The Marriage Hearse (14 page)

‘Yeah.’ She looked at Rachel. ‘You’re police, right? Look, I’ve told you everything … honest.’

‘We’re not here about Kirsten. We’re looking for Françoise Decaux.’

‘Why? What’s she done?’

‘Do you know where she is?’

‘Haven’t a clue. She didn’t turn up for her lesson.’

‘Is that usual?’

Felicity shook her head. ‘She seems quite keen … unlike some of them.’ She went over to the window and flung it open before
taking a packet of cigarettes from her pocket. She waved the packet in Rachel and Wesley’s direction and, when they refused
her offer, she took a cigarette out and lit it with a cheap plastic lighter.

‘Ma Sawyer’d kill me if she caught me doing this in here,’ she said, blowing a stream of smoke out of the window.

Wesley closed the classroom door behind him and took a seat. ‘You don’t like Mrs Sawyer?’ He caught Rachel’s eye.

‘Nobody here can stand the old trout. Exploitation, that’s her game. She makes a fortune out of those poor kids. She employs
a bunch of no-hopers – the dregs who can’t get anyone else to give them a job – at starvation wages and the kids pay through
the nose.’

‘What do you mean, the dregs?’

‘There are some dregs here, believe me. You should see some of them. As for me, I class myself amongst the desperate. I went
to Morbay University – modern languages – but I only just scraped through. I was living with a guy down here so I wanted to
stay. It was either teaching English as a foreign language or doing seasonal work so I chose this. He went off with a girl
from the Tourist Information Office but I’m still here. You get stuck in a rut. It’s easier to do nothing even though the
pay stinks and the work’s crap.’ She gave a small, bitter smile. ‘“The career path in provincial language schools is strewn
with nettles and litter, sometimes impassable where the mud of boredom blocks the way.” I made that up,’ she said, the smile
broadening. ‘I’m thinking of writing a book about my experiences.’

She slouched over to the desk in front of the blackboard and picked up a textbook. ‘Have you seen these. They’re an insult
to the intelligence.’ She flicked through the pages. ‘Politically correct crap … little men in pinnies doing the washing up
and women in suits driving round in limos. Life’s just not like that, is it?’ She looked at Rachel appealingly.

‘Is Simon Jephson a no-hoper?’ While Felicity was in the mood for sharing confidences, Wesley thought he might as well take
advantage of the situation.

‘I can never work him out. He’d been a proper teacher once … at a school. Why he wants to work in a shit hole like this for
half the money, I’ve no idea.’

‘No doubt he has his reasons,’ said Wesley, glancing at Rachel. Obviously Simon Jephson’s past transgressions weren’t common
knowledge amongst his colleagues. ‘Have you any idea where we can find him?’

‘No idea. Ma Sawyer told us he’s taking some time off … personal reasons.’ She gave a knowing smile. ‘You’re after him, aren’t
you? What’s he done?’

‘What was his relationship with Kirsten Harbourn?’

Felicity’s eyes narrowed. ‘You think he killed her.’

Wesley smiled. ‘You’re jumping the gun a bit there. All we know is that Jephson and Kirsten were seen together. And now he
appears to have gone missing and …’

‘Missing? This gets better.’ Felicity’s eyes lit up. Hers was a life with little in the way of excitement and she was going
to make the most of it. She threw her smoking cigarette butt out of the window and lit another.

‘So what can you tell us?’

‘Now you come to mention it, they did hang around together a lot.’

‘And Françoise Decaux?’

‘Now that’s a girl who’s been acting as if she’s got the troubles of the world on her shoulders. I wasn’t surprised when she
didn’t turn up today. She’s been looking positively ill. In fact I thought she might have gone home to France.’

‘You’ve no idea what was wrong with her?’

Felicity gave a theatrical shrug. ‘Homesickness, glandular fever, boyfriend dumped her?’

‘She has a boyfriend?’

‘I heard she had someone local. But it could be anything.’ She thought for a few moments. ‘Ma Sawyer took quite an interest
in her … called her in to her office from time to time. And before you ask me, I’ve no idea why. She sometimes singles girls
out … always girls. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s a dyke,’ she added matter-of-factly.

‘Which girls?’

‘Couldn’t name names. Haven’t been taking that much notice.’ She blew out a plume of cigarette smoke and frowned, as though
trying to recall. ‘Berthe’s been called in a few times while she’s been in my lessons. Berthe Van Enk. She’s Dutch. Nice girl.’

