The Marriage Hearse (22 page)

It was just after midday and he hadn’t been expecting her. Perhaps she couldn’t resist him, he thought hopefully, fingering
the zip on his trousers. Or, more likely, perhaps she’d come to chuck him out. But it wasn’t safe to leave just yet. And he
didn’t know when it ever would be.

She stood outlined in the door. ‘They’ve made an arrest. Kirsten’s ex-boyfriend. The police rang Pete to tell him.’

‘Great. That’s good news.’

‘So you don’t have to worry now. You’re in the clear.’

Simon grunted dismissively. ‘I’ve learned not to overestimate the intelligence of your average police officer. Anyway, it’s
not the police I’m worried about. And the people who do worry me are still out there.’

Julia had heard all this before, that it wasn’t the police he was avoiding. But she hadn’t believed him. It was probably some
elaborate charade to make him appear more glamorous and interesting. But, apart from his looks and his performance in bed,
Simon Jephson’s lifestyle was about as unglamorous as you can get.

‘OK, who are these people?’ She sat down on the black leather sofa and waited.

‘There’s something going on at the college. Kirsten found out about it. That’s why I thought they’d killed her.’

This caught Julia’s interest. ‘What do you mean?’

He didn’t answer her question. ‘Best that you don’t know. The college principal’s involved and her husband organises it. He
has links with gang masters who employ foreign workers to work in agriculture. I’ve met him. He seems OK, just an ordinary
businessman. He’s even involved in amateur dramatics, would you believe? Plays the upright citizen to perfection. But, from
what I’ve heard, I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of him. And he has friends in some pretty low places.’

‘So you thought they’d killed Kirsten because of what she knew.’

‘That’s right. Kirsten trusted me. Told me quite a few little secrets.’

Julia suddenly felt uncomfortable. ‘Like what?’

He hesitated. ‘Like a certain member of your family not being quite what they seem.’

‘What do you mean?’ The way he’d said it, made her uncomfortable.

He shrugged. ‘Nothing. Forget it. That girl from the college was on the local news this morning. Françoise. I taught her.
Nice kid. She’s still missing and I don’t think she’ll be found alive. That’s
how dangerous they are. Now you know why I wanted to lie low after Kirsten was killed.’

‘Never mind that. What did you mean about a member of my family?’

‘Nothing. I said forget it.’

‘Tell me.’

He leaned over and whispered in her ear.

‘That’s rubbish,’ she snapped. ‘Do you think I don’t know my own brother?’

‘I’m only repeating what Kirsten told me.’

Julia looked at him in disgust. ‘You can’t stay here.’

‘Don’t worry. Now I’m not in the frame for Kirsten’s murder, I’ve decided to go to the police with what I know.’

Julia slammed the door as she left the flat. There was no way she was going to allow her family to be dragged into Simon’s
little games. They’d been through enough already.

Joyce Barnes had identified the body of Abdul Ahmed. He was definitely the man she’d joined in matrimony to Françoise Decaux.
But her efforts had been in vain – the marriage hadn’t lasted the week.

And now Françoise – their one and only suspect in the case – was missing. Her passport, according to Rachel, was still in
her drawer so she’d not returned home to France. She was in hiding somewhere and it was about time they made a serious effort
to find her.

The books of the Morbay Language College had already been examined by a couple of officers from the Fraud Squad and they’d
found nothing untoward. Whatever was going on there probably didn’t go through the books and Wesley thought it might be better
to ask the Vice Squad to start sniffing around. There was something there, he was sure. It was just a matter of finding it.

Wesley looked at his watch. He’d give the celebrations in the Fisherman’s Arms a miss, even though Rachel had asked him specifically
whether he was going. He wanted to get home to Pam and the children. And besides, he wasn’t altogether convinced that Stuart
Richter was their man.

He made his way home, walking up the steep streets. When the
weather was good he often left his car at home and walked to the police station, aware of his need to exercise. Tradmouth’s
seagulls were in full cry, attracted by the remains of the tourists’ takeaways and they wheeled about as Wesley felt the sunshine,
warm on his back. It was a lovely day. The same sort of day that Kirsten Harbourn had chosen for her wedding. But that wedding
had never happened. All the sunshine, all the arrangements, had been for nothing.

