Neil’s mind began to wander as he scraped away at the masonry. He licked his lips; he was thirsty, and began to think longingly
of the beer in the Red Bull. But the sight of a shard of medieval pottery lying in the soil brought his thoughts back swiftly
to archaeology.
The quiet, preoccupied hum of archaeological conversation was suddenly interrupted by a shout of astonishment. Neil looked
up and saw Maggie Flowers standing quite still, a look of shock on her face. The people digging near her, an assortment of
students and locals supervised by Matt, had stopped what they were doing and turned to stare.
Neil watched as Matt put down his trowel and walked carefully along the trench towards Maggie, whose face was drained of colour.
‘Down there.’ She pointed at the ground. ‘I think it’s bones.’ She began to play with her wedding ring nervously, twisting
it round and round.
Neil began to make his way over slowly, hoping it was nothing that would hold up the dig. Then he thought of the solitary
skull; the rest of the body must be buried somewhere.
‘Don’t worry,’ he heard Matt saying. ‘Most bones found in excavations of domestic buildings belong to animals; parts of meat
carcasses thrown into middens.’
It was possible that Maggie had never seen buried bones before and was jumping to conclusions. But Neil knew that Matt was
trying to look on the bright side.
Maggie stood silently, staring at the ground as Neil squatted beside Matt and began to work away, watched by the rest of the
diggers. ‘Well?’ she asked anxiously after a few minutes.
Neil stood up and attempted a smile which turned out to be more of a snarl. He told himself it wasn’t this poor
woman’s fault. If she hadn’t found it, someone else would have … maybe himself. But somehow he couldn’t help wishing that
it hadn’t turned up now and that they’d all been left in blissful ignorance for a few more days.
‘The bones look human,’ he said, trying to sound positive. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to inform the authorities.’ He looked at
Matt. ‘We’d better stop work on this trench for now and concentrate on the other side of the field. I’ll do the necessary,’
he said quietly.
Matt nodded and began to shepherd the assembled diggers away to the opposite side of the field. A few stragglers, a group
of third-year archaeology students, loitered around the edge of the trench, hoping to see something exciting. But as Neil
pulled his mobile phone from his pocket he looked up at them impatiently. They took the hint and scattered like nervous sheep.
The necessary phone calls made, Neil knelt down and began to scrape away the reddish earth. One thing was certain, he thought
with some relief – the remains couldn’t possibly be those of Terry Hoxworthy’s missing son. Things could be a lot worse.
Terry Hoxworthy looked up before pushing the shop door open. The name ‘Angela’s Angels’ was painted on the fascia board above
in large Gothic lettering, and ethereal winged beings in shades of blue and silver weaved between the letters.
The shop window was crammed with more angels. Angel figurines, angel books, angel jewellery. Angels like St Michael, warlike
but kindly – or firm but fair, as Angela preferred. Angels like Gabriel, glorious and shining. And lesser angels, the heavenly
host, their gossamer wings shimmering.
And there were guardian angels beautiful and benign, protecting their charges through thick and thin. Angela stocked a selection
of books about guardian angels and said that they sold well in a New Agey place like Neston, where
a high proportion of townsfolk seemed to be on some spiritual quest.
In fact Angela’s Angels, along with the crystal healing shop next door, made an adequate living from the inhabitants of the
pretty medieval town which nestled in a valley eight miles upstream from Tradmouth. But Terry couldn’t see the appeal himself.
A tinkling bell announced his arrival and Angela hurried out from the back of the shop. When she saw him she gave a weak smile.
‘Come through. I’ll make some tea.’
She floated out into the back of the shop and Terry followed, walking slowly past the rows of watching angels, careful not
to bump into anything. Angela always made him feel clumsy, earthbound; a clodhopping mortal who lived on a lower plane of
existence.
When they reached the back kitchen she turned to him, her eyes anxious. ‘Have the police asked you anything? How much do you
think they know?’
Terry shook his head. ‘Sorry, I don’t know. With Lewis going off I’ve had other things on my mind.’
‘If they start to ask questions, don’t mention me, please.’ Her small, heart-shaped face turned towards him and her large
eyes pleaded, childlike.
‘I promise,’ Terry whispered, touching her thin, blue-veined hand. ‘I promise.’
