The Marriage Hearse (17 page)

She suddenly had Gerry Heffernan’s attention. ‘It certainly is, love,’ he said before making for the car.

As far as Rachel Tracey was concerned, builders who tried their luck with lone women were pretty low down on the evolutionary
ladder. She decided to take DC Paul Johnson with her to see Mike Dellingpole. She had always thought of Paul as a rather unthreatening,
even asexual young man, more interested in his athletics than putting notches on his bedposts, and she was sure that he would
be almost as disapproving of Dellingpole’s predatory behaviour as she was.

Like many builders, Dellingpole wasn’t an easy man to track down. In the end she had run him to ground at a large detached
house on the outskirts of Morbay where he was knocking down the wall between a dining room and kitchen for the new owners
who preferred open-plan living.

He didn’t look pleased to see them. He was working, he explained. And besides, he didn’t know what Kirsten Harbourn’s death
had to do with him. He’d only done some building work for her – built a kitchen extension and fitted a new bathroom. Her murder,
though regrettable, was none of his concern, he said … or words to that effect. But Rachel didn’t believe a word of it.

After a few minutes she felt she had established dominance by assuming a calm authority and insisting that they needed a statement
from him about his dealings with the dead woman. Once he had realised she was no pushover, she thought, she’d have him eating
out of her hand. And she was right. All of a sudden Dellingpole, realising he was on a losing streak, crumbled and told the
young lad who was labouring for him to go and take another tea break.

Rachel perched on a dusty kitchen stool and studied the man in question. There was no doubt that he was good looking but,
unfortunately, he was well aware of his appeal to the opposite sex. He was a lot younger than Rachel had imagined and wore
his
bleached blond hair fairly long. He had a wide mouth that turned up slightly at the edges, giving him a look of permanent
amusement but, above all, he had charm. Rachel could feel it beamed in her direction like the heat from a sun lamp.

‘We’ve been told you were friendly with Kirsten Harbourn,’ she said sweetly, avoiding Dellingpole’s dark brown eyes.

‘She was a friendly sort of person.’ He grinned. ‘And she made a good cup of tea.’

‘We’ve heard you wanted more than tea.’

Dellingpole raised his eyebrows, giving him a look of wide-eyed innocence. ‘You mean biscuits?’ He smiled. ‘Look, you can’t
blame a man for reacting to the signals. And believe me, she was giving out more signals than the Mor Point lighthouse. Brushing
against me, unbuttoning her shirt. She was up for it.’

‘That’s not what her friend said.’

‘Well, if she thought there was any chance it’d get back to the fiancé, she had to put herself in the clear, didn’t she? They
call it spin.’ Another cheeky lad grin.

‘So you don’t deny making a pass at her?’

‘I tested the waters. I know when I’m being teased and Kirsten was a tease.’ He looked suddenly solemn. ‘Look, I don’t want
to speak ill of the dead and all that, but she liked playing games.’ He glanced at Paul Johnson, as if for support. ‘Some
women do. If you don’t believe me, ask Den.’ He saw that Rachel looked confused. ‘That’s the guy who does electrical work
for me … when he’s not mooning over some foreign bird.’ He raised his eyes to heaven as though to say that he would never
let himself be captured in love’s cage. ‘He was there some of the time. He’d tell you.’

‘Where can we find him?’

Mike Dellingpole picked up a dusty filofax that was lying by his mobile phone on what was left of the kitchen worktop. He
consulted a business card and wrote something down on the back of a scrap of wallpaper. ‘There you are. Den Liston. His address
and mobile number.’

Rachel folded the paper carefully and put it in her handbag before asking her next question. ‘Did you sleep with Kirsten Harbourn?’

Dellingpole hesitated, blushing a little. ‘Like I said before, she was up for it. She didn’t need much persuading, believe
me.’

Rachel shifted on her stool. She didn’t feel inclined to believe a word that this would-be West Country Casanova said. But
on the other hand some inner voice told her he was telling the truth as he saw it. And if he was telling the truth, she was
seeing a whole new side of Kirsten Harbourn.

‘How long did your affair go on?’

‘It was hardly an affair.’ He grinned. ‘More an itch that needed scratching. She was having a bit of a fling before her wedding.
It’s not unheard of, you know.’ He looked at Rachel enquiringly.

‘Did Kirsten have any visitors while you were working at the cottage?’

Dellingpole looked rather relieved at the change of question. ‘Yeah. She did, as a matter of fact.’