Stuart Richter was supposed to have walked in on her while she was dressing. Then he strangled the life out of her with the
lamp flex. But Colin Bowman said she hadn’t been strangled with the flex. Something much softer, much wider had killed her
… something like a scarf.

Wesley stopped suddenly. Stuart Richter would hardly have strangled her with one thing then swap it for something else. He
would have no reason to do something like that. The poor, crazed pathetic man who had stalked his
belle dame sans merci
hadn’t been lying when he had said he had found her dead and had knelt by the bed to kiss her lifeless corpse. Gerry Heffernan’s
celebrations in the Fisherman’s Arms were premature. Kirsten Harbourn’s killer was still at large.

With this depressing thought spinning in his head, Wesley let himself into his house. He could hear voices in the living room
so he called out a greeting. Pam hurried out to greet him, Amelia in her arms and Michael trotting earnestly by her side.
He took the little boy in his arms and the child’s serious expression turned to laughter.

‘Neil’s here,’ Pam announced. ‘I invited him to stay for something to eat. Didn’t know what time you’d be home,’ she added
with a hint of reproach.

‘We’ve charged someone with Kirsten Harbourn’s murder. The rest of them have gone to the Fisherman’s Arms to celebrate. But
I thought I’d come home.’

‘What do you want? A medal?’

Wesley took a step back as though he’d been slapped.

‘I’m sorry,’ Pam muttered, turning away.

‘Maritia back yet?’

‘No.’

‘How was the last day at school?’

The corners of Pam’s mouth twitched upwards in a smile. ‘Good. I’m a lady of leisure for six weeks. Perhaps the criminals
will decide to take a holiday too and I’ll see a bit more of you.’

The scenario she described was about as likely as world peace suddenly breaking out. A nice thought but hardly likely in the
foreseeable future. He decided that the subject of his absences was a sensitive one, best to avoid. And that gossip might
distract her from his failings as a husband. ‘Did I tell you I think Gerry’s got himself a lady friend? She’s a registrar
in Morbay. She seems nice.’

‘It’s about time he found someone. I was thinking of fixing him up with my mother but …’

Wesley shook his head. ‘Gerry’s hardly her type.’ The words ‘I wouldn’t inflict Della on my worst enemy,’ sprung to his mind
but he knew better than to say it.

‘She rang earlier. She was in a foul mood … got a parking ticket in Morbay. Blaming the police as usual.’

‘As usual,’ Wesley echoed, rolling his eyes to heaven. ‘One of our DCs got one too. The traffic wardens must have decided
to have their annual picnic in Morbay this year,’ he grinned.

When they entered the living room they found Neil slumped on the sofa, his feet up on the coffee table. As usual he had made
himself completely at home.

As soon as he spotted Wesley, he raised a lazy hand in greeting. ‘I’ve got some news that might interest you.’

‘What’s that?’ Wesley asked, sitting down.

‘I’ve been researching the history of Cudleigh Farm. You know … where Big Eddie found that skeleton.’

‘I remember.’

‘I think I’ve solved the puzzle. Do you know this play that’s on at Tradington Hall,
The Fair Wife of Padua
?’

Wesley nodded.

‘A Bartholomew Strong owned the farm in those days and his younger son was called Ralph. If it’s the same Ralph Strong who
wrote the play he might have killed the girl and run away to London to avoid justice.’

Wesley shrugged. It sounded as likely a scenario as any.

‘Got your tickets for the play yet?’

‘It’s on my list of things to do,’ said Pam, mildly irritated with Neil for not realising she’d been working. ‘Maritia and
Mark want to come. And Jonathan. He’s Mark’s best man.’

‘I’m going with Annabel,’ Neil announced.

Wesley and Pam exchanged glances. They hadn’t heard Annabel’s name before.

