They were passing the memorial park when an old man almost stumbled in front of the car. Steve let out a string of foul expletives
and earned himself a dirty look from his companion.
‘Stop,’ she said with determination.
Steve put his foot on the brake pedal, causing the car behind to sound its horn. ‘What is it?’
‘That old man. I want to see if he’s all right.’
Steve swore again under his breath but parked the car. He could see the old man in his rear-view mirror. He was leaning against
the park railings looking decidedly ill. Steve leaned on the wheel impatiently. He’d let Jackie do the good Samaritan bit
if she wanted: he was having nothing to do with it.
‘Well, come on. Aren’t you getting out?’ she asked shrilly.
Steve got out of the car slowly and followed Jackie to where the elderly man was standing. He was dressed in respectable tweeds.
His silver hair was neatly cut. This was no tramp. Perhaps Jackie had a point after all. But even if she did, Steve wanted
to get going.
‘That’s very kind of you, my dear. Most kind. I’m afraid I just had
a little dizzy turn. Nothing to worry about. It’s probably because I haven’t eaten. I lost my wallet, you see. No money. And
my credit cards are gone as well. It’s very foolish. I don’t know whether it’s been stolen or whether I’ve just left it somewhere.’
He was well spoken and, as far as Jackie could judge, genuinely distressed.
‘You reported it to the police?’
‘Yes, but the officer I spoke to wasn’t very optimistic.’ The man put a hand to his head and closed his eyes. ‘Oh dear. I’m
sorry to be such a nuisance. All my money was in the wallet, you see, and I’ve arranged to travel back up to my home in Manchester
tonight. The train tickets were in the wallet too. And the banks are shut now. My daughter’s meeting me at the station. I
really don’t know what to do.’
Jackie opened her handbag and took out her purse. ‘I can give you ten pounds. I’m sorry, but that’s all I’ve got. That’ll
get you something to eat.’
The elderly man looked embarrassed. ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly.’
‘No, take it. I insist.’ She pressed the note into his hand.
‘That’s really most kind of you. Have you any paper to write down your address? I’ll repay the money as soon as I get home.
I’ll let you have my address too. How about that?’
‘It’s really not necessary.’
‘No, I insist. Although it might be a while before I get this mess sorted out and get back home. I’ve nowhere to stay, you
see, and …’
Jackie turned to Steve, who’d been standing with his hands in his pockets, paying no particular attention to her charitable
act. All he wanted to do was to get back to Morbay and test the waters where Jackie was concerned. He glanced at his watch
and hoped she wouldn’t take much longer.
‘Steve? How much money have you got on you?’
He looked at her apprehensively. Did she mean what he thought she meant? ‘About eighty quid. Why?’
She turned to the elderly man, who was busy scribbling his name and address on the back of Jackie’s slimline diary. ‘Would
eighty pounds be enough to buy you a train ticket?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly …’
‘Of course you could. Your daughter’s meeting you, isn’t she? She’ll be expecting you. You can send us the money as soon as
you get back.’ She turned to Steve with an outstretched hand. ‘Come on, Steve, hand it over. This gentleman’s need is greater
than yours and it’s only for a couple of days.’
Steve was about to tell the man to get lost. But then he looked at Jackie’s expectant face. If he failed this test, he’d stand
no chance. But if he impressed her with his generosity, he was on a definite promise. Slowly, trying his best to hide his
reluctance, he opened his wallet and handed over four crisp twenty-pound notes.
The man seemed overwhelmed. There were embryonic tears of gratitude in his eyes. ‘Thank you. Oh, that’s so kind. I never expected
… I’ll repay it as soon as I can, of course.’ He looked Steve in the eye. ‘May I have your address, young man? I promise I’ll
send you the money as soon as I get home. Would a cheque be all right?’
Steve nodded, lost for words.
‘Thank you,’ said the old man gushingly, stuffing the notes in his trouser pocket. ‘God bless you for your kindness. I’ll
repay you as soon as I get back to Manchester, I promise … and I’ll let you have my address, of course. If I get home tonight
I can put cheques in the post tomorrow. You should get them at the beginning of next week.’ He grabbed Steve’s hand and shook
it heartily. ‘Thank you,’ he said for the last time before walking unsteadily off in the direction of the bus stop.
