Heffernan recognised the man who took his place at the great brass eagle lectern. He had seen him at Jim and Maggie Flowers’
house and in many other guises on his TV screen. The man introduced himself as Jeremy Sedley, actor and presenter of the church
history evening, and Heffernan thought that it had been quite a coup for Maggie
Flowers to persuade him to undertake the task. His visit to the Flowers’ had probably been about the rehearsal. But something
made him uneasy.
Sedley gave a series of succinct talks, scripted by Maggie and enlivened by his masterful presentation, which were then illustrated
by brief dramas featuring the main players in the church’s past. Heffernan watched as a Saxon monk, a Norman baron and a collection
of plague-ridden fourteenth-century peasants did their stuff, and after each section the choir sang something appropriate
to the period being illustrated: plainchant and a couple of jolly medieval carols for starters.
Things hotted up a little when Sedley mentioned the Doom that had recently been discovered in a nearby barn and which was
bound, by the laws of probability, to have belonged to Derenham church. A spotlight was trained on the object in question
as he described it in salacious detail. He said that as the Merrivale family were lords of the manor around the time the Doom
was painted, they were probably responsible for its creation. Then he took a step back, a smile playing on his lips.
Heffernan watched as Jim and Maggie Flowers did their bit, forgetting their lines at a crucial moment. They were Richard and
Marjory Merrivale, who had endowed the chantry chapel where they were later to be buried. They were portrayed reading out
some letters they had written to each other when he was away at some battle or other. At that point Gerry Heffernan’s mind
began to wander.
It seemed an age before they reached the modern day via the Civil War and an assortment of vicars, several involved in the
smuggling trade, and the evening was rounded off by a vacuous modern hymn which lacked the melodious liveliness of its historical
counterparts. When the whole thing was over, his mind strayed to more immediate matters. He had to talk to Nicola Tarnley.
His chance came when they were preparing to leave. He saw she was alone and moved swiftly over to the opposite
choirstall, where she was taking her car keys from her bag.
‘It went okay,’ he commented as casually as he could, thinking that some small talk might be needed.
Nicola turned round. She looked tired, as though she hadn’t slept for several nights. ‘Yes. Not too bad.’
‘Yeah. Let’s hope some of those amateur actors have bucked their ideas up by Saturday. But that Jeremy Sedley’s a marvel;
the way he …’
‘Look, er, Chief Inspector. I’ve not heard anything from the police for a while and I was wondering if I was going to be charged
… about moving the body, I mean. It’s been worrying me and …’ She gabbled the words out quickly. The prospect of further police
involvement and the acquisition of a criminal record had obviously been giving her sleepless nights.
Heffernan tried to assume a reassuring expression. ‘It’s not really you we’re interested in, love. Are you still working for
Paul Heygarth?’
Nicola looked at him and shook her head. ‘No. I’ve left Heygarth and Proudfoot. I didn’t want anything more to do with him
after …’
He took her arm and gently shepherded her away from a pair of staring altos who were obviously suspecting that his intentions
weren’t honourable.
‘Look, Nicola, it’s important that I – we – know if there’s any dirt on Heygarth. I mean, do you know anything about him that
might help us nail him? You were close to him. Do you know if he was interested in …’ He hesitated. He had rehearsed this
speech so many times in his head but the reality of saying it was quite different. ‘In young boys, for instance.’ He saw that
Nicola was shaking her head.
‘Young girls maybe, but I don’t think boys are his thing, if you see what I mean.’
‘Young girls? How young?’ Perhaps he had struck lucky after all.
The truth dawned on Nicola. ‘Old enough. He’s not
some kind of pervert, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s nasty but he’s not that nasty.’
Gerry Heffernan felt a little disappointed. That was one possibility disposed of. ‘Is there anything you know about him that
the vicar wouldn’t approve of, then?’ he asked lightly to put her at her ease.
Nicola gave a weak smile. ‘Plenty, I should think. But mainly shady business dealing. Amoral maybe, but not strictly illegal.’
She looked him in the eye. ‘You still think he killed that pop star, don’t you? I’m hardly Paul Heygarth’s greatest fan but
I’m certain he’s innocent: I’m sure he just wanted the body out of the way. That’s how he thinks – if anything gets in the
way of him making a few quid, he removes it. And he’s been even worse since his ex-wife has got her claws into his assets.’