‘She works in the archives in Exeter … helped me with my Cudleigh Farm research.’ He grinned. ‘Purely platonic.’

‘Rachel says the rehearsals are a bit of a disaster.’

Pam’s expression turned to one of mild disapproval as soon as Rachel’s name was mentioned. ‘People always say that.’

The doorbell rang and Pam rushed to answer it. Maritia entered the living room first, paint spattered and laughing. Mark followed
close behind. The new Vicar of Belsham was a tall, good-looking, dark-haired young man with an infectious smile. In the days
of Jane Austen he would have quickened the heart of every spinster in his parish. But nowadays there was more to being a clergyman
than swilling tea with the local gentry. Before entering the church Mark, like Maritia an Oxford graduate, had briefly joined
the Thames Valley Police and, as a result, he was able to sympathise with Wesley’s problems.

‘By the way, Pam, before I forget … Jonathan wants a ticket for the play,’ said Mark.

‘Good.’ Pam turned her head, aware that Maritia was watching her and she felt herself blushing as she led the way into the
living room.

When she’d introduced Mark and Maritia to Neil, Wesley put the children to bed. Doing his bit. And by the time the evening
was over, Pam found that she was looking forward to seeing
The Fair Wife of Padua
more than she’d looked forward to anything for a long time.

Françoise had taken care to put a piece of the sacking she’d found on the floor against the window before she attempted to
break it. He had just been to bring her some food and he wouldn’t return
until the next evening. She had twenty-three hours.

The glass was almost opaque with the grime of decades. She’d stared at it in despair. The panes were small. Even if she broke
them all, the wooden bars between would hamper her escape. But when she’d pushed at the wood she’d found that it moved slightly
and she realised it was rotten. Her hope refreshed, she began work, first breaking the glass, then the wood. The noise sounded
like explosions in the dark silence and after each crash she waited to see if anybody had come to investigate. But there was
no living creature within earshot apart from a herd of sheep in a nearby field. And sheep lack the suspicion necessary for
guarding prisoners.

Eventually the window yielded to her efforts and there was a crash as the final piece of rotten wood hit the cobbled yard.
Unfortunately her prison cell was on the first floor of the building, which meant there was a considerable drop from the window.
There was, however an ancient, cast-iron drainpipe just within reach. Françoise looked down at the mini skirt she was wearing
and, deciding that it would impede her movement, hitched it up to her bottom before placing a piece of folded sacking on the
jagged ledge and climbing carefully out of the window.

Her heart beat rapidly as she dangled by her fingertips over the drop, not sure what her next move should be. Her hands were
starting to hurt as the sharp edge of the bricks dug into the flesh. She could see the drainpipe eighteen inches to her right
but she wasn’t sure how to grab hold of it. In the end she closed her eyes and let go of the windowsill with her right hand,
grabbing the air until she could feel the cold iron of the drainpipe. She hugged it and allowed her left hand to join her
right. She’d made it. Now all she had to do was climb down.

As she began her slow descent she felt the pipe jerk. It was falling away from the wall slowly, like a felled tree. She held
on. This was it. Freedom or death.

Luckily the pipe continued its slow descent and Françoise was lowered to the ground. But she landed awkwardly, twisting her
left ankle, and, as she limped away in pain, she started to panic. As there was hardly any moon, she couldn’t see a thing.
But with
a strength born of desperation she stumbled on, doing her best to ignore the sharp pain in her ankle. Over the cobbles. Over
the rutted trackway and on to the narrow lane.

She had no idea where she was but she knew she had to reach a telephone. She had to call Berthe. Berthe would know what to
do. She always did.

A
CT
2 S
CENE
3

C
LAUDIO
My daughter, Clara, is my jewel, good sir, and I wish for her and for your son the bliss that blessed her dear dead
mother and myself. But now I take my leave. I have affairs in Padua that are most pressing
.

D
UKE
Then farewell, good Claudio
.

