Wesley, shaken from his torpor, knelt down in the grey mud at the base of the trench and gave the rug another heave. Rachel
lay there absolutely still on the brightly coloured pile. Her plain grey sleeveless dress had ridden up, revealing a long
expanse of thigh. She wore a matching grey jacket, strangely formal in the circumstances, and her black leather shoulder bag
was slung around her neck. She had been about to leave for work when it had happened. Her flesh was pale but apparently unmarked
by violence. As Gerry Heffernan shouted for someone to call an ambulance, Wesley grasped Rachel’s icy hand and held it to
his cheek.
It was seven o’clock when Wesley Peterson reached home that evening. He called out as he opened the front door but there was
no answer. The house was silent. The phrase ‘silent as the grave’ flashed through Wesley’s mind, and he shuddered. The grave
wouldn’t be silent if you were buried alive: it would be filled with your own desperate cries, hopeless, unheard screams for
help choking in your throat and fading with your strength. What a way to die.
He pushed open the living-room door. Pam lay on the sofa, eyes closed. Michael lay curled up beside her. They were fast asleep.
He had no need to ask how she felt after her first day back at school. He stood watching his wife and son, listening to their
even breathing as he had stood listening to Rachel’s in the hospital before she had finally come round after the drugs had
been pumped from her stomach. He closed his eyes and realised that he was exhausted himself. Exhausted and relieved.
He crept out of the room and into the kitchen, searching for something to eat. He hadn’t had anything since twelve, when Trish
Walton had brought him and Heffernan a sandwich as they took a break from questioning the man they now knew as Mark Helston.
Pam had left a frozen lasagne standing inside the microwave. He pressed a button and after a few minutes it emerged piping
hot.
He sat alone at the kitchen table to eat it. Solitary eating was not an experience he enjoyed, and he ate rapidly, refuelling
rather than relishing. He wished Pam would wake up. He wanted to talk to her: he felt he had to tell someone about the day’s
events. A near-tragedy shared was a near-tragedy halved.
The doorbell rang, breaking the silence. Wesley rushed into the hall, eager for human contact. He just hoped it wasn’t a
salesman … he was in no mood to listen to the virtues of replacement windows.
But when he opened the door he saw that Neil was standing there, his face solemn. Wesley was glad to see him, glad of the
company, and he stood aside to let him in, warning him that Pam was asleep. They made for the kitchen, sat themselves down
at the table and poured themselves a beer, pushing the dirty dishes to one side, just as they had done in the flat they had
shared in their student days.
‘Rachel nearly died today,’ Wesley began quietly.
Neil’s mouth fell open. ‘What happened? Is she okay?’
Wesley told him, a swift, succinct narrative of the facts. ‘They say she’ll be okay,’ he added with relief. ‘But if we hadn’t
arrived when we did she would have been buried alive in that sewer pipe. He’d drugged her coffee then dumped her on the building
site before setting off for France.’
It had been a perfect opportunity, Helston had boasted during his long interrogation. He had worked on a building site once
so he knew how things were done. When he had checked the showhouse garden yesterday, he had seen that the sewer pipes were
almost laid and that a digger was standing by to bury the last ones … and Rachel. He hadn’t noticed that she’d left her mobile
on in her handbag. He hadn’t thought to check, he had added regretfully.
Mark Helston had no other regrets, other than the fact that he had been caught. But Wesley tried not to think of the man;
every time he did so he experienced a heart-wrenching wave of anger.
Emboldened by a rapidly consumed pint of Boddington’s bitter, Neil claimed he had never liked the look of the man he had known
as Charles Pitaway. His eyes were too close together, he pronounced sagely. Hindsight was a wonderful thing, Wesley thought
sadly, knowing that Neil had been taken in just like everyone else.
Neil raised the empty beer can. ‘Got any more of this? I’m drowning my sorrows.’
‘Why? What’s the matter?’ Wesley asked, opening another can and handing it to his friend, glad to change the subject.
‘It’s Claire. She’s going up to Manchester to work at the university.’ He took a long swig of beer. ‘I asked her why and she
just said she wanted a change. You don’t think it could be this business with the murders, do you?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘I never told you this, Wes, but I found Brian Willerby’s name scribbled out in her address book. I didn’t know whether to
say anything at the time but …’
‘Don’t worry. She didn’t have anything to do with his death,’ Wesley said quickly. ‘It was probably something to do with work.’