Rachel looked at him expectantly. ‘Who were they?’

He glanced at Paul who had his notebook at the ready. ‘There was Little Peter Rabbit of course.’

‘Little Peter Rabbit?’

‘Sorry. Her fiancé, Peter. The accountant. We talked about the plans but he wasn’t there much while I was actually doing the
work.’

‘Could he have suspected there was anything between you and Kirsten?’

‘It’s my guess he’d have believed anything she told him.’

‘Any other visitors?’

‘Well, we weren’t exactly introduced but I know one of them was a mate of hers called Marion. Face like the back of a bus.
And then there was Kirsten’s mum.’ He closed his eyes, making a great effort to remember. ‘There was a bloke she called Simon.
She said he worked with her. And there was a bloke in running gear who called a few times … usually when Peter wasn’t there,’
he said with heavy innuendo. ‘Now they used to disappear and close the door behind them. Told you she was no angel, didn’t
I?’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘Fair hair. Wiry. Very fit. Tallish. I was just there to build the extension. I wasn’t paid to spy on her visitors.’

Rachel and Paul exchanged looks. The runner had been mentioned before. And it was about time they found out who he was.

‘There was something else and all. This bloke in a blue car used to park outside sometimes like he was watching the place.
I mentioned it to her … to Kirsten … and she seemed a bit jumpy. Well, she would, wouldn’t she? I offered to go and sort him
out for her …’

‘Really?’ said Rachel softly, suspecting that this knight in shining armour would have wanted paying in kind. ‘Did she take
you up on your offer?’

Dellingpole shook his head.

‘We’ve identified the blue car. An ex-boyfriend hired a private eye to watch her.’

Dellingpole gave a low whistle. ‘Bloody hell. Hope he didn’t report back on what I was up to.’

‘Any other visitors?’

There was a crash outside and the builder jumped up. ‘Better go and see what Wayne’s up to. He’s new,’ he added meaningfully.

‘Hang on,’ Rachel put out a hand and touched his bare arm. She noticed he had a tattoo, a snake peeping out from the sleeve
of his white T-shirt. She drew her hand away quickly and her eyes met his. He looked amused, perhaps even a little contemptuous.
‘You didn’t answer my question. Was there anyone else?’

‘Sorry, Detective Sergeant. Can’t think of anyone. But that doesn’t mean someone didn’t come when I wasn’t there. Like I said,
Kirsten was a friendly lady.’ He watched Rachel’s face, teasing, holding something back, like a boy who snatches a girl’s
bag in the playground and dangles it in front of her, daring her to claim it.

She took up the challenge. ‘There is something else, isn’t there? Something you’ve not told me.’

He shrugged his shoulders. It would do no harm to throw her a morsel, for now. ‘I overheard her talking on the phone. Someone
called Stuart. Told him to leave her alone. Said she was frightened of him and she never wanted to see him again.’

‘Was this just the once?’

‘Oh no. Happened a few times. She said it was someone who wouldn’t take no for an answer.’

‘Did she say anything else about him?’

‘No. Is that the one who hired the private eye?’

Before Rachel could ask any more questions, Wayne burst in, holding a piece of plastic pipe. He stared vacantly at Mike Dellingpole,
as though uncertain what to do.

‘It’s been nice talking to you, Detective Sergeant Tracey, but there’s things I should be seeing to.’ The words were heavy
with meaning, as he focused his eyes on hers.

‘We’ll need you to make a statement, sir,’ said Paul Johnson as he stood up.

But Mike ignored him and kept his eyes fixed on Rachel. ‘I’m sure the detective sergeant will help me out with that. If you
give me your number, I’ll be in touch.’

Rachel handed him her card, annoyed that her hand seemed to be shaking.

The drive to Exeter had been worth it. The conservation lab had done a wonderful job with the locket from Cudleigh Farm. It
had been x-rayed and cleaned carefully and now it gleamed as brightly as any piece in a jeweller’s window and the young woman
at the lab had assured him the mechanism was in remarkable condition, considering its age – which she estimated could be four
or five hundred years – so Neil decided to risk opening in up to take a look inside.

‘Rather nice, isn’t it?’

Neil turned his head and saw Dr Colin Bowman looking over his shoulder at the oval lump of hollow gold, the size of a flattened
hen’s egg.

‘She was buried with it, this and the ring I showed you.’