(Exeunt Claudio)

D
UKE
But soft, this talk of love doth turn my mind to she who once did make my heart full glad. A maid most fair who first
did spurn the sin I urged her to, for I was wed to Juliana then and fell unto temptation like Adam to the apple. Oh wrong
that was the cause of so much grief to that sweet lady and indeed to me, that when her father did take her unto Pisa, away
from lust’s dark eye, I wept yet I rejoiced to end my sin. I see her now in my far memory. And yet I must forget and make
these thoughts to fly
.

Trish Walton was surprised to see Simon Jephson sitting in the station foyer, waiting like a nervous schoolboy summoned to
the headmaster’s study. The desk sergeant on duty had called the CID office to say that someone wanted to speak to the officer
in charge of the enquiry into the Morbay Language College, but Trish hadn’t expected Jephson to turn up voluntarily. After
all, she thought as she regarded him with distaste, he was on the sex offenders’ register.

She said nothing as she led the way to the interview room. When he tried to make conversation she gave curt, monosyllabic
replies. She had nothing to say to a man like Jephson, a man who’d take advantage of vulnerable young girls. He disgusted
her.

She was relieved when Chief Inspector Heffernan arrived with Inspector Peterson at his side. She didn’t want to spend any
more time in Jephson’s company than was absolutely necessary. She sat on the plastic chair near the door and listened intently.

‘Right, Mr Jephson.’ Heffernan rubbed his hands together as if he was about to tuck in to a tasty meal. ‘We’ve been looking
for you. Where have you been?’

‘Staying with a friend. I was upset about Kirsten’s death so I thought I’d take some time off.’

‘You didn’t think to tell your employer, Mrs Sawyer, about your little holiday,’ Wesley observed.

‘Er … no. She isn’t the most sympathetic woman I’ve ever come across. In fact I’ve always found her downright unpleasant.’

Wesley nodded. He’d had the same impression of Carla Sawyer himself. ‘You do know we’ve charged someone with Kirsten Harbourn’s
murder?’

‘Yes.’

‘Think we’ve got the right man? Did she mention this Stuart Richter to you during one of your little tête-à-têtes? We know
you used to call and see her at the cottage.’

‘Yes, I did. We were friends. She told me he was stalking her. Used to send her flowers and presents.’

‘Was she frightened of him?’

‘I never got that impression. I think she regarded him as more of a nuisance. But I know she was afraid he might do something
to disrupt the wedding.’

‘Well he did, didn’t he?’ Heffernan said. ‘He strangled the bride … can’t get more disruptive than that.’

‘Did she ever mention the builder who was working on her cottage? Mike Dellingpole his name is.’

Simon smiled. ‘Yeah. She said she’d had a bit of a fling with him. Pre-wedding madness, she called it.’

‘You knew Kirsten pretty well then? She confided in you?’

‘Suppose so.’

‘Did you fancy her? Did you try and get her into bed?’ Heffernan believed in coming to the point.

‘No. I didn’t fancy her. She wasn’t my type. Perhaps that’s why she trusted me. And of course I couldn’t really piss in my
own backyard, could I?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m … er … friendly with Peter Creston’s sister, Julia.’

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. It was a small world.

‘Not that there was much love lost between Julia and Kirsten,’ Simon continued. ‘They couldn’t stand each other. But I’m not
really here to talk about Kirsten. You’ve got the man who killed her already. I’m here to give you some information.’

Wesley noticed that Trish, sitting by the door, had leaned forward, suddenly interested. ‘What information?’

‘The college. There’s something going on there you should know about.’ He looked from one man to the other, waiting for a
reaction. When he didn’t get one he carried on. ‘I started to notice that girls were disappearing for a couple of days at
a time with no explanation. Then they’d come back and start acquiring flashy jewellery and expensive clothes. It kept happening,
always to different girls. And when they came back, they looked … I don’t know … secretive. As if they’d been up to something.
I started to wonder what was going on and I mentioned it to Kirsten because she worked in Ma Sawyer’s office. Kirsten said
she’d keep her eyes and ears open. She even searched Ma’s desk one day while I kept watch outside.’ He smiled ‘I think Kirsten
found it quite exciting. She said it was like something out of a spy movie.’

