'I've met lots of lads like you in
my time. Snot. Not bad lads... not deep down. They've just never had a chance.
Do you do drugs?'
Snot looked wary. 'Sometimes'
'The trouble with your - lifestyle they
call it on the telly, don't they? - is that you can get in with some bad
company, get led astray a bit. Rat's bad company, isn't he?"
'How do you mean?" Snot looked
up. attentive. The inspector was getting through.
'His aunty described him as a bad
'un ... vicious little bastard who threatened her with a knife. He's got a
record that shows he's been a busy lad in the villainy department. Have you got
a record?'
'Don't have nothing to play it on.'
Snot laughed out loud at his own joke.
Very funny. You might as well tell
us if you're one of our valued customers, you know. We can take fingerprints,
get an ID that way.'
'Okay ... I've been pulled in by the
filth a few times. But I never done nothing ... I was innocent.'
'Course you were. What's your full
name? We'll have to check.'
'Snot.'
'Your real name.'
'Kenneth John Jenkins.'
'Date of birth?'
Snot reeled off the date. Heffernan
nodded to Rachel, who went off to summon up Snot's details on the computer.
'Bring us some tea back, will you,
love? How- many sugars, Snot?'
Rachel slammed the door of the
interview room rather more forcefully than usual. The inspector obviously
hadn't been reading the Chief Constable's memos on sexism: she would have to
put them in a more prominent place on his desk. After accessing the computer
and getting the relevant details, she made the tea resentfully. It was hardly
her job as a CID officer to act as tea lady: Steve wouldn't be expected to do
it. She returned to the interview room balancing the cups on a tray. The
inspector would have the one that had spilled in the saucer - a punishment.
Heffernan looked at Snot's print-out:
petty stuff. 'Hardly Mr Big, are you, son?'
'You can't keep me here ... I've not
done nothing."
'What about murder?'
Snot's grey eyes widened in disbelief.
What murder? I never killed no one...'
'One of those Americans. I told you
when you were by that tank near Bereton Sands... remember? He was killed on
Sunday night up at the old chantry chapel in Bereton. Know it?'
Snot shook his head.
'He was stabbed ... possibly with a
knife like your mate, Rat, carries. You're not always together, are you? You go
your separate ways?"
'We can make more that way.'
' Where was Rat on Sunday night,
about ten o'clock?'
' Dunno."
'Was he with you?'
'Sunday? Don't think so ... no. We
went to Tradmouth that night, me and Dog. See if we could get anything when the
pubs chucked out.'
'Was Rat with you?'
'No. He stayed in Bereton... said he
was going to have another go at seeing his gran. We left him about 5. Didn't
see him 'til the next day.'
'And did he see his gran?'
'He said he hung round for a bit.
Don't think he got to see her. He never said nothing about that night.' There
was something in his voice which hinted to Heffernan that Snot thought Rat was quite
capable of having spent the evening knifing Americans. But even if he admitted
his thoughts to them, supposition was not evidence.
'We've heard That the American who
died had a row with one of you when he refused to give you money. Is this
true?'
'Nah . . can't remember that. A few
of them yelled at us, told us to get our hair cut, that sort of thing.' He
smirked. "There wasn't no aggro ... no proper aggro.'
This confirmed what Heffernan had
suspected: the argument between Norman and the beggars had been exaggerated by
Litton Boratski, probably more out of prejudice than malice.
'Right. Snot... you're free to go.'
Rachel looked at the inspector with
surprise.
'Unless you'd like to stay for dinner,
and a bed for the night... central heating and en suite bucket, all mod cons.'
'Could I?' Snot looked pathetically
eager. Heffernan's offer was better than a derelict building or shop doorway in
the March winds.
'Okay. I'll swing it with the custody
sergeant ... say you're still helping with our enquiries. Only tonight, mind.
I'll extend the invitation to your mate and all ... and Fang's being well
looked after, munching his meaty chunks as we speak.'
Snot grinned, showing a missing
front tooth: the first time they'd seen him smile.
'Was that wise, sir?' said Rachel
anxiously when Snot had been led away. She believed in doing things strictly by
the book.
"There but for the grace of
God, Rach. If the cells aren't full that poor little bugger might as well have
a hot meal and somewhere warm to sleep.' He looked at his watch. 'I'm late ...
choir practice. Get off home. Rach. tell that feller of yours to stop playing with
his didgeridoo and get an early night.'
Heffernan grabbed his anorak, tore
down the stairs and out into the darkening narrow streets. The top storeys of
the medieval shops jutted out above him. obscuring any available light. When he
reached the porch of St Margaret's church he stopped to catch
his breath. There was no sound of singing from inside: they hadn't started yet.