He hoped he sounded convincing.
‘Mmm,’ said Neil, half listening. ‘It was all very sudden, this Manchester job. She said she’d only just applied. I can’t
think why she should want to get away from here. We were getting on so well and …’
‘She probably had an offer she couldn’t refuse,’ Wesley said with finality. He had no intention of betraying Claire’s confidence.
‘Ah well,’ sighed Neil, taking another drink. ‘Plenty more finds in the trench, as we say in archaeological circles.’
Neil drained the can and grinned bravely. He had never been one for displaying his emotions. Wesley could only guess what
was really going through his mind.
‘You could try and persuade her not to go,’ he suggested.
Neil shook his head. ‘It’s almost as if there’s something here she wants to get away from. But I can’t think what.’
Wesley thought of Carlotta and said nothing. ‘As I said, she’s probably had a better offer. I can’t see the Earlsacre Project
paying very well, can you?’
‘Money’s not important,’ said Neil virtuously.
‘It might be to Claire. It is to some people. There are those who will do anything for money, and I should know – I’ve seen
it all in my job.’
‘Money is the root of all evil,’ said a quiet female voice. Pam had woken up and was standing in the kitchen doorway. Wesley
wondered how much she had overheard.
He went over and kissed her lightly, putting a supportive arm around her shoulder. ‘How was school?’
‘I’m shattered. But I dare say I’ll get used to it. Michael’s exhausted too after his day at the childminder’s. He fell fast
asleep as soon as he got home.’ She yawned. ‘Haven’t you poured me a drink?’ She lumbered over to the kitchen table and sat
in the seat her husband had vacated.
Wesley poured Pam a glass of red wine from an already opened bottle. Then he leaned against the fridge, thinking of Mark Helston
and the lengths he’d gone to to acquire and keep the proceeds from
the Earlsacre estate. And three centuries before, Joseph Marling had similarly killed and betrayed for the love of money and
power.
He handed Pam the glass. ‘And by the way,’ he said, ‘according to St Paul, it’s not money that’s the root of all evil, but
the love of it.’
‘Too right,’ said Neil as Pam raised her glass and drank deeply.
Six Weeks Later
The living statues shivered in the weak October sunshine. Two men and two women, painted a tasteful green and dressed in skimpy
draperies of an identical colour, made a brave attempt to stand still and ignore the goose bumps on their bare limbs. They
stood, one at each corner of the great rectangular plinth in the middle of the walled garden, as though guarding the newly
restored sundial at its centre.
The garden still had a bare look. The soil in the parterres was fine and weed-free – mostly flower-free as well, as the garden
wouldn’t blossom into life until the spring. The archaeologists who had revealed the ancient garden’s layout had long finished
their work, and after their departure the gardening experts had moved in like an occupying army to recreate the historic garden.
The Lantrists, they claimed, would have recognised their handiwork; the perfect recreation of a seventeenth-century ornamental
garden. And hopefully a real draw to tourists and garden enthusiasts alike.
Now archaeologists and gardeners sat together on the terrace to witness the rebirth of the house and gardens, although the
two groups tended not to fraternise. Neil sat beside Matt, Jane and Jake. Wesley Peterson, sitting with his police colleagues
on the other side of the terrace, noted Claire’s absence. She would be up in Manchester by now. Neil, he thought, was looking
remarkably cheerful. But then, in all the time he’d known him, Neil had never dwelt on the past – unless it was in the course
of his work.
Wesley, seated in front of the newly restored west wing of Earlsacre Hall, which had shed its scaffolding specially for the
occasion, nudged Gerry Heffernan. ‘She’s on next,’ he whispered,
glancing down into the garden where Pam was standing in front of a group of eleven-year-olds. He studied the children, his
wife’s class. Some of the girls, he noticed, towered above the boys already, having acquired the form and maturity of young
women. The boys, standing puny beside them, looked as if they longed to be somewhere else. One boy, Wesley noticed, was leaning
on a garden statue; one of the pair filched by Les Cumbernold and now restored to its rightful place in the garden.
Rachel Tracey sat on Wesley’s left, staring down at the scene below.
