'Or the lighter. And it looks like
whoever killed him pinched his cigarettes too.'
'All points to our friend Rat.'
'Doesn't everything ... including
his calling card.'
"That dead rat's not his style,
surely, Wes. He'd just stab, rob and run.'
'We've got to pull him in just the
same. He's the best we've got and he hasn't even got his mates to give him an
alibi... he went off on his own merry way on Sunday night. Are we going to hold
his mates?'
'Nothing to charge them with. We'll
let 'em go and if they meet up with Rat again that'll make him easier to find.
As a group they're pretty visible, the four of them."
Four?'
'Don't forget Fang.'
'How could I?' Wesley said with
feeling. The dog's smell had been memorable.
There was a scuffling at the other
end of the chapel. Neil stood there, slouched against the ruined arch that had
once been the great doorway. 'They said you were up here.' He addressed the inspector.
'Look, is it okay with you if we start here now? We've got equipment booked and
...'
'Yeah. I don't see why not. As long
as you don't entice my sergeant away from his duties. We've got a murderer to
catch, you know.'
'Great.' Neil looked round the site
with hungry anticipation. I'll tell the others.'
Just let us know if you find the
murder weapon buried anywhere, eh?'
Neil ignored Wesley's ignorant boss
and continued, 'We'll try and locale the graves of these Spaniards ... check
out all the local stories. And there's documentary evidence of a whole range of
buildings round the chapel ... a sort of mini-monastery.'
'For very small monks."
Heffernan had had enough of the intellectual stuff, and he could see that his
sergeant was becoming increasingly fascinated. 'Come on, Wes, we've got work to
do ...come back to the twentieth century.'
Wesley raised a reluctant hand in
farewell and followed Heffernan back to the incident room. At that moment dead Spaniards
seemed a lot more appealing to him than dead
Americans.
Steve Carstairs got out of his car
and put his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. He strolled casually up
to the small village shop just as he had seen the DCs on television police dramas
stroll up to the entrance of a gangster's haunt in the seedy centre of some
decaying metropolis. Oh, for the excitement of the Met: he'd be off to London
like a shot if his mum wasn't quite so good at providing for his every need. It
would be impossible to keep the hours Steve did at work and play and still do
your own washing.
WPC Trish Walton, young and new to
the job. followed Steve warily, secretly excited at being put with someone from
CID ...especially someone attractive from CID. She adjusted her hat and followed
Steve into the shop, standing behind him as he flashed
his warrant card at the shopkeeper.
The thin, balding man suddenly
looked indignant. That's three days I've waited. They sent some young PC who
didn't look as though he'd been out of school five minutes ... he didn't seem interested.
I told him. I said .. .'
'Sorry, sir, I'm not with you.'
'Shoplifter... pinched some cans of
lager from over there. Ran off...'
'Sorry, sir, we've not come about
that. Have you seen this woman at all?' He produced a fuzzy photograph of Sally
Johnson, the best her husband had been able to provide. 'She used to live at this
shop fifty years ago ... name of Sally Johnson. It's thought she might have
come back here.'
The shopkeeper looked annoyed. 'I'm
not interested in some woman who used to live here. What are you doing about my
lager? I can't afford shoplifting ... it's hard enough to keep this place going
as it is.'
Steve looked around at the shop, laid
out like a miniature supermarket. The shelves were half filled with the bare
necessities...hardly the place to buy your smoked salmon and sun-dried
tomatoes.
'I suggest you keep all the drink behind
the counter, sir. That's what they usually go for.'
'There's normally no problem. I know
all my customers ...mostly old folk who've got no cars and can't get to the
hypermarket outside Tradmouth.'
Steve took out his notebook - better
show willing. 'So who was this shoplifter? Some old dear getting a bit
forgetful?' He smirked.
The shopkeeper wasn't amused. 'It
was some young tearaway with a shaved head, dressed like a tramp. I knew he was
trouble as soon as he came through that door.'
'Anything else you can tell me about
him?'
'In his twenties. I'd say.
Vicious-looking character ...dirty...'
'We'll keep an eye out, sir.'
'Four cans, he stole.'
'As I said, sir. we'll keep an eye
out.' Steve pushed the photograph of Sally Johnson forward. 'Has this woman
been here at all?'
The shopkeeper shook his head.
'And you've not seen her in the
village or hanging around outside the shop?'
'I've got no time to notice who's outside
the shop. I'm open till ten most evenings.'
The shop door opened and a woman
came in, smiled at the shopkeeper and picked up one of the wire baskets at the
door. A customer. The shopkeeper's manner changed. 'Morning. Mrs Penrose. Nice
day again.'
'We'll leave you to it,' Steve said as
he pushed the photograph back into his wallet. 'If you see the woman, let us
know, won't you.'
The shopkeeper was about to answer
when Mrs Penrose placed her basket containing a lonely box of teabags on the
counter in front of him.
