As soon as he was out of sight, Paul Johnson called the station on his radio.
At half past six Wesley returned to Tradmouth police station. He met Gerry Heffernan in the foyer and they walked together
up the stairs to the CID office. After the first flight, Heffernan was lagging behind.
‘Slow down, Wes, some of us aren’t as young as we were.’ The chief inspector sounded a little breathless.
Wesley slackened his pace, looking at his watch. Pam was planning takeaway pizzas that evening as she couldn’t face cooking
and she knew from bitter experience that when Wesley was on a murder case she couldn’t rely on him to turn up on time, let
alone help with matters domestic.
‘Are you letting Heygarth go yet?’ Wesley asked as they entered the office.
Heffernan glanced at him sulkily. ‘Not yet.’
‘But do you think keeping him here is going to do any good? He moved the body but he’s not admitted to anything else.’
‘It’s a start. He’ll talk eventually.’
Heffernan pressed his lips together stubbornly as he led the way into his office and slumped down in his executive leather
swivel chair, which tilted back alarmingly under the weight. Wesley sat down in the grey upholstered chair on the other side
of the cluttered desk.
‘So what have we got?’ said Wesley, thinking it was about time he arranged all their findings neatly in his brain. ‘Jonny
Shellmer’s shot some time late on Wednesday afternoon. Then on Thursday morning Paul Heygarth arrives and moves the body with
the help of Nicola Tarnley. There’s no sign of a gun at the scene and Heygarth and Tarnley claim they never saw one. There’s
also evidence that the Old Vicarage was broken into by person or persons unknown, possibly the murderer … or the victim …
or even somebody else altogether.’ He paused, gathering his thoughts.
‘And?’ Heffernan prompted, looking at his companion intently.
‘Then Lewis Hoxworthy, who may or may not have seen something suspicious from his bedroom window, disappears after boasting
to his mates that he’s found something that’ll make him rich and that he’s got a gun. I went to Hoxworthy’s Farm and tried
to look at the e-mails on his computer. It looks as if he’s wiped them, but someone who knows what they’re doing can retrieve
them.’
Heffernan nodded. Another job to arrange. ‘Are we any nearer tracing Shellmer’s ex-wife?’
‘Merseyside are still trying, but I don’t suppose it’s their main priority. Are we sending someone to have a word with that
ex-member of Rock Boat who lives up in Gloucestershire? It might be worth checking up on his whereabouts.’
Heffernan grunted in agreement. ‘What else?’
‘We need to find Shellmer’s car. But it could be miles away by now. I think it’s time we notified other forces, don’t you
agree? And there’s been a message from Rachel and Trish. They’ve been having a look around Angela Simms’s flat and they say
they’ve found pictures of Jonny Shellmer locked in a drawer. It looks as if we might have our crazed fan after all.’
‘Do you think she could have shot him?’
‘Not necessarily. But it’s possible that she was following Shellmer and she witnessed the shooting. What do you think?’
But before the chief inspector could answer Steve Carstairs gave a perfunctory knock on the office door and walked in. ‘A
call’s come through from Johnson at Derenham, sir. Thought you might be interested.’ He placed a piece of paper on Heffernan’s
desk and made a rapid retreat without glancing in Wesley’s direction.
Heffernan waited until Steve was out of earshot before he spoke. ‘Alec Treadly has been caught up near the Old Vicarage. He
claimed he was looking for his cat. Did you notice a cat when we were up at the lodge?’
Wesley smiled. ‘No, but your average cat doesn’t usually jump all over visitors when they arrive. It could have been out murdering
a few mice or whatever it is cats do in their spare time.’
‘Never mind the moggie, listen to this. Paul saw Treadly making for the front door with a key. When he spotted him he put
it away quick.’
‘The Treadlys told us they didn’t have a key to the Old Vicarage.’
‘Right. What do we know about them? Nothing. Look them up on our infernal machine, Wes. You’re better with computers than
I am. They always break down when they see me coming.’
Wesley glanced at his watch. It was coming up to seven. Pam wouldn’t be pleased. ‘Steve’s sitting out there
contemplating his overtime payments,’ he said lightly. ‘I’ll ask him to do it, eh?’
Heffernan sat back and chuckled wickedly. ‘There’s nothing like a bit of delegation.’
Wesley’s request was greeted by sullen silence. But ten minutes later Steve burst into Gerry Heffernan’s office bearing a
printed sheet aloft.
