White Lies (41 page)

“Yes. It was filled in when the body we thought was Godwin’s turned out to be the missing kid, but a visitor to the graveyard spotted a gold necklace sticking out of the soil and came to the station to hand it in as lost property. When she said where she’d found it we sent an officer to have a look and he uncovered a body.”

“Why didn’t anyone spot it before?”

“Well, it’s a grave isn’t it? Who looks for a dead body in a grave? The funny thing is, nobody knows who filled it in. The groundsman thought it was the family, the family though it was the verger and the verger thought it was the groundsman.” She shook her head, drops of water flying from the tips of her hair. “And now it looks like this was Peter Numan’s last victim.”

“Peter Numan? Why? He’s dead.”

“Not before killing this poor chap. It was his necklace poking out of the soil, you see. It was one of these foreign yin-yang-yong symbols but DI White recognized the engraving on the back. He tootled up the The Larches and matched it to one Mary Markhew gave to Peter Numan when they got...you know...together.”

“I think you’re looking for the phrase ‘formalized their relationship.’” Meinwen frowned. “I’m not trying to be funny but the symbol is a yin-yang, not a yin-yang-yong? I think you’d find that would be quite offensive if you said it to the wrong person.”

“I know what yin and yang is.” Anna Wilde dragged Meinwen to one side of the crime scene where an old yew tree offered a small amount of shelter from the rain. This had three of the symbols inside the circle. I hadn’t see a three-way before. What is it called then?”

“A triskelion.” Meinwen drew the symbol on the sergeant’s palm with her finger. “Three interlocking spirals. It dates back six thousand years in Ireland and Mycenae.”

“As old as that?”

“Not as old as yin-yang. So whose body have you dug up?”

“A bloke called Derek Blake. Fifty-four, married father of three. No connection to the Markhews as far as we can see.”

“What did he do?”

“Delivery driver for a firm in Salisbury. Reported missing sixteen days ago and they found his truck in Taunton. Go figure.”

“How odd. Can I see him?”

“Best not. He’s been down there a fortnight. Not a pretty sight, if you get my drift.”

“I see, right.” Meinwen clapped her on the shoulder. “Thanks for the help.”

“No problem. We should have a drink sometime.”

Meinwen turned, walking backward for a moment. “We should. I’d like that.” She waved and tuned back to where Dafydd was waiting with the umbrella. “Right. Home again. I need to look something up on the internet.”

She threaded her way back through the graves and across the road, pausing as DI White drove past. She waved when he stared at her. There was no point in pretending she hadn’t been in the cemetery, DS Wilde would soon tell him.

She slowed to allow Dafydd to catch up and opened the gate for him to go through first. They linked arms along the relative privacy of her garden path and she led him around the house to the conservatory. It was a better place to take off wet boots and coats than the sitting room.

“You put the kettle on and make the drinks while I look something up.”

“Right you are.” Dafydd laughed. “Permission to change my socks first, though?”

Meinwen looked at his feet. They couldn’t have been much wetter if he’d dipped them in the frog pond. “Have you got holes in your shoes?”

“Just a bit. I usually pad them with cardboard but the rain took me unawares today.”

“Have you got no other shoes? You should have said. I could easily have got you some in town. There are loads of secondhand shops and a couple of discount shoe places too.”

“No. I’m fine. I’ve got another pair.”

“Why didn’t you wear them then?”

“These are two hundred quid in the shops.”

“If they were new, maybe. What’s the point of wearing shoes with holes in?”

“Because they’re two hundred quid shoes. Besides, it doesn’t rain all the time.”

“That’s true, I suppose.” Meinwen looked from his dainty footwear to her heavy duty, military-surplus boots. It highlighted the actual gulf of ideologies separating them. “You, go and put dry clothes on first, then, and make the drinks when you come down. I’ll put the kettle on as I go past.”

“Fantastic.” He headed out of the other door which was nearer the stairs.

“And take those wet socks off before you soak the carpets.” Too late, she heard him thunder up the stairs. She shook her head, going into the kitchen to fill the kettle then through to the sitting room. She was well enough to sit up at her small computer desk and logged on. Despite living alone she kept her system passworded in case of hacking. In case of nosy visitors too, although anyone she trusted enough to let into her house she generally trusted enough not to hack her computer.

She opened a browser and typed in “Derek Blake.” Over twenty-three million hits–everyone from a Welsh councilor to a tattoo artist in Birmingham. She was suddenly glad she had no desire for a tattoo. She tried to refine the search by adding “Laverstone” and “driver.” One hundred and forty hits.

She added “death” and the search engine opened a single page, a newspaper article from the
Laverstone Times
dated twenty-three years ago.

Salisbury Man convicted of Unlawful Death

Derek Blake, aged nineteen, was convicted of causing the death of Faye Fenstone, aged six, on the morning of July twenty-first. He admitted the charge of reckless driving and causing the death of a child. He was sentenced to not less than three years in prison and a fine of seven thousand pounds.

Meinwen stared at the screen and the little picture of Faye she’d last seen in John’s house on Ashgate Road. Why would Peter have been bothered about killing Derek Blake? It seemed out of character.

She picked up her new phone and dialed Mary Markhew. She’d painstakingly reconstructed her address book from the partial sync on her computer, ably assisted by her friend Harry, the local computer wizard. He’d laughed at her clumsy attempts to synchronize her old file with her new phone, but sorted it in less than ten minutes, giving her the cable for the computer connection and a mains charger from a box he kept for the purpose.