‘What did she find?’ Heffernan was growing impatient.

‘A diary she hadn’t seen before with names and appointments. The name of one of the girls at the college and then some foreign
name next to a time and a place. Different places. Bristol, Dorchester, Oxford … all over the place. I couldn’t think what
it meant. Kirsten copied them out and when I looked at them I started to realise that the girls whose names were there had
disappeared around those dates and had come back with money.’

Wesley sat forward. ‘Françoise Decaux’s missing.’

Jephson frowned. ‘I know Françoise. She’s a nice girl.’

‘She married an Iraqi national called Abdul Ahmed last Saturday. On Monday he was found dead. Murdered.’

Jephson swore softly under his breath.

‘Any ideas?’ Wesley asked, inclining his head expectantly.

‘Ma Sawyer. It must be connected to whatever scam she’s running. Maybe this bloke made waves.’

‘And Françoise knew too much.’ The rest was left unsaid.

‘So what was the scam?’

Jephson shook his head. ‘That’s it, I don’t know. One theory is that the girls are being put on the game. They’ve got appointments
with clients in these places and …’

‘Perhaps you should have reported your suspicions.’

‘I had no proof. It was all guesswork.’

‘Perhaps Kirsten got proof. Perhaps someone had to shut her up.’

‘Perhaps.’

Wesley stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr Jephson, you’ve been very helpful. We may want to talk to you again. Can you make sure we
have your address?’

‘Yeah. Sure.’

‘Did you really think we suspected you of killing Kirsten?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You turn up now when we’ve charged someone. Did you think the little incident with that girl in Nottingham would have made
you a suspect?’

When Simon Jephson’s face turned bright red, Wesley knew his suspicions had been right.

‘I was innocent, Inspector. The girl lied. I’d told her off the previous week – put her in detention. She was getting her
revenge.’

But Wesley ignored him. ‘I’d like another chat sometime … about Kirsten. Don’t forget to give DC Walton the address where
we can find you.’

Wesley swept from the room with Heffernan in tow, leaving Trish with a sour expression on her face as she took the witness’s
details.

Peter Creston pulled up outside Honey Cottage and stared at the building that had once been the focus of all his hopes. There
was no longer a policeman stationed outside. But there was a small
shrine of fading flowers left at the front door by the sympathetic or the ghoulish.

The forensic team had done their bit. The place had been taken apart and examined in minute detail; every hair and flake of
dead skin had been processed and analysed. And every potential witness had been interviewed.

Even the press had moved on to feed off fresh carrion. Kirsten’s murder was old news now and would remain so until Stuart
Richter’s trial raked the whole thing up again. But that was a long way off. The mills of the law grind exceedingly slowly.

This was the first time he had gone back there alone and, as he climbed out of his car, he experienced a strong reluctance
to proceed any further. Honey Cottage belonged to a different part of his life. A happy, hopeful time. A time that wouldn’t
come again.

He forced himself to open the wooden gate and walk up the path. But when he reached the front door, he stopped, reluctant
to put the key in the lock and face the reality of the empty house where his fiancée had died, praying that something would
stop him having to go in there and see the aftermath of death.

Then, just as he was about to open the door, his prayer was answered. He heard a sound behind him. Someone was there, calling
his name. He turned round to see an elderly lady in carpet slippers bearing down on him.

‘I saw your car. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea, dear?’

Peter Creston took a deep breath. ‘Thank you, Mrs Lear. That’s very kind of you.’ He hesitated, wondering whether it was wise
to put off entering the house any longer. But he felt he needed the company of another human being, even if it meant listening
to Mrs Lear’s meanderings.

He followed her to her cottage where she twittered and fussed over putting the kettle on. He hoped she wouldn’t produce her
infamous scones which were invariably tough and stale. He and Kirsten had discovered early on that Mrs Lear was no Delia Smith – Kirsten used to snigger about it behind the old woman’s back. The thought of Kirsten made his heart lurch. She had sat beside
him on Mrs Lear’s sofa, pulling faces at the old lady’s back and yawning theatrically as she rambled on about past local
events while Peter made a show of listening politely. There had been times when Kirsten’s unkindness had irritated him. But
fresh love is blind to faults … until a few years of marriage magnifies them to the point where they dwarf virtues.