‘Alec Treadly. Five years ago he was sent down for three years for offences against young boys. He’s a bloody pervert, sir.
Shall we bring him in?’ His grin of triumph was even projected in Wesley’s direction, all prejudices forgotten for the moment.
Everybody hates a child abuser.
Heffernan and Wesley exchanged looks. Each thinking of Lewis Hoxworthy.
It was Wesley who spoke first. ‘Get us details of his offences, will you, Steve.’
He watched Steve rush from the office, a feeling of sick dread welling up in his stomach.
Wesley arrived home at eight. Pam greeted him in the hall, the baby grinning happily in her arms, and announced that she was
about to bath him. It was Wesley’s job to phone up and order the pizzas.
Wesley hardly liked to mention that the news he had learned about Alec Treadly had taken away his appetite. ‘Tell you what,
I’ll give Michael his bath and you phone the takeaway.’
Pam agreed. She had had her son all day, it was about time he and his father did a bit of male bonding. ‘Your mum rang at
lunch-time,’ she said wearily. ‘Don’t forget we’re meeting her in Morbay tomorrow for lunch.’
She saw Wesley hesitate on the stairs. ‘Oh, Wesley, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.’
‘No, I haven’t forgotten,’ he lied convincingly. ‘It’s just that we’ve got a murder, the possible abduction of a teenage boy
and the attempted murder of a shopkeeper in Neston on our hands.’
‘You can’t let your mother down. We haven’t seen your parents for months. I’m busy too but I make time for my family. In fact
my mother said she was coming round tonight.’
‘That’s all we need,’ Wesley muttered under his breath. Then he suddenly felt guilty. Pam looked exhausted, so perhaps her
mother could be persuaded to make herself useful – for a change.
‘I’ll have to work tomorrow but I’ll be there at lunch-time … promise.’ He assumed what he considered to be a sincere expression
and hurried upstairs to get out of the firing line and prepare Michael’s bath.
As he played with his baby son, a handsome child with a shock of straight black hair and golden-brown skin, making a yellow
plastic whale squirt water from its mouth – something which young Michael considered hilarious – Wesley shuddered as Lewis
Hoxworthy leapt unbidden into his thoughts. Jill and Terry Hoxworthy had once bathed him and played with him like this. He
was someone’s beloved son. He thought of Alec Treadly living so near to the farm. He had four convictions for indecency against
boys aged between ten and fifteen in the area of Kent where he had spent much of his life.
Wesley lifted Michael from the bath, wrapped him in a large fluffy towel, and held him close, cuddled against his chest, protected.
Just as Wesley and Pam were taking the last bites from the pizzas they had ordered, Pam’s mother, Della Stannard, arrived
bearing gifts. From her brightly coloured carrier bag, she pulled a bottle of wine, a carrot cake and a selection of CDs.
‘You’re looking tired, Pamela. Aren’t you well?’ Tact had never been Della’s strongest virtue. She sat herself down on the
settee and pulled down her short red skirt. She didn’t wait for Pam to answer. ‘Get some glasses, will you, Wesley. I’ve come
to help you with your enquiries.’
‘Turning yourself in, are you, Della?’ he said with a straight face.
‘Don’t be cheeky. I’ve brought you these CDs – three Rock Boat albums and a couple of Jonny Shellmer’s solo efforts. He wrote
all the songs himself. I thought you might like to hear them.’
Wesley couldn’t for the life of him think how Shellmer’s albums could help to catch his killer but he thanked Della anyway.
Perhaps they would provide some clue about Shellmer’s nature – but he wasn’t holding his breath.
Wesley and Pam tried their best to hide their relief when Della stood up and announced she was leaving at 9.30 to go for a
drink with some of her students. She taught sociology at a local college and regarded drinking with the students as a perk
of the job.
‘I hope you’re not drinking and driving,’ Wesley said, semi-seriously.
‘I’ve only had one glass of wine, Wesley. It’s like living in a bloody police state.’ She fished her car keys out of her bag.
‘Enjoy Jonny Shellmer’s songs. There’s a lovely one called “Angel” on Rock Boat’s first album.’
Wesley saw his mother-in-law out. Angel, he thought as he watched her drive away. The card in Jonny’s drawer had been from
an ‘Angel’.
He returned to Pam in the living room and switched the CD player on.
As Wesley and Pam were settling down to spend what remained of their evening with a bottle of red wine, a patrol car prowling
the Saturday night streets of the sprawling seaside resort of Morbay spotted a yellow sports car driving at considerable speed.
