have cost a packet.

The interior was plain and tasteful. White walls interspersed with oak beams gave an illusion of light and space to the low-ceilinged room. The furniture, antique and sparse, stood on a tasteful beige carpet on which were laid expensive rugs from the Middle East. It was clear that there was money about as well as good taste.

Elaine Berrisford sat forward on the antique sofa, looking nervous as Stan Jenkins introduced his colleague. Stan was being too soft, thought Heffernan. It was no use pussyfooting around now. He had to know the truth. If Stan wasn’t going to speak plainly, someone had to.

‘We think we might have found Jonathon, Mrs Berrisford. Did your mother-in-law tell you?’

Heffernan couldn’t decide whether Elaine looked shocked or hopeful. ‘No. Do you mean she knows …?’

‘Well, I’m not really surprised she’s not been in touch. You see, it’s not as straightforward as it seems. Are you ready to answer some questions, Mrs Berrisford?’

‘Of course. But where’s Jonathan? Is he all right? When can we …?’

‘He’s come to no harm. But then he wouldn’t, would he? Not if he’s with his dad.’

The shock on her face was visible for a second, then she regained control. ‘He’s with Alan? What do you mean?’ There was emotion in her voice. ‘Why hasn’t Alan let me know? Where is he? You’ve no right to keep me from seeing him if you know where he is.’

‘He’s not with your husband, Mrs Berrisford. He’s with his real father. I had the results of some DNA tests today which prove Jonathon is the child of Christopher Manners. Do you know Mr Manners?’

She shook her head. ‘You’re wrong. Jonathon’s my husband’s child. How dare you suggest …’

‘I’m not suggesting anything, Mrs Berrisford. Jonathon is the child of Christopher Manners and a young woman called Sharon Carteret. We’ve got proof.’

She shook her head in disbelief. ‘It’s impossible …’

‘We know all about Dr Downey, and the clinic, and the arrangement you had with Sharon.’

For the first time Elaine Berrisford looked scared. Stan Jenkins was surprised at the change from bereaved, anxious parent to terrified suspect. He felt sorry for this woman whom he had comforted and supported over the past weeks, but somehow the professional in him took over. The child was safe, and this was now a murder inquiry. He let Gerry Heffernan get on with it – best not to interfere.

‘Where’s Jonathon?’ she asked softly.

‘I’m afraid I can’t say at the moment, but he’s safe and well. Tell me how you met Dr Downey. Was it through your mother-in-law?’

Elaine looked as though she knew when she was beaten. Her face bore the strain of the past weeks. She looked drawn and haggard and the dark shadows beneath her eyes betrayed lack of sleep. When she spoke it was almost a whisper.

‘I had an operation when I was sixteen. It meant I couldn’t have any children. Alan said he didn’t mind at first – you know how it is, you’re getting used to each other and getting your home together. He knew from the start. I was honest with him. He said he didn’t care.’ She took a tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose. ‘Then our friends started having kids, one after the other. At first it didn’t seem to matter, then I started to think about nothing else. I don’t know if it’s nature or what but … Anyway, we tried to adopt but Alan had a criminal record. Something stupid he did when he was younger, before he met me.’