‘Where can we find her?’

‘She was in the last lesson. She’ll be around somewhere. Just ask any of the kids.’

‘I’ve heard hints that Kirsten was worried about something that was going on here. Any idea what that could be?’ Wesley thought
that, while Felicity was in a cooperative mood, the question was worth asking.

But she looked blank. ‘I’m always bloody worried about what’s going on here. Kids ripped off … us hardly being paid enough
to keep body and soul together in this wicked capitalist society. But I wouldn’t have thought those things would have concerned
the likes of Kirsten. I didn’t know her well but I always got the impression she was a bit of a parasite. She was about to
walk up the aisle with some rich boyfriend and I can’t see that she’d have stayed here for long. I don’t want to be nasty.
Nil nisi mortuus bonum
and all that.’

Rachel looked at Wesley, puzzled. ‘Don’t speak ill of the dead,’ he said softly, by way of explanation. He addressed Felicity.
‘In a case of murder we need all the plain speaking we can get. So can you think of anything here that she might have been
worried about?’

Felicity threw another smoking cigarette stub out of the open window. ‘Who knows? Ma Sawyer might have been cooking the books.
Heaven knows the staff here see precious little of the fat
fees she charges the students. Or maybe she’s selling some of the girls to brothels.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘You
hear of that sort of thing, don’t you?’

‘What sort of background do these students have?’

‘I don’t ask them for their life stories. But as far as I know they’re from ordinary families … some are quite well off, I
think.’

‘Not vulnerable girls from the old Eastern Bloc, then?’

Felicity shook her head. ‘No way. They all seem to be from Western Europe: France, Spain, Italy, Germany, Belgium, Holland,
some from Scandinavia. Their parents send them over to improve their English. If only they knew.’ She looked at her watch.
‘Sorry, but much as I’ve enjoyed this chat, I’ve got another class in five minutes. Back to the grindstone.’

Wesley stood up. ‘Well, thanks for being so candid.’

‘It’s a pleasure.’ She returned to the blackboard and began to wipe it again, the motions angry, as though she was getting
rid of some pent-up frustration.

Wesley and Rachel left her to it.

Colin Bowman had told Neil that he’d give his definitive verdict on the bones from Cudleigh Farm the next day and Neil had
to be satisfied with, as he considered it to be, this second-class service. Wesley’s freshly murdered corpses, it seemed,
took priority over bones that appeared to be hundreds of years old, however suspicious the circumstances of their burial.
This was a fact of life, and Neil had to learn to live with it.

He returned to his dig at Tradington Hall frustrated. Now he had unearthed the bones, he was impatient to know all about them.
A scatter of demolition debris and a few clay pipes hardly compensated for a good story. And a young woman buried in a field,
laid out with reverence, wearing an expensive ring and locket had all the makings of a wonderful tale. On the advice of Tradmouth
Museum, he had taken the locket to the conservation lab in Exeter – it wasn’t worth taking the risk of attempting to prise
it open himself – and now it was just a matter of waiting.

He had just come out of the room in the stables that served as his site headquarters when he spotted the runner. He watched
the man jogging towards him in pale blue vest and shorts, his fair hair damp with perspiration and his limbs bronzed and muscular
as an idealised Greek statue, and felt slightly envious. Neil had always been too slothful to aspire to the body beautiful
and he reckoned a hard day’s work climbing in and out of trenches, digging hard earth with mattocks and lifting buckets of
soil kept the beer belly at bay. But the man approaching him moved with an elegance, an easy grace, that Neil couldn’t help
admiring. And to top it all, the man was classically good looking. Lucky sod.

The man raised a hand in casual greeting as he approached and, as if at his command, the strains of an Elizabethan madrigal
began to drift over the warm breeze towards the trench. Neil could see the singers some way away, sitting in a group beneath
the spreading branches of an ancient oak. The voices soared, weaving intricate patterns of music. A perfect sound for a perfect
day. Sometimes he felt Tradington Hall was part of a parallel universe. Not quite of this world.

‘Hi,’ the runner said, slowing down to a halt. ‘Found anything interesting?’

‘Bit of pottery; few clay pipes. But mostly it’s building debris. When a wing of the hall was demolished in the eighteenth
century I reckon they dumped a lot of it here. I’ve seen you here a few times.’

The man didn’t meet his eyes. ‘I try to come here most days. It’s amazing here. Can you feel the energy?’