After a brief chase along the promenade the sports car crashed into a bollard, leaving its two occupants shaken but not seriously
hurt. Young and unlicensed to drive they might have been, but at least they had had the foresight to wear their seat belts.
The patrol car driver confirmed that no ambulance was required and that the driver of the yellow car – who gave his name as
Mickey Mouse – was not, in fact, the owner of the vehicle but had nicked it for a bit of excitement. He was about to take
the young driver and his accomplice back to the station when he noticed the registration number of the stolen vehicle, which
now sported a deep dent in its front bumper. It seemed familiar. He conferred with his partner, who consulted his notebook.
As the two lads, who looked not a day over sixteen, waited sulkily in the back of the patrol car, the driver spoke into his
radio. ‘That stolen vehicle involved in an RTA, it’s a yellow Porsche and the registration number matches the one CID are
looking for in connection with that murder in Derenham. Get a recovery vehicle here right away, will you, and get it taken
back to the station so Forensics can give it a going over.’
Yossa Lang sat silently in the back of the patrol car with his mate, awaiting the inevitable.
Sunday morning dawned dull with fine drizzle blowing off the hills in gossamer sheets. Wesley Peterson hadn’t slept well,
and he arrived at the police station wet and tired. And Pam hadn’t been in top form when Michael had woken them up. She had
felt queasy – some sort of stomach bug, she thought.
Wesley found Gerry Heffernan in the CID office talking to Rachel, who looked surprisingly fresh and alert for first thing
on a damp Sunday morning.
‘Anything new?’ Wesley asked.
It was Rachel who answered. ‘Yossa Lang was picked up last night. Joy-riding. Driving Jonny Shellmer’s missing sports car.
It’s at Morbay nick now and Forensics are giving it a good going over.’
Wesley raised his eyebrows. This was an unexpected development. ‘Where did Yossa say he’d nicked it from?’
‘A multistorey carpark in Morbay,’ said Heffernan. ‘The
bad news is that their security cameras weren’t working when it was parked there. The wonders of modern technology, eh?’
‘What did Yossa have to say for himself?’
‘He said he’d found the car unlocked with the keys in and couldn’t resist the temptation of a ride in a Porsche. He got quite
offended at the suggestion that he might have had anything to do with Shellmer’s shooting.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘I’ll know better when I’ve spoken to him but I suppose I do.’
‘Could Yossa have broken into the Old Vicarage? Perhaps he was carrying a shooter to make himself feel big. What if Shellmer
was looking around the place alone and he caught him breaking in. Then Yossa panicked and shot him.’
Wesley looked pleased with himself. It was a perfectly feasible theory.
Rachel nodded with approval. ‘I think we should have Yossa brought over here so we can question him.’
Heffernan shrugged. ‘Yeah. But I reckon we’ve already got the man who killed Jonny Shellmer. Heygarth’s a vicious bugger.
Nicola Tarnley told me he hit her, bashed her about and …’
Wesley interrupted, surprised that his boss didn’t seem to be keeping an open mind about this particular case. ‘Is Paul Heygarth
still in custody?’
‘Charged and released on bail.’ Wesley detected a hint of bitterness in his boss’s voice. ‘We’ll need more evidence, Wes …
and we’ll have to find that gun. Heygarth’s got no alibi for the probable time of Shellmer’s death, you know. He said he left
Shellmer alone in the house just after five but he didn’t arrive back in his office until six-thirty. I’ve checked.’
‘What does he say he was doing?’
‘He said he paid a call on an ex-ladyfriend who lives in Neston. But she was out. No witnesses.’
‘So he could easily have shot Shellmer, driven his car to Morbay and dumped it in the multistorey carpark, then gone back
for his own car at his leisure. Clever, hiding Shellmer’s car in the multistorey, anonymous amongst all the other cars. A
forest is always the best place to hide a tree.’
‘There was another thing, sir,’ said Rachel efficiently. ‘Forensics have found an address book in the glove compartment of
Shellmer’s car. Someone’s bringing it over.’
‘Great. That’s what we need. Merseyside haven’t had much luck tracking down his ex-wife. But if she’s married again, changed
her name … The murder’s been in the news so you’d think she would have seen it and come forward … or her son.’
But his train of thought was interrupted by a middle-aged uniformed constable from Morbay who had just arrived in the office,
carrying a plastic evidence bag which contained a small book. He asked for Chief Inspector Heffernan and was directed towards
the boss, who greeted the newcomer like an old friend.