Gerry Heffernan was about to make a risqué quip but he thought better of it. He produced a battered business card from his
jacket pocket. ‘Look, love, if you remember anything that might help us, anything at all, give us a ring, eh?’
‘You really want to get him for something don’t you?’
Heffernan didn’t answer.
He looked round and saw that Jim Flowers was heading their way, his eyes on Nicola. Then he remembered that Flowers and Nicola
were – or had been – colleagues, and it was obvious from Flowers’ expression that he wanted to speak to Nicola in private.
Heffernan decided to make a strategic retreat.
Jill Hoxworthy stared at the grainy black-and-white image on the inside page of the
Tradmouth Echo
.
She turned to her husband. ‘Are you going to tell the police?’
‘Leave it, Jill. Don’t you think we’ve got enough on our plates with Lewis?’
‘It says the police are looking for anyone who knows Angela Simms. And you know her, don’t you, Terry?’ She emphasised the
word ‘know’.
Terry winced and turned away. ‘How many times have I got to tell you …?’
‘You’d rather go and see her than stay with your own wife when …’
‘Shut up,’ he snapped. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘And where were you on Saturday when they say she was attacked? And where were you when that pop singer was shot?’ An edge
of hysteria had crept into her voice. ‘Answer me, Terry. Where were you?’
Terry Hoxworthy rose from the settee stiffly and made for the door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out. Out for a drive. Anywhere.’ He slammed the door behind him and Jill sat, perfectly still, staring into space.
She sat like that until Terry returned home two hours later.
The next morning Wesley and his boss made an early start. Five am. Wesley had left Pam asleep and tiptoed softly into Michael’s
room, just to watch him sleeping. He had touched the tiny hand and felt a sudden and overwhelming surge of love for the small,
innocent human being in the cot. He could easily understand why a parent would kill to defend or avenge a child.
But was that what the killing of Jonny Shellmer was about? Was his death connected to Lewis Hoxworthy’s disappearance? He
had asked himself this question many times, and he hoped that the people they would question today, people who knew Jonny
Shellmer of old, might provide the answer. He went over the case in his mind as he helped himself to a hurried bowl of cornflakes
before driving down to the police station to pick up Gerry Heffernan. It was always Wesley’s job to drive. Gerry never navigated
on dry land.
The motorway up to Gloucestershire was mercifully free of traffic. The holiday season hadn’t yet begun – when it
did vehicles would be bumper to bumper most days and at a complete standstill on Saturdays. But today they sailed through
to their first port of call, discussing the case on the way, each man offering speculation after speculation – but until Hal
Lancaster was picked up and interviewed, they knew they would be going around in circles.
There was still no news of Rock Boat’s former manager. European police forces had been alerted, but if he had scurried south
to a small French or Spanish port he might be difficult to find. Neither voiced the fear that Lewis might not be with him
– that the boy might already be dead, his body disposed of at sea.
When they came off the motorway Gerry Heffernan took charge of the map and navigated down the narrow country lanes. Wesley
was becoming used to country driving, and these lanes were nothing like as fearsome as the narrow Devon tracks with their
hedges that seemed as high as houses blocking the view either side. After fifteen minutes of driving they located Chris Pauling’s
place with ease.
On the gate hung a hand-painted sign which bore the name ‘Windy Edge’. The countryside around was rolling and lush, and fat
cream-coloured sheep grazed contentedly in the fields with their tiny white lambs by their sides. Even back in medieval times
this was rich wool-producing country, prosperous and beautiful.
In contrast, ‘Windy Edge’ was a run-down cottage with a green flaking front door and grubby windows. A trio of scrawny hens
clucked about in the yard, their beady eyes fixed firmly on the littered ground, and a thin goat, tethered to a drainpipe,
showed little curiosity when the visitors emerged from the car.
‘Not much of a place,’ Gerry Heffernan commented under his breath.
Wesley didn’t answer. He wanted to get the visit over with. There was no bell or functioning door knocker so he rapped on
the wood with his knuckles. When there was no
sound of movement in the cottage, he knocked again and waited. He knew they were expected.