‘Hang on,’ called Jackie. ‘Are you catching the train from Morbay? We can give you a lift if you like.’
The man hesitated. ‘I really couldn’t impose on you any more …’
‘It’s no trouble. Get into the car.’
Steve was silent as they drove to Morbay. The man and Jackie chatted pleasantly. It was only when she announced that Steve
was a detective constable that the conversation flagged a little. They dropped him off at the railway station, his thanks
and his promises to repay the money still ringing in their ears.
‘It’s nice to be able to help someone, isn’t it?’ said Jackie sentimentally when they were alone.
‘Mmm,’ replied Steve, unconvinced. ‘Fancy coming to my place? It’s Friday night. We can get a takeaway and have a drink …
maybe go on to a club. What do you say?’
‘Sorry, Steve, but I’ve arranged to meet my boyfriend later. But thanks for the offer,’ she added as they drew up at her flat.
‘Shit,’ said Steve under his breath as he watched Jackie open her front door, promising himself that that would be the last
time he would do anyone a good turn.
*
Gerry Heffernan took a leisurely stroll home to his small, whitewashed cottage at the end of the cobbled quayside four minutes’
walk from the police station.
A few holidaymakers straggled along the cobbles; middle-aged and elderly couples, not the families with young children who
had swarmed there in the height of the tourist season, catching large crabs in small buckets at high tide. The late-season
visitors were content to sit quietly on the wooden benches provided and admire the picturesque view across the wide River
Trad. Unlike the noisy crabbing kids, these late, contemplative tourists caused Heffernan no disturbance.
The sun hung low in the sky, its rays catching on the sails of the yachts making stately progress up the river. Gerry Heffernan
stood there for a while and breathed in the salty air. He gazed across the water to where his beloved yacht, the
Rosie May
, bobbed on the water, and felt a wave of proprietorial pride. He would take her out over the weekend and sail round the headland.
For Heffernan, sailing banished any number of cobwebs and helped him to think. He breathed the salty air, taking slow, deep
breaths. If it wasn’t for the fact that September was the fourth anniversary of his wife, Kathy’s, death, summer’s back end
would be his favourite time of year.
He took his key from his pocket and opened his front door. As he stepped inside the house the silence was almost tangible.
Until last week his son, Sam, had been there, home from university in Liverpool. But now he had gone back up to his father’s
native city to catch up with some work for his veterinary course and to search for somewhere to live next term. Heffernan
missed him; he missed the company and the life the young man had brought to the place. He sat down at the baby grand piano
in the middle of the living room and began to pick out the melody of a Chopin nocturne, one of Kathy’s favourites.
But just as he felt the first stinging discomfort in his eyes that heralded the imminent arrival of an unwelcome tear, the
telephone rang. He rushed to answer it, to have contact with another human being.
The voice on the other end of the line made Gerry Heffernan smile again. ‘You’re back,’ he said, trying to suppress his delight.
‘How was the States? Do you fancy coming to a cricket match tomorrow?’
The answer was affirmative. Susan Green, widow of the parish of Stokeworthy, was back from visiting her sister in Boston and
had
agreed to accompany Gerry Heffernan to Earlsacre to witness Wesley’s debut on the cricket field.
He had first met Susan several months earlier, when her next-door neighbour had been murdered, and since then they had shared
the occasional visit to a country pub or restaurant. He had just been getting to know her when she had disappeared off to
her native USA. Perhaps they would see more of each other now that she was back. But, whatever the future held, Susan’s call
had raised his spirits. After he had put the phone down, he was surprised to find he was singing to himself as he trotted
into the kitchen to make himself something to eat.
In his single, merchant navy days – before Kathy had lured him ashore to join the police force in Tradmouth – Heffernan had
become a useful cook. But it was no fun cooking for one, so he prepared and ate a humble supper of beans on toast before heading
down the narrow, restaurant-lined streets of Tradmouth towards the medieval church of St Margaret.
He slowed down as he neared the church, and began to sing to himself softly, trying to remember the bass part of Haydn’s ‘The
Heavens Are Telling’. By the time he reached the church porch he thought he had got it spot on.