‘You didn’t have to come,’ Wesley whispered to her.
‘I’m fine,’ she answered. ‘Don’t fuss. As if it isn’t bad enough at home I’ve got to put up with it at work too.’
‘Sorry.’ He pretended to study the glossy programme on his knee.
‘And before anyone asks, Dave’s decided to continue his travels. He’s gone off to Europe,’ she said bluntly.
Wesley was hardly surprised. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, lost for words.
He was trying to think of something else to say, something comforting, something appropriate, when Gerry Heffernan nudged
his elbow. ‘She’s on,’ he said, pointing to the programme.
Pam’s class didn’t disgrace themselves. In fact their rendition of three traditional songs which, Pam had judged, had been
top of the pops when the gardens were first created seemed to go down well with the audience of locals, project workers and
assorted dignitaries. The main platform on the terrace had been reserved for an assortment of local mayors, councillors and
MPs, a delegation from the American foundation that had so keenly supported the project, and the Chief Constable and his wife.
Gerry Heffernan straightened his tie and kept glancing at the latter, on his best behaviour for once.
Martin Samuels’ speech followed, a well-judged address which emphasised the work that had gone into the restoration of the
gardens without touching upon the unhappy events of the recent months.
But Jacintha Hervey was unable to resist adding a touch of drama. Wearing flowing pink, she launched into her latest poem,
a composition of epic proportions. She had decided to dwell upon the darker side of Earlsacre’s history. The tale of Richard
Lantrist, the murderous Joseph Marling, Captain Parry and the unfortunate interred maidservant was told in colourful and bloodthirsty
blank verse. Wesley glanced at the Chief Constable, who was looking a
little concerned for his crime figures. He prayed that Jacintha would bring the story to a close before she reached the present
day. There was no way he wanted Rachel reminded of Mark Helston, who was now awaiting trial. Some things were best forgotten.
When the music began, played by an earnest-looking string quartet, the living statues began to move gracefully around the
garden, and the guests began to mingle. Gerry Heffernan grabbed Wesley’s arm. ‘Let’s get out of here before we’re cornered
by the Chief Constable. I’d rather be downing a pint at the King’s Head than having to mind my p’s and q’s over some silly
little bits of fancy food that wouldn’t fill the belly of a ruddy canary. Hurry up.’
‘I’ll have to say hello to Pam.’
‘Do that on your way out. She’s got to keep an eye on them kids anyway, and make sure they don’t nick anything. Hurry up,’
he repeated impatiently, a weather eye on the Chief Constable’s whereabouts.
Wesley allowed himself to be led off in the direction of the gatehouse. But Neil had been on the lookout and caught up with
them in the centre of the walled garden. He had a booklet in his hand which he waved under Wesley’s nose. ‘Seen this?’ he
asked without ceremony.
‘What is it?’
‘Never mind that,’ said Heffernan. ‘We’re making our escape to the King’s Head.’
‘What about the free grub?’ asked Neil greedily.
Wesley shrugged. He wasn’t hungry anyway. And standing there, on the stone plinth under which Richard Lantrist had been buried
and the young woman, the innocent maidservant, had met her horrifying end, wasn’t doing wonders for his appetite. ‘What’s
the book?’
‘Claire and Martin Samuels were working on it. It’s the history of Earlsacre, and it covers the Lantrist case. It’s going
to be sold in the souvenir shop.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Did I tell you the vicar here’s agreed to rebury the skeletons
we dug up?’
Wesley shook his head. Although maybe Neil had told him and he had forgotten – he had had a lot on his mind over the past
few weeks.
‘Jinny and the captain are going in the churchyard and he’s giving the real Richard Lantrist a place in the family vault,
which I thought was very decent of him. Don’t know if he’s chucking the impostor out, though.’
‘He should do. He’s got no right to be there,’ said Wesley vehemently, surprised by the strength of his own feelings.
Neil looked at him curiously. ‘Yeah … right,’ was all he could think of to say.
‘When are they being buried?’
‘Half three. That’s why I’m keeping an eye on the time. We thought we ought to be there, the archaeological team.’
‘I’d like to be there too,’ said Wesley quietly. He turned to Heffernan. ‘Feel like coming to a funeral, Gerry?’