The Merchant's House (30 page)

‘Come on, Wes, we’re off up north again. You drive.’

Wesley had hoped to see Neil with Bill Boscople’s address, maybe even follow it up himself, but duty came first. This time they might even make an arrest, judging by what the inspector had said.

Gerry Heffernan sat in the passenger seat. There was a suppressed energy about him, an air of excitement.

‘Will you get a chance to see your daughter while we’re up there, sir?’

‘Shouldn’t think so. She’ll be much too busy. Anyway, I reckon it’ll be an interview, quick arrest and back down the M5. Won’t have much time for socialising.’

‘Do you think Berrisford did it?’

‘He’s a man capable of violence. This stupid girl, a girl who he’d paid well to provide a service, had just deprived him of his son and heir. He’s got no alibi. He knows the area round the footpath well. I should say he’s the prime suspect, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes, I suppose he is. Nearly there, sir.’

With the help of the
A to Z
, they located the main road out of Wilmslow without too much difficulty. The Berrisfords’ house was larger than anything Wesley would have aspired to. A substantial Edwardian detached with a sweeping drive, it smelled of wealth and good taste.

The front door, glossy with flawless red paint, was opened by a young woman with a ponytail who introduced herself as the cleaner. Mr Berrisford was at work as far as she knew. Wesley braced himself for a drive into Manchester.

It wasn’t so bad out of rush hour. Gerry Heffernan looked out of the window as the scene outside changed from leafy suburbs to redbrick urban landscape to run-down districts to busy city centre. At last, after driving around for ten minutes, they found somewhere to park.

Berrisford and Brady, Wine Merchants was in the better part of town, near the business quarter, set amongst exclusive shops with exclusive prices. The two officers stepped through the etched glass door into a scene from a more elegant age. Discretion was the watchword here. The interior of dark polished wood had few bottles on display, and those there were looked alarmingly expensive. This wasn’t the average high street off-licence. The customers here were connoisseurs and didn’t mind paying for their indulgences.

‘Not somewhere you’d buy a litre of Spanish plonk on a Saturday night,’ Heffernan whispered to Wesley softly, in case the superior gentleman with distinguished grey hair and a bow tie, who stood expectantly behind the mahogany counter, heard and disapproved.

‘May I help you, gentlemen? Perhaps I might interest you in a Côte du Rhone that we had delivered yesterday. I must say it’s an excellent year. I really can recommend …’

Heffernan showed his warrant card and the sales talk stopped abruptly. ‘We’re looking for Alan Berrisford. Am I correct in thinking he works here?’

‘Er, yes. He’s my partner. I’m Geoffrey Brady. Alan’s in the back. He deals mainly with the mail order side of the business. If you’d like to follow me, gentlemen.’

Brady led them through well-stocked storerooms. Rows of bottles gleamed on racks. Light wooden boxes, stamped with the names of vineyards even the inspector had heard of, were piled up against the walls.

‘I hope it’s not bad news, Inspector. It’s terrible about Alan’s little boy, it really is.’

Heffernan and Wesley were giving nothing away. Geoffrey Brady, denied information, knocked on a plain
office door and announced them. Heffernan thanked him and waited for him to return to his post before stepping into Alan Berrisford’ lair.

Berrisford was there at the desk, bent over a pile of invoices. He looked at his visitors apprehensively.

‘Mr Berrisford, where were you on September the seventeenth?’

Alan Berrisford, with trembling hands, reached for his diary. ‘I was down at the cottage, with my wife. Why?’

‘Alan Berrisford, I’m arresting you for the murder of Sharon Carteret.’

Wesley looked at Berrisford’ defiant face as the inspector gabbled the required words. It would be an interesting journey home. He hoped there would be no hold-ups on the motorway.

All was well until my wife did discover Jennet holding Thomas in her arms. I had ordered that she have no dealings with the child and my wife was rightly angry.