Just as he was about to consult the chief inspector about their next move, a woman appeared around the far corner of the building.
She was tall and slim with straight hair, blond peppered with grey, that swung down to her waist. Her face bore telltale signs
of age, but she had weathered well and could have been anything between thirty-five and fifty-five. She saw them and smiled.
When she smiled she was stunning.
‘You’ll be the coppers from Devon,’ she began. Her voice was pleasant with a slight Essex twang. ‘Chris won’t be long. He’s
just seeing to the piglets.’ She looked at them and smiled the dazzling smile again. ‘Come along in, then. It’s not much but
it’s home.’ She spoke with a cheerfulness Wesley couldn’t help but admire. There wouldn’t be many stunningly beautiful women
with the face and figure of a supermodel who would respond to such spartan living conditions with good cheer.
Wesley stepped forward and introduced himself and his boss. The woman said her name was Sandra and led them into the cottage.
She walked ahead of them, her head held high and her hips swaying. Wesley and Heffernan followed, and were soon seated on
an ancient moquette sofa with vicious springs, sipping tea from chipped mugs. The cottage was shabby but it was clean, and
there was a vase of fresh spring flowers on the table.
Sandra sat with them and expressed what seemed like genuine sorrow at Jonny’s death. She had known Jonny in the days of Rock
Boat, she said. She and Chris had been together a long time, through thick and thin – mostly thin, she added without bitterness.
She had been a model when they had met and had worked with all the top photographers of the day. It amazed Wesley that she
didn’t express resentment at her steep descent in wealth and lifestyle, and he found himself liking Sandra Pauling. He looked
at Gerry Heffernan, who was sitting on the edge of his seat staring at
her admiringly, and guessed that he shared his opinion of the woman.
Chris Pauling appeared fifteen minutes later, apologising and muttering about piglets. Sandra put a reassuring hand on his
shoulder and disappeared into the tiny kitchen to fetch another cup of tea. He was a small, weather-beaten man with long,
lank, greying hair which protruded beneath a threadbare woollen hat. He had the cheerful face of a slimmed-down garden gnome,
and his manner was friendly but solemn as he expressed his shock about Jonny’s death. He had the vestiges of a Liverpool accent,
and soon he and Gerry Heffernan were comparing notes about what part of the city they came from and what schools they had
attended. Chris Pauling chatted away openly with no sign that he had anything to hide.
Wesley and Heffernan hadn’t expected such a warm welcome from the Paulings. But perhaps their isolation meant that they had
few visitors. When Sandra had presented her husband with the tea she sat down again and leaned forward, listening intently.
‘I can’t believe it about Jonny, I really can’t. I mean, who’d want to shoot him?’
‘We were hoping you’d tell us,’ said Heffernan bluntly.
Chris shook his head. ‘We were a bit wild in the old days – all of us, me included.’ He hesitated. ‘Look, it’s no secret.
We downed a lot of booze, took a few illegal substances, got through a lot of women who were ready, willing and able. But
we were young and the fame thing happened so quickly that it went to our heads. And we made a fortune – the others are still
worth a packet. But me? I took some bad advice, made stupid investments, lost the lot.’ He shrugged and gave Wesley a wide
grin. ‘But what the hell, it’s only money. I’ve got my Sandra, a few animals to keep us going and a roof over my head. What
more could a man ask for?’
‘What indeed?’ said Wesley. He had imagined that Chris Pauling would be full of bitterness about his straitened
circumstances and the reality – if it wasn’t an act put on for their benefit – was unexpected. ‘Tell us about Jonny,’ he said.
‘We know the version in the biography but what was he really like?’
‘Jonny was an ordinary lad like the rest of us. He could play the guitar and sing, but apart from that … Look, we were four
lads up in Liverpool, living in the aftermath of the Beatles and the Merseybeat era. We were playing the clubs when this American
manager saw us one night and signed us up. We couldn’t believe our luck and the rest, as they say, is history.’
‘The American manager, would that be Hal Lancaster?’
‘Yeah. He’s a good bloke, Hal. Always straight with us. He didn’t rip us off like some you hear about.’