Pam Peterson was feeling harassed. There was a lasagne in the oven. Nothing fancy: she didn’t want to set a precedent. Her
mother and Jamie would have to take them as they found them. After all, Della had invited herself, so what could she expect.
All these justifications whirled round in Pam’s head as she peeped into the oven at the lasagne which looked sadly inadequate
for four healthy adults.
The doorbell rang – two sharp rings which made Pam drop her oven gloves.
‘I’ll go,’ Wesley called from the hallway. His voice sounded tired, unenthusiastic. He had just embarked on a murder investigation
and Pam knew that that meant long disruptive hours and a husband whose mind was elsewhere. She just hoped her mother wouldn’t
overstay her already shaky welcome.
Wesley opened the door suspecting that his welcoming smile had turned into more of a snarl as he watched Della flounce in
wearing a pair of gigantic silver earrings and a skirt that was just a little too short for her years. Following her was a
tall, distinguished-looking
man. He was dressed in a smart suit with a buttoned-up shirt and no tie, and his steel-grey hair was swept back in a neat
ponytail.
Pam came through into the hall and stood with her arm linked through Wesley’s, waiting expectantly for an introduction.
‘This is Jamie,’ Della gushed. ‘Jamie, this is my lovely daughter, Pamela, and this is her husband, Wesley.’ She winked shamelessly
at her son-in-law, who feared they were in for a long night.
Wesley led the way into the living room with a fixed smile on his face, wondering if things could get worse. As Pam hurried
back into the bowels of the kitchen, he poured four glasses of the wine Jamie had brought. He stole a surreptitious look at
the label. It was good stuff: better than the supermarket special offers he and Pam downed after a hard day’s work.
‘So, Wesley,’ Jamie began. He smiled, a charming smile that didn’t spread to his eyes. Wesley tried to guess what he was thinking,
but couldn’t. ‘I hear you’re a policeman … CID.’ He had a smooth, deep voice; easy to listen to; persuasive.
‘That’s right,’ Wesley answered, studying Jamie’s face for signs of discomfort. But there were none, not even the uneasiness
many law-abiding citizens experience in the presence of a police officer.
‘Much crime around here?’ asked Jamie.
‘There’s crime everywhere. And crime in rural areas is on the increase, I’m sorry to say.’
Jamie smiled again. ‘One of the more undesirable aspects of this modern age, I suppose.’
‘I expect the criminally inclined, like the poor, have always been with us,’ answered Wesley, wondering how he could change
the subject. He didn’t relish the prospect of an evening spent discussing the constabulary’s crime figures. ‘Are you from
round here?’ he asked.
‘I moved down from Leeds a year ago. I fancied a change of scenery and this really is a lovely part of the world.’ Jamie rearranged
his legs, looking completely relaxed on the sofa beside Della, who had placed her hand on his arm proprietorially. He smiled
at her – the type of smile one gives a pet or a small child.
‘Why don’t you tell Wesley about your work, darling?’
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t be interested,’ Jamie said quickly.
‘Don’t be so modest. He’s ever so clever, Wesley. He’s advised me to take all my money out of the scrappy old savings account
where it was earning practically nothing and invest it in these shares. I don’t know anything about it, of course. Jamie’s
the expert.’
‘What shares are these, Jamie?’ asked Wesley, trying to sound casual.
The smile appeared again as Jamie shuffled his feet awkwardly, avoiding Wesley’s eyes.
But before he could answer they were interrupted by Pam calling from the kitchen with the vital news that the dinner was on
the table getting cold. Wesley detected an edge of panic in her voice. He picked up Pam’s glass of wine along with his own
to take through to the dining room, and Jamie and Della followed him, arm in arm. Wesley caught Pam’s eye and smiled reassuringly
as they sat down, noting that she had used the small plates for the lasagne and thinking that he would have to fill up on
the cheese and biscuits later.
It was almost ten o’clock when Gerry Heffernan stepped out of the porch of St Margaret’s church into the chilly night. As
his mind was on the music, he almost missed seeing the man who was scurrying along the pavement opposite. In fact if Brian
Willerby had looked less guilty he might well not have noticed him at all. But the solicitor was treading softly, looking
from left to right furtively like a striped-jerseyed burglar in a silent film. Heffernan slipped back into the shadows of
the church porch and watched.