The Marriage Hearse (28 page)

Rachel sighed. Wesley was making unnecessary work. But he was her superior. She’d carry on eliminating possibilities till
kingdom come if that’s what he really wanted.

‘How are the rehearsals going?’

‘Fine. Sean Sawyer’s understudy’s quite good. And he knows his lines. Think you’ll be up to seeing the performance?’

‘Try and stop me.’

Rachel gathered her belongings. It was time to go. ‘Take care,’ she said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

Traffic wardens weren’t DC Darren Wentworth’s favourite people and the sight of a parking ticket sitting smugly in a plastic
bag on a car windscreen was enough to raise his blood pressure to dangerous levels.

But even traffic wardens could play their part in the great scheme of things and Darren felt inclined to set aside his natural
aversion for once and shake this particular traffic warden by the hand.

He and two uniformed officers had been given the task of searching Den Liston’s place from top to bottom. He would have preferred
being alone there with Trish Walton but perhaps it was
for the best that he wasn’t put in the way of temptation: he was a married man.

There was no sign of the knife that had killed Abdul Ahmed, but then Liston could have disposed of it anywhere. He’d had plenty
of time. But the order from DCI Heffernan to keep a lookout for a parking ticket had paid off. Darren had discovered that
Den Liston’s vehicle had been parked illegally in a street very near to the Loch Henry Lodge Guesthouse on the day in question.

He placed the precious document in a plastic evidence bag, looking forward to seeing the chief inspector’s chubby face light
up when he produced it.

Something like this could do his promotion prospects no harm whatsoever.

Rachel drove up to Exeter with Steve Carstairs. He wasn’t normally her companion of choice but the DCI had asked Trish to
have another word with Françoise Decaux. The woman’s touch, he claimed, might loosen her tongue. And besides, Trish had a
smattering of French which might make Françoise feel more comfortable. Rachel doubted whether this was true but who was she,
a humble detective sergeant, to contradict the boss.

The Novavita Clinic stood on the outskirts of the city of Exeter. It was housed in a Victorian villa with pristine cream stucco
and gleaming windows. It had that well-tended, prosperous look that Rachel had seen before when she had enjoyed brief encounters
with the private end of the medical profession.

When she had pulled in to the car park at the back of the building and brought the unmarked police car to a halt next to a
gleaming Jaguar, she looked at Steve and experienced a fleeting hope that they wouldn’t be mistaken for a couple. As they
walked to the covered entrance, she was careful not to let her hand brush against his.

The predominant colour of the sleekly modern entrance hall was blue, just like the discreet sign outside. Corporate identity.
This place was a business. Rachel approached the reception desk and held out her police ID card to the uniformed woman who
had assumed a can-I-help-you? expression.

‘Is there anyone we can talk to about …’ She hesitated. What was she here to find out exactly? Wesley had asked her to check
whether a Sister Williams worked there … and also if Kirsten had been there asking questions. Sometimes Wesley Peterson’s
thought processes left her baffled. But she asked anyway.

They were asked to wait while the receptionist made a couple of hushed phone calls, glancing up at them from time to time
suspiciously.

After ten minutes, Rachel saw a woman approaching down the carpeted corridor. Her cropped hair was ginger and her face looked
as severe as her grey trouser suit. She oozed authority from every pore and even the efficient Rachel felt a little overawed.

The woman held out her hand. ‘Sandra Grey. General Manager.’

After Rachel had made the introductions, they were led to a plush
office with Ms Grey’s name emblazoned on the door. The general manager sat down, looking completely relaxed. Unlike most people
she seemed unbothered by a visit from the police. Perhaps, Rachel thought, she had nothing to hide.

‘How can I help you?’ Sandra Grey gave a small, businesslike smile and waited.

As Steve Carstairs appeared to have been struck dumb, it was up to Rachel to do the talking.

‘We’re making enquiries into the death of a woman called Kirsten Harbourn.’