No one suspects that the child is not my wife’s. We did put it abroad that Jennet was delivered of a dead child as a consequence of her sin. I did offer Jennet more money but she did refuse it and did return that which I had already given her. I did order her from the house but she would not go without her child.

My wife is distraught. I must needs remedy the situation.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,
29 March 1624

Whatever Elaine Berrisford might have done, Stan Jenkins thought she had the right to know that little Jonathon was safe and happy. He had sat with her too many times and watched her suffer. He felt he couldn’t just abandon the woman.

‘So how do you feel, Elaine? You know if there’s anything I can do …’

‘Thank you. You’ve been so good, you really have.’ She sipped her tea absent-mindedly. ‘Can I see Alan?’

‘Not at the moment, I’m afraid. They’re still questioning him. I’m really sorry how things have turned out.’

‘At least Jonathon’s all right.’

‘Yes. I’ve seen him and he’s fine. You do realise that Sharon’s boyfriend was his real father, don’t you?’ He spoke gently; he was on delicate ground. ‘Sharon deceived you. She didn’t stick to her side of the bargain.’

Elaine nodded. ‘Does it mean he might be able to keep him?’

‘I really don’t know much about these things but I suppose there’s a chance. I can’t tell you about the legal position because I just don’t know it. But Jonathon’s happy and Social Services say he’s all right where he is for the time being.’

Elaine twisted her handkerchief in her hands. ‘I just want him back. That’s all I ever wanted.’

‘I know, Elaine, I know.’

‘You say he’s okay? Where’s he living? What kind of place?’

Stan hesitated. There couldn’t be any harm in putting the woman’s mind at rest. After all, she’d been through enough.

‘He’s not exactly living in luxury but he’s happy enough. He’s got lots of other kids to play with on the site. I know it doesn’t look very clean or conventional but then we mustn’t judge …’

‘Where is it? What site?’

He might as well tell her, he’d given enough away already. ‘The travellers’ site at Neston. It’s not as bad as it sounds, honestly, and there are lots of children …’

Elaine stood up. ‘I’m feeling rather tired, Stan. Thank you for coming. You’ll let me know when I can see Alan?’

‘Of course.’ Stan rose and put his half-full cup of tea on the coffee table.

‘Stan …’

‘Yes?’

‘If Alan killed this girl, he did it because he was provoked. She’d taken our child. They’ll take all that into account, won’t they? She wouldn’t listen to reason.’

Stan didn’t answer. He felt very uneasy as he left Hedgerow Cottage. He didn’t know why.

* * *

Heffernan leaned forward. ‘Why did you do it, Alan? Why did you do that to her face?’

The atmosphere in the interview room was tense. Wesley shifted a little in his chair. He needed a cup of tea … or something stronger.

‘Come on, Alan. Did she laugh at you? Is that it? After all you’d been through, after all the money you paid, did she tell you that you weren’t the kid’s real father? It must have really got to you. I mean, killing her’s one thing, but doing that to her face. I saw her in the mortuary, you know, at the post-mortem. I saw what you did.’

Alan Berrisford seemed to have shrunk in stature since Wesley first encountered him. He sat hunched on his plastic chair. He looked pathetic, as murderers often do when their wrongdoings are discovered.

When he spoke, he was barely audible. Heffernan had to ask him to speak up for the tape machine.

‘I was angry. She laughed. She turned round and I hit her. Then I kept on hitting her. That’s it. That’s what happened.’

‘What did you hit her with?’

‘A piece of wood … a branch.’

‘What did you do with it?’

‘I threw it away.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know … just away.’

‘Why were you meeting her?’

‘She rang, asked to meet me, sort things out. She wanted to keep Jonathon, wanted us to agree …’

‘She was being a bit naive, then … a bit optimistic?’

Alan looked up as if he’d never thought of the situation in those terms before. ‘Yes, she was. There was no way we’d give up our son, no way.’

Heffernan looked at the clock on the green-tiled wall, then at Wesley. He spoke to the tape machine. ‘Interview terminated at fifteen hundred hours.’ He nodded to the uniformed constable in the corner, who led the crumpled Alan back to the cells.