“Hello?”

“Mary? It’s Meinwen.”

“What can I do for you? Do be quick I’ve an appointment shortly.”

“Yes, thank you. It’s about the necklace you gave Peter.”

“Yes. The police showed it to me. What about it?”

“When’s the last time you remember seeing it?”

“Hmm. The day he went to the hospital. They must have made him take it off there.”

“Right, I thought so. Thanks.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, thank you, Mary.”

“No problem. I’ve got to go and get ready.”

Meinwen gave an inward sigh. Mary being this chatty meant she wanted to tell her something. “Oh? Ready for what?”

“I’ve got a dinner date.”

“How lovely. With whom?”

“Jimmy Fenstone! Isn’t that great? I’ve seen his brother’s will. He’s going to be rich. Richer than Uncle Robert ever was.”

“That’s...great, Mary. Good for you.”

“I’ll invite you to the wedding!” The phone went dead and Meinwen stared at it. It was probably unusual to plan a wedding before one had even gone on a first date but she knew Mary well enough to know that what Mary wanted she generally got. For a moment, and only for a moment, she realized how a person could murder someone over want of a man. She laughed it off. What would she do with Jimmy’s lifestyle? Give up her little cottage and her shop full of little gods for a life of riches and luxury? Tempting as it was, she couldn’t see it. Besides, Jimmy had made it clear she wasn’t his type.

So according to the evidence, or at least the projected theory, between his discharge from the hospital and his fatal attempt to murder Richard, Peter Numan had dashed to Salisbury, kidnapped and killed Derek Blake and buried him in a Laverstone grave reserved for the man he was about to kill.

It didn’t seem very likely, in her opinion, but then, there was no evidence of anyone else being involved, was there? And Peter was a known murderer.

“That’s better.” Dafydd stood at the bottom of the stairs in the slippers she’d bought him from the supermarket. “Cup o’ tea then,
cariad
?”

Chapter 40

Meinwen watched Dafydd put the last of his bags in the back of the ice cream truck. It looked better than it ever did. Winston had resprayed it from the ground up. It was no longer covered in faded vinyl pictures of grimacing children and now sported monochrome portraits of fifties-era film stars. It looked like a different van. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.” He slammed the door closed and came to the doorway again. “Are you sure your friend Winston’s okay with waiting for the payment?”

“He said so. I’ll pay him and you can give it me back when Mary’s payment comes through.”

“Aye. Sure you don’t fancy coming back to ’Dovey with me?”

“Soon, maybe, for a visit.” She pulled him into a hug, banging him in the back with the small bag she was carrying. “Not this month, though. I’ve too much to do at the shop.”

“Aye, fair enough. It looked a right mess when we were there last week.” He grinned. “What’s that? A pressie?”

“Just a small one.” She gave him the bag and he opened it at waist height, peering down to look inside it. He looked back at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s a horse tail butt plug. You can think of me when you wear it.”

“Right.” She caught the faintest hint of a deeper color in his cheeks as he turned to throw the bag onto the front seat. He climbed in after it and pulled the door closed. “I’ll be off then.”

“Drive safely.”

“Always.” He turned the ignition and the engine roared into life. Contrary to her expectation, there was no plume of black smoke from the exhaust. She heard the clunk as he put it into gear. “‘Bye then.”

“‘Bye.” She walked to the end of the drive to open the gate and waved him through, closing it again when he cleared the pavement, waving like a child going on holiday.

As it pulled away with a final blast of
Animal Crackers
through the PA horn, Meinwen stopped waving and sighed, her hand dropping. She had the house to herself again. No more mens underpants in the laundry. No more strange, sugary smells in the lavatory. No more crusty white stains on the sheets. On the other hand, there would be no more laughter in the evenings, no more slow, no-pressure sex on a Sunday morning and no “Fancy a cup of tea?” after her Meal Monitor Veggie Lasagna for One.

Her gaze was broken only when the van turned the corner and was gone. Across the road, unobtrusive but obviously waiting for her, stood Mary Markhew. She was wearing black, but whether it was for the death of Peter, her interpretation of a dominatrix’s everyday attire or just her reevaluation of her teenage wardrobe Meinwen couldn’t begin to guess. She raised a hand in greeting, neither inviting nor disregarding the woman. It was up to Mary to make the next move.

She crossed the road and Meinwen opened the gate for her. “Your fella gone back to Wales?”

“Yes.” Meinwen managed a smile. “But he’s not my fella. We’ve been friends since we were at school together and I’d rather that than force some idea of a partnership on him. It was nice to have him here but we both have our own lives to lead.”

“Will he be back?”

“Soon enough, I expect. He does a series of odd jobs, one of which involves clearing houses and transporting furniture. He looks out for statues and the like I can sell in the shop. That why he was here in the first place.”

“Yeah. Sorry he was here so long. That was partly my fault. I made Peter stop you leaving that morning, otherwise he wouldn’t have jumped out in front of your van.”

“I doubt he would have minded if we’d been killed.”

“I don’t think that’s true at all. He liked you a lot. You really helped Richard last time. It wasn’t your fault everything went to shit.”

“True.” Meinwen drew her cardigan around herself and shivered. “What can I do for you, anyway? Would you like some tea? There’s probably some of Dafydd’s left.”