Gerry Heffernan looked across the chaos on his desktop, watching Wesley’s face. His brow was furrowed in concentration, exasperation.
If this had been a jigsaw puzzle he
would have thrown the pieces to the floor in frustration by now.
‘Don’t worry, Wes. It might all get a bit clearer once we’ve read Lewis’s e-mails and had a word with Shellmer’s ex-missus.
I always say if you find out about the victim’s life and associates you’re halfway there … unless it’s a random killing, of
course, but I don’t think for a moment that this one is. We’ll get off to Liverpool as soon as we can, maybe tomorrow. And
we can stop at Chris Pauling’s on the way and have a word with him.’
‘Chris Pauling?’
‘Rock Boat’s drummer. The one who lives in Gloucestershire … just on our way.’
‘So have you any pet theories?’ asked Wesley, looking at his watch.
Heffernan drained his mug of lukewarm tea and pressed his lips together stubbornly. ‘You don’t move a body and get rid of
evidence unless you’ve got something to hide. Perhaps Rachel’s paedophile ring idea’s not so far fetched. I want to find out
everything there is to know about Paul Heygarth. If he’s ever farted in public I want to know about it … and I want to know
everything he gets up to in private. If he’s a pervert and Lewis was one of his victims then there might be evidence that
Lewis has been in his flat. I want it searched, turned upside down; same goes for Treadly’s place and Shellmer’s cottage.’
He slammed the mug down. Wesley watched him, noted the bitter determination in his eyes. For such an easy-going man, Gerry
Heffernan was giving a good display of behaviour that seemed to border on the obsessive. But then perhaps he had a point about
Heygarth. Wesley hadn’t taken to the man either.
‘What about the theory that Lewis shot Shellmer?’
Heffernan shrugged. ‘He had the gun in his possession. If Shellmer was a pervert too and they were in league with Alec Treadly,
who let them use the Old Vicarage … I want Forensics to give that place a really good going over in case
there’s evidence of anything untoward in the bedrooms.’ He raised his eyebrows and Wesley looked away.
It was something he didn’t like thinking about. But it had to be considered.
There was a phone call from Laura Kruger. She had Jonny Shellmer’s post-mortem report typed up and ready for them. Wesley
told her he’d pick it up on his way to Derenham, and Gerry Heffernan said he’d come along for the ride. When Wesley broke
the news to Rachel she shrugged, resigned to the fact that the chief inspector had pulled rank.
When they reached the hospital they looked in on Angela Simms. She was still in intensive care and they could only stare at
her through a glass partition. She lay sprouting tubes and wires which monitored her every breath and heartbeat, small and
still on a stark white bed.
PC Wallace sat on a grey padded chair outside the room, sipping coffee from a plastic cup and watching a pretty Chinese staff
nurse as she went about her duties. He stood up when Heffernan came into view.
‘Anything to report, Wallace?’
‘They took her down for a scan this morning but I don’t know any more and …’
‘And what?’
Wallace’s cheeks reddened. ‘Nurse Chang said there’s been a phone call asking how she was – a man, she said. When she asked
if he was a relative he rang off.’
Heffernan and Wesley looked at each other. ‘If there are any more calls, let us know, will you? I’m sure you can rely on Nurse
Chang to keep you informed,’ Heffernan added with a wink.
They left Wallace blushing and headed for the mortuary.
Shellmer’s post-mortem report contained few surprises. Although Laura Kruger’s social chitchat was hardly up to Colin Bowman’s
standard, Wesley did manage to discover that she had trained in Liverpool – a fact that raised her a
few notches in Heffernan’s estimation – and that she had a boyfriend who worked in the psychiatric department of Morbay General
Hospital. A jocular comment from Gerry Heffernan about mad psychiatrists brought the conversation to an awkward halt, but
Wesley retrieved the situation by changing the subject to his own family’s medical careers. He mentioned his mother’s visit
to the Morbay conference, and the reputation of the CID was salvaged after ten minutes of cosy medical gossip. Gerry Heffernan’s
heart might be in the right place most of the time, thought Wesley, but he had been at the back of the queue when the tact
was given out.
They were about to leave when Laura pointed out a postcard from Colin Bowman, bearing a coloured photograph of the medieval
walled French town of Carcassonne on the front, pinned in pride of place on the office notice-board. Gerry Heffernan cheekily
took the card down and read it. Colin was having a wonderful time, it said. Good food, good wine, good scenery. He passed
the card to Wesley, who read it with a pang of envy. Some people had all the luck.