Sandra Grey nodded knowingly. ‘The strangled bride. She was here, you know. She’d found out her mother came to us for AID
treatment in 1981 and she seemed to think we could help her trace her biological father. I told her it was impossible, of
course. Sperm donors have a guarantee of anonymity. There’s talk of changing the law now but in Ms Harbourn’s case … I told
her I couldn’t help her.’

‘And that was it?’

‘That was it.’

‘Is there any way she could have found out?’

The woman shook her head. ‘Absolutely not.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘Surely this can’t have anything to do with her
murder?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘Probably not. But we have to follow up every lead … every aspect of the victim’s life. But in this
case, I don’t really see how it can be relevant.’ She stood up. ‘Thank you for your time anyway. Sorry to have troubled you.’

‘It’s no trouble.’

When Rachel reached the door she turned round. The parting shot was a technique that she had often seen Wesley Peterson and
Gerry Heffernan use. Take your witness off their guard.

‘Has a Sister Williams ever worked here?’

Sandra Grey frowned. ‘I believe there was a Sister Williams here once. Why?’

‘Do you know where we can find her?’

‘I’m sorry. I’ve no idea. If that’s all …’

Rachel knew there was nothing more to be discovered. Sandra Grey hadn’t seemed in the least bit bothered by her questions
which meant either she was an accomplished actress or she had nothing to hide. Rachel rather suspected the latter. Her visit
was a waste of time. However there was the question of Sister Williams. But then Williams was a common name.

As she reached the car park Rachel felt rather despondent. There was nothing to report back to Wesley, apart from the fact
that a Sister Williams had once worked there. The next step, she supposed, was finding this missing nurse. But that might
be easier said than done. She might be anywhere in the country … or even the world.

As Rachel put the key in the car door, avoiding Steve’s eyes, she heard a breathless female voice behind her. When she turned
round she saw a girl running towards her. The young woman was overweight and panted with the exertion. There were sweat stains
beneath the arms of her white blouse and her dark fringe seemed plastered to her forehead. The girl stopped and put her hand
to her chest as she caught her breath while Rachel waited for her to speak, aware that Steve Carstairs was watching her impatiently.

‘You were asking about Sister Williams?’ the girl said at last. ‘That’s right.’

‘I’m Mrs Grey’s secretary. I heard through the intercom.’A look
of horror passed across her face. ‘I wasn’t spying. It just happened to be on, that’s all.’

‘You know this Sister Williams?’

‘No. But a few weeks ago the girl you mentioned turned up. It was just like Mrs Grey said. There’s no way we can reveal the
identities of any of the donors but …’

It seemed to Rachel that Sandra Grey’s secretary spent a lot of time listening to the goings on in her boss’s office on the
intercom. ‘But what?’

‘I asked one of the older nurses here about Sister Williams and I found out where she is now.’

‘Did you tell Kirsten Harbourn?’

‘Oh yes. One of the receptionists who works here recognised her. She used to go to school with her. She knew she was working
at the Morbay Language College – my aunty used to do cleaning there – so I rang her at work.’

‘What did you tell her?’ Rachel was trying hard to curb her impatience.

‘That I knew where Sister Williams was who used to work here.’

‘So where is she?’

‘You’ll never guess.’

Rachel was in no mood for guessing games. ‘Just tell me. Please.’

‘She works in Neston now. She’s got her own place. Tells people’s fortunes.’

‘Her first name wouldn’t be Georgina by any chance?’

The girl looked at her, disappointed, as though she had spoiled some great surprise.

‘That’s right. How did you guess?’

Rachel smiled. ‘I’m clairvoyant.’

ACT 3 SCENE 1

SYLVIUS Good father, I would speak with thee awhile. Look thou upon this likeness. She hath a sweet and comely visage, think
you not?

DUKE How came you by this likeness?

SYLVIUS By a lady, good sir
.

DUKE What lady? By the saints in heaven tell me
.

SYLVIUS Thou seemest troubled, good my father. Knowest thou this lady, immortal now in paint by this true artist’s hand? I
think her beautiful. Her eyes like unto oceans and her lips as fair fruit red
.