She took his hand and ran her finger gently across the ugly scar on the palm, tracing its shape. The tears began to trickle
down her face, and Terry hoped that her guardian angel was looking after her. She was going to need all the help she could
get.
My well beloved wife,
We made our way to Wells where the common soldiers, to their disgrace, did loot the Bishop’s palace and broke open his gaol.
Then we marched on to Bristol to seek both men and guns and we join soon with Jasper Tudor and his Welshmen but I fear that
King Edward’s army is close by.
Our son Edmund has leave from the Earl to march with us. Knowing your concern, I tried to dissuade him but he is sixteen years,
barely younger than Queen Margaret’s son, Prince Edward, who fights now for the crown of his poor imprisoned father. My good
wife, be not anxious for Edmund, I beg you, but pray for our safety and victory.
By all means pursue John’s alliance with the widow More as I mislike his closeness to Elizabeth. Who knows what thoughts he
could put into an innocent girl’s head? I would he were here to fight like his half-brother.
I send this by a carrier of Bristol who has business in Tradmouth and I will send word of our fortunes as soon as I am able.
Pray for myself and Edmund.
Your devoted and loving husband, Richard
Written at Bristol this first day of May 1471
Paul Heygarth sat in the interview room clutching a plastic cup filled with a brown liquid which somebody had told him was
tea.
Gerry Heffernan leaned forward. ‘Why did you really move Jonny Shellmer’s body? Was it to cover your tracks? You’ve got the
key to the Old Vicarage. Neighbours saw you coming and going. We’ve got witnesses.’
Heygarth took a sip from the cup and wrinkled his nose in disgust. Then he leaned back. He looked tired, drawn. Wesley Peterson
watched him closely and thought that maybe the man had had enough.
‘I’ve told you already. I’ve been having cash-flow problems and I wanted a quick sale on the Old Vicarage.’ Heygarth sounded
weary, sick of the whole thing. ‘I had a few potential buyers lined up, including Jonny Shellmer. I knew that if the place
was a murder scene, it would be ages before things were back to normal and … well, nobody would want to buy a house where
someone’s just been murdered, would they? And why would I want to kill Shellmer anyway? He was keen on buying the place and
that would have solved all my problems. And even if he’d pulled out, I had a couple of other interested parties lined up.
And I hardly knew the man.’ He looked Heffernan in the eye. ‘I’m bloody sick of this. I keep on telling you, I didn’t kill
him.’
The young woman solicitor sitting by Heygarth’s side spoke firmly. ‘I think my client’s had enough for now, Chief Inspector.’
She looked at her watch.
Gerry Heffernan was well aware of the time limits for the detention of suspects. He tried again. ‘What did you do with the
gun?’
‘What gun? I’ve never handled a gun in my life,’ Heygarth answered with quiet desperation. ‘Honestly. I’ve never ever touched
a gun, let alone fired one.’
Wesley looked at the man’s face, at his eyes. Something made him believe what Heygarth was saying. Everything they had learned
so far suggested that Shellmer had only
met Heygarth professionally when he had started looking for a house in the area. There was no evidence that they had known
each other before, and certainly no evidence of bad blood between them.
Heygarth had admitted to meeting Shellmer late on Wednesday afternoon to show him around the Old Vicarage for a third time,
but he swore that he had driven off just after five o’clock, leaving Shellmer alone in the house because he’d said he wanted
to look round on his own and get a feel of the place. When someone’s paying that much money, you tend to go along with their
whims; and he knew Jonny Shellmer by reputation and trusted him not to nick the fixtures and fittings. Jonny had been alive
and well when he’d last seen him, and he had promised to make sure all the doors were firmly shut when he left.
When he had finished, Heffernan stared at him for a few moments and announced in no uncertain terms that he didn’t believe
him, that there was no way that he’d left Shellmer alive in the empty house. Wesley glanced at his boss and noticed his chin
jutting out with determination. He was convinced of Heygarth’s guilt. But Wesley wasn’t.
‘Perhaps we should take a break,’ he said with what he hoped sounded like authority.
To his surprise, the boss nodded. He was probably as desperate for a decent cup of tea as Wesley was.
There was a loud scraping of chairs as the two officers stood up. ‘We’ll be wanting another word later,’ Heffernan said brusquely
before marching from the stark interview room, Wesley following behind, trying to keep up.