Laura was about to bid them farewell when a head appeared round the office door. Neil Watson looked genuinely surprised to
see Wesley and his boss there and said as much.
‘We can’t keep away, Neil,’ Heffernan said with inappropriate cheerfulness. ‘What are you doing here? Looking for old bones?’
Neil chose to ignore him and addressed Laura. ‘Have you anything for me on the Derenham skeleton yet?’
Laura nodded. ‘I finished the report last night. Come and have a look.’
Neil turned to Wesley. ‘Coming, Wes?’ He grinned at Gerry Heffernan. ‘Bring your friend.’
Wesley looked at his watch. He had time … just. He followed Neil and Laura through swing-doors into a bright white steel-furnished
room. Gerry Heffernan walked, uncomplaining, by his side, glad of a little distraction from murder.
They crowded round a steel trolley on which lay a set of dirty-looking bones which formed what looked like the skeleton of
a tallish adult. Most of the bones were there. Now that the skull had been cleaned up, Wesley saw a pair of deep cuts on it
– more evidence that the poor wretch had suffered a vicious attack before he had been decapitated. During his archaeological
training, Wesley had come across skeletons of those killed in ancient battles which bore similar wounds, and he wondered just
what had happened at Derenham’s old manor house all those centuries ago. The unfortunate victim had not met an easy end.
Laura picked the skull up carefully in both hands and stared at it for a few moments, holding it as though she were auditioning
for the part of the prince in
Hamlet
. ‘This is a male,’ she began, ‘probably in his mid to late teens. He was tallish and probably well nourished so he may have
been from the wealthier classes … but that’s just speculation.
‘I can give you a definite cause of death – decapitation,’ she continued. ‘And there’s evidence of a fierce attack, probably
with a sharp sword. The defensive wounds on his forearms indicate that he probably wasn’t armed himself when he was hacked
to death.’
‘Hardly cricket, is it,’ said Wesley. ‘Killing an unarmed man like that.’
‘And burying his head in what would have been the kitchen garden and the rest of him in the midden,’ said Neil. ‘They were
very worried about being buried in consecrated ground in the Middle Ages. And let’s face it, even today you don’t go around
burying people in your vegetable patch unless you’ve murdered them first. Am I right, Wes?’
Wesley nodded with appropriate solemnity. ‘If someone starts digging up human bones with their carrots we usually start asking
questions.’ He thought for a moment. ‘From the archaeological evidence, when would you say these bones had been buried?’
Neil shrugged. ‘From coins and pottery found around
and above the remains, I’d date them to the late Middle Ages – 1460 to 1480 or thereabouts.’
‘The Wars of the Roses. Any battles fought in Derenham?’
‘No. Devon was full of Lancastrian supporters but there were no actual battles fought around here. The battles are all well
documented – Towton, Barnet, Tewkesbury …’
‘Just a thought,’ said Wesley.
Neil looked at his watch. ‘I’d better get over to Derenham. The Doom’s being moved to the church for the history evening next
Saturday and I’ve arranged to meet one of the village celebrities.’
‘Who?’
Neil frowned. ‘Can’t remember his name but he’s a famous actor and he’s been taking an interest in the history of the church.
And I want to have a look at the Merrivale tombs while I’m at it.’
‘I’m going to Derenham,’ said Wesley. ‘Want a lift?’
‘In the back of a cop car? No thanks. I’ve got my reputation to think of. And my car’s parked outside.’
‘Our choir are singing at the history evening,’ Heffernan chipped in.
But Neil either hadn’t heard or chose to ignore him. ‘Hey, Wes, did I tell you I found an old map of Derenham which confirms
that the house we’re digging up belonged to the Merrivales?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Must be off. See you later. Thanks,
Laura.’
He swept out of the room, humming a tune under his breath which seemed familiar to Wesley, yet unplaceable.
Laura looked at Gerry Heffernan speculatively. ‘Is this Derenham history evening going to be any good?’
‘’Course it’s going to be good. Nice spicy story … a couple of naughty priests in thirteen something who were responsible
for half the village babies, at least three vicars with a nice little sideline in smuggling, a highwayman who turned out to
be the churchwarden and a couple of ghosts thrown in for good measure. You should come.’