‘I was wondering whether I should ring the police to tell them.’

‘Tell them what, Mrs Lear?’ Peter had allowed her to talk
but he had been wrapped up in his own thoughts so he hadn’t been paying attention to what she was saying.

‘The policemen who came were quite nice but I wouldn’t really say they were the sort you could talk to and I got rather flustered … couldn’t remember what day I saw him. And I would have felt silly if I’d got things wrong.’

‘Got what wrong?’

‘I thought I saw the runner at the cottage that morning, the fair-haired young man who sometimes called in. He was driving
a red car … but I might have been mistaken. Just as the phone rang – it was my friend, Mrs Hodges – a red car parked outside
Honey Cottage. I’m sure it was the runner who got out but then I went into the back to answer the phone and … Of course the
car had gone by the time I looked out. Mrs Hodges does like to talk.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But I don’t suppose it matters
now, does it? They’ve arrested the man who killed poor Kirsten. It must be a great relief to you to know they’ve caught him.’

‘Yes. Yes it is,’ Peter said unconvincingly before taking a sip of tea.

‘They should bring back hanging, that’s what I say.’

‘Yes.’ Peter found that he was desperate to change the subject. So many people thought he’d only want to talk about Kirsten.
But for the first time since her death, he realised that life went on. He had to return to the real world, however much it
hurt.

He put his cup down, still half full. ‘I really have to go, I’m afraid. I need some things from the cottage then I’m going
into work.’

She made sympathetic noises, questioning the wisdom of
returning to normality so soon after his ordeal. But eventually he managed to get away, steeling himself to face the empty
house.

He half walked, half ran down the lane. Mrs Lear was probably getting forgetful, which was only to be expected at her age.
He hadn’t told her that the runner she’d seen was his brother, James, who ran this way to the grounds of Tradington Hall to
take his daily exercise. Any explanation would have complicated matters and kept him there longer than he intended to stay.

But surely James couldn’t have been there on the day of Kirsten’s murder. He would have been getting ready for the wedding
with the rest of the family, changing into his morning suit and preparing his best man’s speech. Or had he gone out on some
unspecified errand? Peter had been too preoccupied to notice.

Perhaps he should go back to Mrs Lear’s and ask her not to call the police. She had probably got the days mixed up. And the
last thing he wanted was for the police to come round bothering his family again.

Wesley Peterson was looking rather smug as he stepped into Gerry Heffernan’s office. The phone calls had paid off. At last
he knew the truth.

‘You look pleased with yourself.’

‘I must admit I am.’ He assumed a serene look that Heffernan found rather irritating.

‘So what’s going on?’ the chief inspector asked. ‘Are the girls from the college on the game or what?’

Wesley grinned. ‘No. I’ve been making some phone calls. Sean Sawyer has connections with gang masters who employ foreign workers
on farms and in food-processing factories. Sawyer’s been running a scam. His legitimate business has a rather lucrative sideline.
He’s running a bogus marriage racket. A few of the foreign workers manage to get the money together to pay to marry an EU
citizen which gives them the right to live here legally. Sawyer and his wife have been using some of her students as brides.
The men pay through the nose and the girls get paid a couple of thousand to go through with the ceremony. Sawyer no doubt
arranges a
quick divorce as soon as is legally possible … but by then the men have the right to remain here.’

‘Why didn’t we think of that?’

‘Well, normally, bogus marriages take place in big cities and the brides are hardened professionals. But they’ve been booking
the ceremonies in small registry offices in different parts of the country to allay suspicion. That’s what the diary entries
are for. They’re wedding dates. They were clever. Sawyer had access to a lot of willing brides, young students desperate for
money, all with bona fide EU passports. And they all just happen to be students at the Morbay Language College. Surprise surprise.’