DUKE
I ask again, how camest thou by this image?

SYLVIUS
By a passing stranger, sir. And with this gift he gave such dreadful news. The lady, sir, is dead.

DUKE (Aside) My sweet one with the angels. And my shame forbids my grief
.

Neil had decided to open one more trench nearer to the main house. He had another four weeks before the building work began
so he was feeling reckless. And besides, geophysics had found some interesting features in that particular location. So why
not explore all the possibilities?

Once the trench had been started by the small mechanical digger, he felt able to leave Matt in charge while he went off to
delve amongst the county archives. There were some old maps of the Tradington Hall area there and he told his colleagues that
he wanted to examine them in detail to see if there was anything he’d missed. He didn’t mention the archives’ real attraction
– Annabel
and her musty documents. She had called him on his mobile to say she had found something of interest and he was impatient
to find out what that something was.

He had left the skull at Morbay University. Its exact dimensions would be entered into a computer – Neil was a little vague
about the details – and the face of the girl in the field would eventually appear on a screen. He was surprised at the urgent
longing he felt to see her face, to know what she looked like. He wished he had a name for her.

Annabel was waiting for him when he arrived at the County Records Office, her eyes glowing with excitement. She met him in
the foyer, linked her arm through his, and led him down into her lair of maps and documents.

‘I found him in the Quarter Sessions of 1581,’ she said breathlessly as she made her way to a large table strewn with ancient
books and parchments. ‘Here it is. Indictment against Ralph Strong of Cudleigh for a battery upon Bartholomew Strong, his
father. Appears and confesses. Fine two shillings. What was all that about, I wonder?’

‘Some kind of family quarrel, I suppose.’

‘I believe the acting fraternity in London at the time were always settling arguments with their fists or a dagger. He would
have fitted in.’

‘He died in a fight. He was stabbed in a tavern.’

Annabel nodded. ‘That figures. I wonder whether this quarrel with his father was the reason he went to London.’

‘It’s possible.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’d better get back. I’ve just left them opening another trench and I should see
how they’re getting on.’

‘I’m sure they can’t manage without you.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll keep on looking for our Ralph. I’m looking forward to the play.
I’ve heard it’s quite gory.’

‘I’ve heard that too. I’ve been told that someone’s heart gets ripped out and eaten in the last act.’

Annabel pulled a face. ‘Is there time to change my mind?’

‘Don’t tell me you’re squeamish.’

Annabel grimaced. ‘Perhaps when we’ve seen it, we’ll have some idea what made this Ralph Strong tick.’

‘Well, we know he had a soft spot. The line engraved on the locket and the initials scratched on the window in Cudleigh Farm.
RS – that must have been him – and CM … I wonder who she was.’

‘Someone who helped him get in touch with his feminine side by the sound of it. But if she’s the girl in the field, she didn’t
succeed for long. He was a violent man. Beats up his own dad, strangles his girlfriend and ends up stabbed in a tavern brawl.
Nice.’

Neil took his leave, wondering whether seeing
The Fair Wife of Padua
would help him to get inside the mind of Ralph Strong. But he rather doubted it.

Gerry Heffernan sat back in his chair and smiled. They’d got him. He’d been caught out in a lie and they had the proof there
in black and white in a thin plastic envelope. This one was for Wesley.

‘Well, well, Mr Liston … or can I call you Den? You haven’t been exactly honest with us, have you?’

‘Dunno what you mean.’

‘Your van was parked twenty-five yards away from the Loch Henry Lodge Guesthouse around the time the pathologist tells us
Abdul Ahmed was being stabbed.’

Liston started to play with his empty plastic cup. ‘Prove it,’ he snapped with a bravado he obviously didn’t feel. He looked
scared for the first time since they’d brought him in.

‘That’s easy. You got a parking ticket. The traffic wardens have been on the prowl in that area for a couple of weeks now.
Very keen they are. They even got one of our officers … He wasn’t too pleased about that, I can tell you. You weren’t at the
house in Dukesbridge. We’ve asked the householder and he remembers your radio blaring out and he saw the lad who works for
you. He assumed you were there too but he never actually saw you. And your lad, he’s changed his story. He says that he’d
thought you were there all the time but now he remembers that you went out for supplies to the trade warehouse outside Morbay.’