A few minutes later they were in Heffernan’s office awaiting the cups of hot, steaming tea promised them by a harassed Trish
Walton.
Wesley looked through the window at the scene of bubbling activity in the office beyond. Officers spoke on telephones or typed
busily into computers. Others were out interviewing witnesses. Photographs of Jonny Shellmer, in life and death, together
with a list of his movements and all
his known associates, were pinned to a large notice-board on the wall at the end of the room, focusing their minds on the
matter in hand.
An easel stood near it, bearing Lewis Hoxworthy’s photograph and details. Wesley hoped that soon this would be an unnecessary
addition to the room, that soon Lewis would be found safe. But experience had taught him to be pessimistic. If the two cases
were linked, as he suspected they were, then Lewis might already be dead. But he would never have shared these thoughts with
Lewis’s mother. She, at least, should have hope.
Steve Carstairs knocked on the office door and let himself in, glancing at Wesley with a hint of hostility.
‘How’s it going?’ Wesley asked.
Steve looked nonplussed. ‘Er, we’ve been tracking down the members of Rock Boat, er, sir.’
‘Well, come on,’ said Gerry Heffernan, wearily. ‘What are they up to? Still enjoying a life of sex, drugs and rock and roll,
are they?’
‘Not exactly, sir. Mickey Charles, the rhythm guitarist, has got a big place up in the Highlands of Scotland and runs a thriving
salmon-farming business. He’s not been away from home in the past year. Peter Davies, bass guitar, lives in the south of France,
lucky sod. He’s not visited the UK for at least six months. But Chris Pauling, the drummer, doesn’t live far away He’s got
a smallholding in Gloucestershire. It seems that when the group split up he sank all his money into some leisure complex that
went bankrupt and now he’s broke.’
‘Do you know if this Pauling has had any contact with Jonny Shellmer?’
‘He says he hasn’t seen him for over two years. But I wouldn’t take that as gospel.’ Steve grinned unpleasantly, showing the
gap between his even front teeth.
‘Thanks, Steve.’ Wesley forced himself to smile approvingly. ‘It might be a good idea to have a word with this Chris Pauling.
See if you can find out where he was when
Shellmer was killed, will you? And if he’s got anyone who can confirm it.’
‘What else is there?’ asked Heffernan, scratching his head.
‘Rock Boat’s manager, Hal Lancaster, has a big place in Surrey. They say he was the man who discovered Rock Boat. He’s from
New York originally but he moved here back in the sixties,’ Steve added, showing off his knowledge of pop trivia. ‘I spoke
to his housekeeper and she told me he’s away. He’s a big collector, she said.’
‘What does he collect?’ asked Wesley.
Steve felt a little silly for not having asked. ‘I don’t know. She just said a collector.’
Heffernan grunted. ‘That could cover anything from stamps to guns.’
‘And if it’s guns …’ Wesley didn’t finish the sentence. He watched Heffernan’s face. Normally his eyes would have lit up at
the mention of a new line of enquiry, but there was no reaction.
‘I’ve got hold of Jonny Shellmer’s biography,’ said Steve eagerly, trying to impress. ‘I was reading it last night.’
‘Did you discover anything interesting?’ Wesley asked. Steve shrugged. ‘Not much we don’t know already. He came from Liverpool
and he got married to a woman named Liz and had a son. It didn’t last long and he never married again. It mainly goes on about
Rock Boat’s wild tours and …’
‘Any mention of him having any connections with this area?’
Steve shook his head. ‘No, but I’ve not finished it yet.’
‘Well, let us know if you find anything relevant, won’t you. And perhaps DCI Heffernan would like to read it after you.’
Before Heffernan could say anything, Trish Walton appeared with two large mugs of tea.
‘There’s been a call from Merseyside police, sir. They haven’t been able to track down Jonny Shellmer’s ex-wife
yet. If she’s married again and changed her name they might have a difficult job … she might not even be living there now.’
She looked at Gerry Heffernan expectantly, thinking he might just jump at the chance of a visit to his native city to try
to succeed where their Merseyside colleagues had failed.
‘Thanks, Trish. We’ll have to make further enquiries,’ said Wesley. He too glanced at his boss but saw no reaction.