‘He looked like he needed a break, Wes, and we’ve got to be there at four.’

The sergeant nodded. He had nearly forgotten about the funeral. It wasn’t something he was looking forward to, but it was customary to attend. They left at half past three – plenty of time to get to Morbay crematorium.

The funerals of murder victims always seem to excite more interest than those of individuals who have died in more mundane circumstances. There was a good turnout. Chris Manners, his son in his arms, led the mourners; Sludge and Donna, out of place and awkward, provided a modicum of moral support. The model agency was well represented as their former receptionist went on her final journey. Phil was there, looking solemn. A few of the models stood about self-consciously, among them Karen Giordino. She wore a short black suit and Mr Carl had done her hair specially for the occasion. After all, there might be photographers.

Heffernan watched Karen. She looked pensive, as if contemplating her own mortality. At one time, everyone had thought it would be her in the coffin. What if … Karen shivered; it was too awful to contemplate. Life was unpredictable and you had to live each day to the full. That was why she had just ditched John. He was holding her back; cramping her. The previous evening she had also rung her mother. Life was too short to bear grudges. Karen felt tears prick her eyes as the vicar read the words of the funeral service. Her only thought as the coffin disappeared behind the chapel curtains to its fiery fate was ‘They thought it was me … it could have been me’.

Chris’s mum, who lived on the council estate on the edge of Morbay, invited people back for refreshments. Most declined. They had come for their own reasons – to pay their respects or out of curiosity – and now they just wanted to get home. Sharon had had no family so Chris’s relations had to suffice. The mourners broke up into awkward groups, hung round for a while, then returned to their everyday lives.

Karen Giordino, as she was leaving, even managed to grace Heffernan and Wesley with a tentative half-smile. Life was too short.

It was after five when they got back to the station. Alan,
the inspector said, would keep till tomorrow. He had confessed. The charges had been made. It was all a matter of paperwork now – the blight of the modern policeman’s life.

The statements lay on Heffernan’s desk. Dr Downey had made a guarded statement in the presence of his solicitor. Even Mrs Hughes had come clean about her involvement in the case. She insisted she had done nothing criminal. No doubt Heffernan could think of something if he put his mind to it.

Chris Manners had named the men who were supplying him with the stolen building materials. The inspector had decided to ask for him to be treated leniently; he would recommend probation in view of the accused’s co-operation and domestic circumstances. According to that long-haired woman from Social Services, it was looking increasingly likely that Chris might be able to keep his son. Heffernan hoped so. There was nothing like a bit of domestic responsibility to keep a young man on the straight and narrow: he had seen it before time after time.

Wesley knocked and walked in, interrupting the inspector’s thoughts.

‘All cleared up, sir?’

‘Just about, Wes, just about. I had Stan in before saying he’d let slip where the kid was to Elaine Berrisford.’

‘Hell.’

‘It probably doesn’t matter. She won’t try and get him back now. Surely the woman’s got more sense.’

Wesley nodded. ‘Just have to keep an eye on the situation. Anyway, even if she did go down to Neston, the worst thing that could happen would be an embarrassing scene.’

‘You’re most likely right, Wes. Wish he hadn’t done it, though.’

‘Is it okay if I go now? I’ve got a call to make on the way home.’

‘You go, Wes. See you tomorrow. We’ll get some cans in, have a bit of a celebration tomorrow night – you tell everyone.’

There was always a celebratory atmosphere when a murder case was cleared up. And this one had the added
bonus of the missing toddler being found alive and well. Wesley promised to spread the news.

Neil was preparing to pack up for the night when Wesley arrived at the site. Matt and Jane had left already. They were going to the theatre in Plymouth. Neil commented that it was all right for some. Wesley sensed a hint of envy and wondered why Neil hadn’t a partner of his own: he had always been popular with the opposite sex at university; he had even gone out with Pam at one time, before Wesley had swept her off her feet, of course.