St Margaret's was a large handsome
church, built in the fourteenth
and
fifteenth centuries by the generosity of the prosperous merchants of Tradmouth,
who had made their fortunes from the wine trade with Bordeaux. Their tombs
lined die aisles; self-satisfied,
self-made
men - mayors and aldermen of the then great port. The screen between nave and
chancel was a thing of beauty: Heffernan had been unable to take his eyes off
it on his first visit to the church all those years ago when he and Kathy had
gone there to arrange their wedding. It was elaborately carved and painted in
subtle ancient shades. That it had survived all the upheavals of English ecclesiastical
history was a miracle in itself.
Behind the screen the ladies and
gentlemen of the choir chattered
away. Heffernan
strolled slowly into the back of the church, collecting his thoughts, before he
joined them. Hanging on the oak panelling to his right was a tiny typed notice
in a plain black
frame. He must have passed it hundreds of times but never bothered
to read it. He screwed up his eyes to decipher
the faint print.
'The carved timber used in this gallery
came from the Armada flagship the Nuestra Senora del Rosario which was captured
by Sir Francis Drake in 1588 and brought back to Tradmouth for refitting.'
'Well, well ... Wesley'd be interested
in that. Refitting, eh? Seeing what he could nick more likely.'
With his mind successfully taken off
the problems of the case. Gerry Heffernan was in fine voice that evening. So
fine that the grey penned ladies in the front row looked at each other and smiled
knowingly.
Wesley's special dispensation from
his wife was to last until ten o'clock; the time she estimated she'd be home.
He looked at his watch ... an hour and a half to go.
The Bereton Arms was fairly full
that evening. The clientele was what could be described as 'a good social mix':
farmers; any types settled in Devon in search of inspiration; a clutch of young
professionals in search of the authentic rural experience. Even the
young vicar sat in the comer clutching his half-pint tankard, talking earnestly
to a man with an alarming handlebar moustache.
Wesley drank low-alcohol beer: he was driving. Neil, bed-and-breakfasting in
the village, had no such restraints and had just been to the bar for his third
pint of best bitter.
'You should have been there, Wes.
The finds we're bringing out ... pewter plates, and a silver crucifix. ...
We've used this machine to blow the sand away from the timbers ... the whole ship's
down there…'
'I've never done any diving.'
'There's always a first time.'
'I won't get the chance. This case'll
drag on ... I can feel it in my water.'
'I'm not surprised if you're
drinking that stuff. You mean you've not arrested some innocent member of the
public yet?'
Wesley shook his head. 'Not even a
guilty one.'
'When can we start on the chantry?'
'We'll let you know ... couple more
days maybe,'
'Mind you, we're getting so much
down in the bay that it's probably good that we can concentrate on that for a
while. You'll have to meet the team, Wes. They're a good lot.'
'On the boat?"
'Don't let that worry you. I never
thought they'd get me off dry land. I used to think Jane was just posing when
she went on about diving but now I'm really getting into it.' Neil delved into
his pocket. 'I've brought you a present... something to read when you're
sitting round all day in a lay-by in one of those souped-up patrol cars.'
Wesley took the book. It was slightly
thinner than the average paperback and had a picture postcard photograph of
Bereton church on the cover. It bore the words
A History of Bereton and Its People
by June Mallindale in large
white letters.
'You wanted to know about the chantry
... it's all in there. There's a lot about the Armada and the D-day rehearsals
as well. It's a bit flowery but it seems to be fairly well researched. Let me have
it back when you've read it, won't you."
Wesley smiled. Neil had always been
too impecunious to go round giving impromptu gifts. 'Thanks. I'll read it when
I get the chance. Another pint?'
Silly question. Neil's eyes lit up
and he presented his empty glass for refilling. While Wesley was waiting for
the beer to be pulled by the homely-looking barmaid in an over-short skirt, he surveyed
his fellow bar leaners. A few eyed him curiously but most studiously avoided
his eyes. In the comer at the far end of the bar Wayne Restorick was standing,
drink in hand, talking to a youth with a similarly vacant expression.
Wayne looked up and caught Wesley's
eye. His vacant look changed to one of fear. He abandoned his glass and pushed
his way through the groups of standing drinkers and ran towards the door.
Wesley watched him with interest, wondering what there was about an off-duty
detective sergeant that Wayne had found so disturbing.
The anthem the choir had rehearsed
for next Sunday's evensong ran through Gerry Heffernan's head as he lay alone
in the big double bed. The window was partly open: he had slept with The window
open since Kathy's death; she had always liked it closed.
He could hear the water lapping against the quayside and the soft chug-chug of
the fishing boats as they left port.
He was just starting to drift off to
sleep when the phone by his bed exploded with sound, disorientating him for a
moment as he was thrust back into consciousness. His hand missed the receiver on
the first attempt. When he had succeeded in picking it up he
grunted into it, still more than half asleep.
The voice on the other end sounded
disgustingly awake: the night duty sergeant. 'Just thought I'd let you know,
sir... there's an American tourist gone missing from the Clearview Hotel. A Mrs
Johnson .. . her husband's in a bit of a state.'