Neil smiled to himself. ‘I know what you mean.’

‘We’re directly on a ley line here, you know. Amazing.’

‘Live in Neston, do you?’

The man started to jog on the spot. ‘Yeah. I’ve got a place by the river.’

‘My name’s Neil Watson, by the way.’ Neil held out his hand.

The man hesitated. ‘Er … James Creston. Pleased to meet you.’ His grip was firm but he still avoided eye contact. ‘Must be
off. See you again no doubt.’

As he sprinted off into the distance Neil watched him. He didn’t
know why, but he had the impression that there was something unreal about the man who called himself James Creston.

But then Tradington Hall was an unreal sort of place.

Berthe Van Enk wasn’t hard to find. Girls of her stature always stood out – or rather above – the crowd. Berthe was a statuesque
blonde with the broad, placid face of a Vermeer housewife. Being at least six feet tall, she made Wesley feel small.

A couple of German boys pointed her out politely in what sounded to Wesley in English far more perfect than that of most of
his colleagues, never mind the criminals they encountered daily. In fact he was a little puzzled as to why they needed to
attend a language college at all. Perhaps, he thought, they regarded it as an extended holiday. Or perhaps they had wealthy
parents who were anxious to get them out of their hair.

As far as Wesley could see, what Berthe had gained in height, she lacked in confidence. When he asked for a private word,
she began to come up with excuses. She had a lesson. She was meeting friends. The delaying tactics became more and more desperate.
She had to go to her room to get a book she’d forgotten. She’d told the police all she knew when they’d come round asking
questions the previous day. She couldn’t tell them anything. She didn’t know anything. She was late.

It was Rachel, using reassuring words of sisterly solidarity, who finally persuaded her to sit down for a few minutes on a
wooden bench at the front of the building and have a chat. But the girl sat on the edge of the seat, as if preparing to sprint
away.

Rachel did the talking. Woman to woman. ‘It’s OK, Berthe, there’s nothing to worry about. We’re just trying to find Françoise
Decaux, that’s all. We want to make sure she’s all right. You do know Françoise?’

The girl’s brief nod was wary.

‘When did you last see her?’

A shrug. Wesley had the feeling that this was going to be hard work.

‘Did Françoise have a boyfriend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know his name?’

Berthe shook her head. Rachel sensed she was holding something back.

‘Where did she meet him?’

‘In Morbay, I think.’

‘Do you know where we can find him?’

Berthe shook her head.

‘How do you get on with Mrs Sawyer?’ he asked, only to receive a look of incomprehension. He decided to change tack. ‘Do you
know if Françoise ever visited a guesthouse in Morbay called the Loch Henry Lodge? Did she ever mention that she was going
to meet a man there?’

There was no mistaking the brief flicker of recognition in Berthe’s eyes, swiftly suppressed. She shook her head.

‘You’ve been spending a lot of time with Mrs Sawyer in her office, haven’t you, Berthe? Any particular reason?’

She looked confused. ‘I’m sorry. I am not understanding.’ Then comprehension suddenly dawned. ‘I see Mrs Sawyer sometimes
because my father is late sending money.’ She began to play with a strand of hair. ‘Mrs Sawyer want me to call him. That is
all.’

Rachel smiled. The girl was a lousy liar. ‘Of course. Have you any idea where Françoise might be? We’re worried about her.
We’d like to make sure she’s safe.’

‘If I know this thing I tell you. But I do not know where she is. I must go now.’

Rachel and Wesley watched as she hurried away. They both knew she hadn’t been telling them the truth, or at least not the
entire truth.

But Wesley had no idea why an apparently law-abiding teenage girl from Holland should lie to the police. She hardly looked
the type to have anything to hide beyond, perhaps, the smoking of the occasional strange cigarette. But nice girls, in his
experience, can become embroiled with all sorts of unsavoury things, given the right – or the wrong – contacts. They would
keep an eye on Berthe Van Enk.

* * *

When they arrived back at Tradmouth Police Station, Wesley headed straight for Gerry Heffernan’s office. But the chief inspector
wasn’t at his desk. He had gone for a walk, Paul Johnson explained, in an effort to avoid Chief Superintendent Nutter. Somehow
this came as no surprise to Wesley. Gerry Heffernan’s idea of policing rarely coincided with that of CS Nutter whose passion
for form filling, management speak and government initiatives was legendary. The best that could be hoped for was an amicable
truce.