‘Wasn’t murdered in the course of a robbery then.’

‘Murdered? You know how she died?’

‘Well, she’s been in the ground a very long time but I did find something that points to murder. Want to come and have a look?’

Neil nodded. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’

Colin laughed. ‘Well, not many people like hanging around mortuaries in their spare time.’

He led the way into a white-tiled room where the skeleton from the lower meadow at Cudleigh Farm was laid out; a collection
of dirty cream bones on a crisp white sheet. She had been cleaned up considerably since Neil had last met her and somehow
she looked smaller, more delicate, in her new temporary resting place. A girl. A young woman. Cut down when life should have
just begun. Neil had encountered many skeletons in the course of his career but somehow this one affected him more than all
the others.

‘I can’t say for certain but I think she might have been strangled,’ said Colin cheerfully. ‘The hyoid bone’s fractured. See.’
He pointed to a miniscule bone in the skeleton’s neck. Neil didn’t fancy looking too closely: he’d take Colin’s word for it.

‘She was murdered then?’

‘I think so. But I don’t think we need trouble Wesley about it.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure she’s been buried for centuries. And
with the things you found with her …’

Neil stared at the locket. ‘The people at the conservation lab said that there’s an inscription inside but I haven’t opened
it up yet. Would you do the honours?’ He handed the locket to Colin who looked delighted with his new responsibility.

Colin Bowman had no difficulty prising open the locket even though the hinge was still stiff after centuries of idleness.
Neil looked on as the pathologist held the open jewel in his long, delicate fingers. The gold interior gleamed like a full
moon on a clear night. But there was something disturbing the pure reflection of light. Something engraved. Hard to make out.

‘We need a magnifying glass,’ said Colin. ‘I have one in my office.’

He led the way out of the swing door and down the corridor. On the way, they passed a man in blue wheeling a trolley. Neil
averted his eyes from the shrouded shape that had once been a human being, now concealed by a sheet on his or her journey
to the refrigerated drawers where Colin’s patients rested, more patient than the living because they had no choice.

Colin provided tea. Neil needed it. Eventually the magnifying glass was run to ground at the back of a desk drawer and the
locket was opened once more.

Colin handed the locket and magnifying glass to Neil. His eyesight was better and, besides, he was the one who had found the
thing. He hovered near the archaeologist’s shoulder awaiting the verdict.

Neil read slowly. ‘I pledge to thee, sweet maid, the best of love.’

Neil stared at the engraving, reading it through to himself again. ‘I don’t think you’d get very far using that as a chat-up
line today. He was obviously trying to sweet-talk her into bed. Gave her a locket to help things along.’ He grinned. ‘Times
don’t change much.’

Colin chuckled. ‘You have a very cynical mind, Neil. My wife would consider it very romantic, I’m sure. I think Wesley might
be interested in seeing the locket, don’t you? I have to contact him anyway to tell him the good news about your skeleton’s
age so I’ll mention it.’

‘Mmm. It’ll be a weight off his mind what with this murdered bride.’

‘And the other one. The man stabbed to death in Morbay. It never rains but it pours.’

‘I’ll call Wes if you like, Colin. Save you a job.’

‘Thanks,’ said Colin, his eyes fixed on the locket lying in the palm of Neil’s hand.

Petula. Somehow the name didn’t seem to fit the woman. She looked considerably younger than Theresa Harbourn, the woman she’d
supplanted, but whether this was a result of nature or assiduous efforts in clinics and beauty parlours, Wesley couldn’t tell.

She and Richard Harbourn lived in a cramped former council semi on the fringe of a small village near Neston. The grounds
of Tradington Hall lay between it and Kirsten’s cottage and Wesley wondered if Kirsten’s choice of location had been influenced
by its proximity to her father’s house. Perhaps father and daughter had been closer than Theresa had led them to believe.

Wesley couldn’t help comparing the semi to Theresa’s place in Stoke Raphael. He suspected Richard Harbourn had allowed his
ex-wife to keep the lioness’s share in the divorce settlement and
he wondered how Petula felt about this act of charity … or conscience.

Gerry Heffernan tried to keep his eyes off the legs revealed by Petula’s too short skirt as she invited them to sit. Her shoulder-length
hair had been bleached to a shade of pale straw and her low-cut top revealed a generous cleavage. She missed perfection by
a few bulges around the midriff but the exercise bike gracing the far corner of the small room indicated that she hadn’t given
up just yet.