‘So?’

‘We’ll get forensic evidence.’ Heffernan stared the man in the eye. ‘You haven’t got a criminal record, have you?’

‘No.’

‘How’s that? You don’t mind using your fists.’

‘Piss off.’

‘Just used them against women, have you? Women who’ve been too scared to come to us? I saw what you did to Françoise Decaux.’

‘I told her I was sorry. Really sorry. She’d made me angry. I just lashed out and …’

‘What about my inspector? Did he make you angry?’

‘I panicked.’

He lowered his voice and glanced at the tape machine. ‘You might as well tell me about Abdul Ahmed … get it over with. When
we get the DNA results back, we’ll know for sure you were in that room.’

Den Liston put his head in his hands. Gerry Heffernan watched him, half hoping he’d cry, show some remorse. But he suspected
that if this man cried, it would be for himself rather than his victims.

‘OK,’ Liston whispered. ‘I was angry, right? Bloody mad. I’d seen her – Françoise – come out of the registry office with him.
They were together … holding hands. I saw red. They split up and I followed him. She’d bloody married him …’ He slammed his
fist on the table. ‘She’d bloody gone and married him. I saw them come out of the registry office arm in arm. She was going
to marry me,’ he whined, his voice full of self-pity. ‘She bloody betrayed me. She married him and was going to carry on with
me like some whore.’

‘So you killed him.’

‘I followed him to that guesthouse. I knew he’d wait for her there. Then after a couple of days I couldn’t stand it any longer.
I kept thinking of him with his hands all over her. I hadn’t seen her … she’d kept making excuses. I thought she’d be with
him so I went back to Morbay. I waited and I saw him coming back so I followed him to his room.’

Liston wiped away a tear that had begun to trickle down his cheek. ‘He said they were married. Showed me the bloody
marriage certificate and her passport. Said she was going to come to him and they’d make love. He started telling me how
he was going to screw her. There was this knife on the bed – a flickknife. I lost my rag … stabbed him. I didn’t mean to kill
him. I was just so mad. Well, wouldn’t you be?’

Heffernan looked at him blankly. ‘What did you do with the knife?

‘I went to the end of Morbay pier and threw it in the sea.’ Den Liston bowed his head. ‘I love her.’ He looked at Paul Johnson
who was sitting by the chief inspector, his face expressionless. ‘You’d have done the same if it’d been your girlfriend. Anyone
would. You should have seen his face. He kept saying how he was going to screw her … winding me up.’

Liston’s solicitor – a middle-aged, grey-haired man who had seen it all before, whispered a few words in his client’s ear
and the man fell silent.

Gerry Heffernan said the required words before turning off the tape machine. Then he turned to Paul. ‘DC Johnson, will you
take a written statement, please?’ He stood up.

‘Can I see Françoise?’ Liston whined.

‘Do you really think that’s a good idea?’ Heffernan said as he made for the door.

Pam had been unusually silent as she drove Wesley home from hospital. It wasn’t until they were home and he had sat down gingerly
on the sofa that she asked him how he was feeling.

‘I’ll live,’ was the stoical reply. He was determined to put a brave face on it and Pam felt rather grateful for this. The
last thing she wanted or needed was a man around who was feeling sorry for himself.

‘What do you want to do? Go to bed or …?’

Wesley grinned. ‘Is that an offer?’

Pam turned her head away. ‘It wasn’t. I’ve got to pick the kids up from Mrs Miller’s and, besides, I don’t think you’re fit
enough for …’

Wesley began to laugh but the sudden, sharp pain made him wince. ‘Sad but true. You’re quite right. He leaned over slowly
and picked up that morning’s newspaper. ‘I’ll stay here and read
the paper.’ He could have added the words ‘and hope someone from work calls to tell me what’s going on’, but he thought better
of it. Pam would hardly like to be reminded that she was sharing her husband with the police force … although she could probably
sense his boredom and frustration. He would have to try harder to hide it.