Laura Kruger looked as though she might be tempted. ‘Maybe I will if I can get the time off.’
Gerry Heffernan turned to Wesley. ‘Where are we off to now? Derenham?’
‘Derenham,’ was the decisive reply. ‘I’m going to ask the Flowers about that phone number in Shellmer’s address book.’
But Heffernan was halfway out of the room. ‘Thanks, Laura, love. See you,’ he said as he disappeared out of the swing-doors.
Wesley turned to Laura and shrugged his shoulders apologetically.
But he saw that she was smiling. There were some battles that couldn’t be won.
Jill Hoxworthy put the mug of steaming tea down by the young man’s elbow. She was careful to place it on a mat. She didn’t
want to mark the top of Lewis’s desk. When Lewis came back she wanted everything nice for him. Everything right.
She didn’t even know whether she should be allowing this tall, fair-haired boy who looked little older than Lewis himself
to intrude into the inner workings of his precious computer. Some instinct told her that she ought to defend her son’s property.
But then the reality of the situation hit her like a punch from a heavyweight boxer and, with a sick lurch, her heart plummeted
into an abyss of despair. Lewis was gone. Nobody knew where he was. The police came with their grave faces and asked their
gentle questions. They muttered reassuring words, but she knew what they were thinking. She had seen the way Stella Tracey’s
daughter, Rachel, looked at her with eyes full of pity, the pity reserved for the bereaved. Stella herself had rung from Little
Barton Farm to ask if there was anything she could do. Kind people, well-meaning people, people who couldn’t have a clue what
it was really like. Stella had three boys as well as Rachel.
Jill only had Lewis. And now he was gone.
She still made his meals; set three places at the kitchen table. As pagans made offerings to their gods to summon and appease
them, so Jill Hoxworthy lovingly prepared her gifts of food for Lewis and laid them out on the checked tablecloth. He would
be back, she told herself, believing it for a split second. Then came the grief of loss; the pain almost physical, eating
at her. The seesaw – hope and despair.
Tom from Forensics looked up at Jill and thanked her for the tea with a nervous smile. He assured her that he wouldn’t be
long now. He had almost finished, and he was certain that he had found what he was looking for.
Jill didn’t enquire further. She dreaded that Tom’s discoveries would confirm what she most feared. She had read about it
in the newspapers, seen it on the television. How they made contact with kids through the Internet. Kids who weren’t streetwise.
Lonely kids. Kids like Lewis. Then they arranged to meet them and …
She rushed out and made for her own room, where she flung herself on the old double bed she shared with Terry. Burying her
face in the pillow so Tom in the next room couldn’t hear, she wept angry, helpless tears.
Wesley and Heffernan parked their car by the field where Neil was excavating the remains of Derenham’s old manor house, reduced
now to a grid of stone walls that protruded barely a foot above the muddy earth. Wesley peered over the gate but Neil was
nowhere in sight.
He followed Gerry Heffernan to the front door of Derenham House, thinking that the grand name hardly suited a building which
wasn’t much bigger than a cottage. Maggie answered the door and led them inside where Jim Flowers was seated on a large and
well-worn chintz sofa in a tableau of connubial calm, two mugs of hot tea set before him on a polished oak coffee table. Maggie
invited them to sit and hurried from the room in search of more mugs for the visitors.
When she was out of the room Flowers was quick to assure them that he had just called in for a cup of tea on his way to conduct
a survey on a house in Neston. He worked for an estate agent in Tradmouth, he explained in an accent Wesley took to be Australian.
He was a surveyor, he said, and a partner in the firm. Wesley watched him. He was a tall man whose flesh seemed too big for
his frame, and he reminded Wesley of a large guard dog, watchful and restless.
‘Which estate agent?’ Wesley asked, making conversation to put the man at his ease before be began asking serious questions.
‘Heygarth and Proudfoot in Tradmouth High Street.’
‘You’ll know Paul Heygarth, then?’ Wesley asked, glancing at Gerry Heffernan, who had sunk into a worn armchair which looked
as though it might be difficult to get out of. The chief inspector’s expression gave nothing away.
‘I know Paul, yes.’ Jim Flowers’ deep voice suddenly sounded wary, as though the subject of Paul Heygarth was one he would
rather avoid. He glanced at Heffernan, and Wesley thought he detected a momentary flash of fear in his eyes.