Steve, hands in pockets, sauntered
back to the car. 'Another blank ... CID work isn't all glamour, you know.
Trish. You stick with me and you'll learn a thing or two about detection.'
WPC Trish Walton wasn't so sure
about Steve's last statement.
Rachel rubbed her eyes as she went
through the statements. She had not had much sleep after her disturbed right.
She had lain awake thinking of Dave and what he would do when he had to leave
the flat on her family's farm. She prided herself on being an
independent young woman, ambitious to progress in the police force, but the
thought that Dave might take his eviction as an opportunity to move on. to move
away from Devon, made her feel curiously heavy-hearted. He was backpacking
around England,
after all. There was no reason for him to stay once he lost the use of the
out-of-season holiday flat.
She tried to put these thoughts from
her mind and picked up the pile of statements on her desk, gleaned daring their
house-to-house visits. There had been something ... a nagging thought. She came
eventually to the one she was looking for. A Mrs Sweeting ... a tiny bird-like
woman who lived in a pink- washed cottage near the church. She had welcomed
them eagerly, talking non-stop about the war and how they'd been moved out of
their homes. She had spoken without resentment: it had been a great adventure
for her and her friends as they had been treated and flattered by the American
servicemen. She hadn't
remembered Norman
Openheim ... there had been so many of them, she said. But one thing she said had
snick in Rachel's memory. One of Mrs Sweeting's sister's friends, she claimed, had
been raped by one of the Americans. Mrs Sweeting had
only mentioned it in passing to illustrate that life back then had its dangers.
Rachel had hardly thought it relevant after all this time ... but it was
something. What, she thought, if Norman Openheim had not been the sweet young
man Marion had remembered through the rosy glow of time? What if there had been
a darker side to his nature ... a member of an occupying army exercising a
subtle
droit de seigneur
among the
native
girls? What if somebody, even after all these years, had sought revenge?
It was an unlikely scenario, Rachel
admitted to herself - almost in the realms of fantasy - but it was a
possibility. She would pay another visit to Mrs Sweeting ... just for a
friendly
chat.
While Rachel was leading her reports
an earnest young woman sat herself down at Heffernan's desk and waited,
fiddling with the strings of coloured beads which dangled around her neck.
Wesley looked at her. When she had
been announced, the inspector had disappeared into the toilets, telling Wesley
firmly that he wasn't in. The woman sat there waiting. She was in her twenties,
about Wesley's own age. and wore the uniform of the alternative society: clumpy
boots, long Indian skirt and threadbare black jumper. Her nose was pierced with
a gold ring and more gold hung from her stretched earlobes. Wesley approached
her, cautious.
'Can I help you? The inspector's ...
er ... otherwise engaged at the moment. I'm DS Peterson.'
'I want to see Inspector Heffernan.
He's in charge, isn't he?'
'Yes, but I can pass a message on.
I'll make sure he gets it.'
'He knows me. I've worked with him
before. I'll wait.'
'I'll see if I can find him for
you.' Wesley made straight for the village hall toilets, where he found the
inspector leaning on a chipped washbasin.
'Has she gone?'
'She won't move ... said she'll
wait. Who is she?'
'Fern Ferrars. A clairvoyant...
lives in Neston.'
'That figures.' The pretty walled
town of Neston. eight miles upstream from Tradmouth. was the local capital of
the alternative society. It was said by the locals that the incense could be
smell on the breeze as you approached the town. 'She said she worked with
you once.'
'She made some guesses that proved
to be right on a murder case a couple of years ago."
'Don't you think you should see what
she's got to say?'
'You see her, Wes."
'She wants you. She won't talk to
me."
Heffernan sighed. 'Okay ... but I've
not got time for all this mumbo-jumbo.'
The young woman rose to her feet
when she saw Gerry Heffernan. 'Ms Ferrars. what can I do for you?'
'Inspector ...' She twisted her
beads nervously. 'I felt I had to come and see you. I've had these pictures in
my head ... ever since I read about that American being killed.'
Heffernan glanced at his sergeant
and rolled his eyes. 'What pictures, love? I've only got a minute ... we're a
bit pushed right now..
Fern Ferrars sat down, trying to
block out the inspector's scepticism.
What
she had seen was so real: somehow she knew that she had to convince the police
to take her seriously ... somehow.
'It happened the first time I saw the photograph of Mr Openheim in the local
paper. I felt fear... real fear.'
'Come on, then, what did you see?' A
tiny spark of interest was creeping into Heffernan's voice. Wesley sat forward,
fascinated.
I saw a boy... a young man, aged
about sixteen, seventeen... with dark hair, wet, coming out of the sea. His
clothes were ragged and soaking ... he was terrified, and silver ...'
'What kind of silver?' asked Wesley,
remembering the missing lighter.
'I don't know ... something small.
And Armada ... somehow that came into my head. Armada boy.' Fern Ferrars' face
was screwed up with concentration and emotion.
Heffernan glanced at his sergeant
and raised his eyebrows.