‘I was hoping Neil might pop in. Last time I saw him he was carrying a skull.’

‘That’s Neil for you. I’ll have to go.’

She made no attempt to kiss him. Instead, she made straight for the hall just as the phone started to ring.

Wesley overheard Pam say a few whispered words before putting the receiver down. ‘Who is it?’ he called, hoping it was someone
from the office he could ring back.

‘Nobody. Double-glazing. I’m going now. See you later.’

He was left there alone in the silent house, staring at the fireplace. He was bored. He wanted something to do to occupy
his brain. Slowly, painfully, he eased himself from his seat and shuffled through to the hall. He felt grateful that Den Liston
hadn’t managed to break any bones. Every movement might be painful, but at least he could walk.

He didn’t know why he picked up the phone and dialled 1471 to discover the last number that called. Something to do, perhaps?
Or idle curiosity? He expected the voice on the other end to say the caller had withheld the number but instead the automated
voice recited a local number. A familiar number. He pressed the button to return the call, wondering why Pam had lied.

He heard a familiar but breathless voice at the other end of the line. ‘Belsham Vicarage.’

‘Maritia?’

‘Hi, Wes. How are you?’

‘OK. Look, did you just ring Pam?’

Maritia laughed. ‘No. I’m up to my neck in wallpaper here. In fact I’ve got paste all over the phone.’

‘Sorry. Could Mark have called?’

‘No. He’s been with me. Some people from church are over here giving us a hand. Maybe one of them pressed the wrong
button.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I think Jonathon was in the hall before. Maybe he …’

Wesley opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. ‘Thanks, it doesn’t matter. Just wondered, that’s all.’ His heart
was beating fast. But how could he tell his sister what was troubling him?

He said he hoped he’d see her later and put the phone down. But just as he was making his way painfully back into the living
room, the phone rang again.

This time it was a voice he’d been waiting to hear. Gerry Heffernan needed him.

‘Gerry must have been able to read my mind,’ he said as he sat stiffly in the passenger seat beside Rachel Tracey. He had
left a note for Pam telling her he was going to see someone in Neston. It wouldn’t please her but then, he thought wickedly,
it would do her good to worry about him. As soon as this thought popped into his head he felt guilty. He was assuming that
his worst suspicions were true, quite without reason. There would be some innocent explanation why she had lied about the
call from the vicarage. Perhaps she just didn’t feel she had time to explain that someone had called by accident from Mark’s
phone that would probably have their number stored. At that moment he hated himself – he was as bad as Den Liston.

Rachel had brought him up to date with all the latest developments. At least they had cleared up the Morbay guesthouse murder.
And the bogus marriage racket. And they had Stuart Richter behind bars for the murder of Kirsten Harbourn. But it was this
last one that bothered him – and it turned out that it was bothering Rachel too. Stuart Richter wasn’t their murderer. It
was all wrong. And now Rachel had found another lead.

‘Are you sure you’re up to this? Didn’t the doctor tell you not to go back to work till …’ Rachel’s face was all concern.
She was worried about him … which he found rather gratifying.

‘I’m fine. Just a few bruises. Anyway, I’d have gone mad at home. Especially when there’s so much going on.’

‘I must say this Sister Williams connection came as a bit of a surprise.’

‘Yes. Good work.’

Rachel felt herself blushing. ‘It rather begs the question of why Kirsten Harbourn visited her in the first place. She told
Marion Blunning she was looking for a Sister Williams and, lo and behold, the clairvoyant she’s seeing just happens to have
been that same Sister Williams in a former life as it were …’

‘Then she wasn’t consulting her about the future, but about something else entirely. The past maybe?’

‘That’s exactly what I was thinking.’ She brought the car to a smooth halt. Rachel was a good driver, no bumps or fast cornering.
She had provided just the sort of journey his bruised and tender body required. ‘This is the nearest we can get. You all right
to walk?’