The Marriage Hearse (30 page)

‘Shall I have him taken to the interview room, sir?’

‘No, Steve, don’t bother. I’ll pay him a home visit. It’s a while since I’ve been down to the cells, the walk’ll do me good.’

Ten minutes later the custody sergeant opened the door of Den Liston’s cell and Gerry Heffernan stepped inside. Liston had
been lying on the blue plastic mattress that served as a bed but as soon as he saw he had company he hauled himself upright
and sat on the edge of his seat expectantly.

Heffernan looked round like a prospective purchaser sizing up the accommodation. ‘Glad to see you’re comfortable. One of our
five-star cells, this. Nothing but the best for a valued customer. They call this place the custody suite nowadays … sounds
a bit like the honeymoon suite, doesn’t it? Treating you all right, are we? Food up to scratch?’ He didn’t wait for an answer.
‘You’ll be pleased to know that Inspector Peterson’s on the mend. In fact he’s back at work already. Nice of you to ask how
he was.’

Liston turned his head away. ‘Piss off,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘Francoise’ll be facing charges but she’s going back to her family in France. I thought it was best to get her away from the
likes of
you.’ He stared Liston in the eyes until the man looked away. ‘I was told you wanted to see me.’

‘I did but I think I’ve changed my mind.’

Heffernan gave a theatrical sigh. ‘And I’ve come all this way. Still, the exercise will have done me good.’ He spun round
and raised his fist to the cell door to signal that he was finished. But before he could knock, Liston spoke.

‘Hang on. I thought if I gave you some information, perhaps you could help me out. Put in a good word.’

‘You’re pushing your luck, Liston. If you know something, tell me. Otherwise shut up. But just remember, if it is found out
that you’ve been withholding information, it won’t go down well with a jury.’

Liston thought about it for a few moments. ‘You’ve got someone for the Kirsten Harbourn killing so I don’t suppose you’d be
interested in what I’ve got to tell you.’

Heffernan took a step towards him. ‘Try me,’ he said quietly, glowering down at the seated man.

Liston suddenly seemed a little less sure of himself. ‘It’s probably nothing but …’

‘Go on. Don’t be shy. What have you got to tell me?’

‘The electric went off in one of the weekend cottages in Lower Weekbury on Saturday morning and the owner called me out …
emergency.’

‘You’re not going to confess to Kirsten Harbourn’s murder, are you? We knew you’d done some work on her cottage … subcontracting
for Mike Dellingpole, wasn’t it? She didn’t go to bed with you and all, did she?’

Liston shook his head. ‘From what Mike said, I’d have had to join the queue.’

‘What do you want to tell me?’

‘On that Saturday morning – the day she was murdered – I saw this red car pull up outside her cottage. Four-wheel drive. A
young bloke got out and knocked on the door.’

‘What time was this?’

‘I arrived about eleven. It was just after that. I was fetching my gear from the van and I saw this bloke go in.’

‘How long did he stay?’

Liston shrugged. ‘Ten minutes tops. I was working by the window and I saw him drive away. Bloody fast, as though he was upset
about something.’

‘Did you see anyone else at the cottage?’

Liston shook his head. ‘Not until he came back.’

‘He came back?’ Heffernan leaned forward, suddenly interested. ‘Tell me.’

ACT 3 SCENE 3

Clara’s chamber
.

(enter Clara)

CLARA Good Maria, hast thou seen the likeness I keep by me?

MARIA My lady, I know nothing of it
.

CLARA Thine eyes betray thee, girl. I think you lie
.

MARIA Aye, madam, yet I lie to good purpose. Thy husband wouldst make for thee a copy much greater than the one thou dost
possess. He is the best of husbands, madam
.

CLARA He has said nought to me
.

MARIA T’was meant to be a gift that would amaze and please thee well
.

CLARA And so it would, if thou dost speak the truth. And yet I do detect some treachery
.

‘About half an hour later I saw the car again. Like I said, he came back.’

Heffernan watched Liston through narrowed eyes. He could be lying to wind them up. He imagined that nothing would given Den
Liston more pleasure than seeing the police run around like headless chickens. ‘How long did he stay the second time he came?’

‘Don’t know. I finished work just after that so I didn’t see him go. I left around twelve.’

‘Did you go to Honey Cottage that morning?’ It was a question that had to be asked.

Liston looked indignant. ‘Course I didn’t. You’re not pinning
that one on me. Ask the bloke I was doing the work for. His name’s Murchieson. Ask him what time I finished.’

‘We will. Would you be able to identify the man you saw visiting Honey Cottage?’

‘Yeah. I’d seen him before. He used to run past every day. In fact he called in once while I was there. I think he was her
boyfriend’s brother, something like that.’

Heffernan grinned. Perhaps it would be worth having a word with James Creston. He hadn’t been telling them the whole truth.

The phone call had come as soon as Neil had returned to the dig. He was squatting in his trench, trowel in hand, and was just
about to tackle what looked like a section of cobbled floor when his mobile phone started to ring. When he answered he detected
the excitement in Annabel’s voice at once. It was there in her ‘hello’.

She came straight to the point. ‘I think I might have a name. She’d be exactly the right age for Ralph Strong. And there’s
a record of her baptism in Upper Cudleigh church but no mention of a death or a marriage.’

‘Could she have moved away?’

‘Her family were still around Upper Cudleigh getting born, married and buried. They’re all there. Just no more mention of
this girl after her baptism. If she’d died young she would have been mentioned in the burial register.’

‘So what was her name?’

‘Clara Merison, daughter of Marjorie and Thomas Merison of Cudd Barton. According to old maps, that’s almost the next farm
to Cudleigh Farm. She was a neighbour. CM – the initials scratched on the window with Ralph Strong’s. It’s her. It must be.’

In his mind’s eye Neil saw the girl’s face, reproduced by a process that would have seemed like magic or witchcraft to a sixteenth-century
country girl. Clara. She looked like a Clara somehow. He knew Annabel had hit the jackpot.

‘I’ve got a picture of her.’

‘A picture?’ The words came out in a squeak of incomprehension.

‘A computer at Morbay University took measurements of her skull and came up with an idea of what she probably looked like.’

‘Can I see it?’ Annabel sounded excited.

‘Sure. I’ve made you a copy already. I’ll bring it to Tradington Hall tomorrow night. You haven’t forgotten?’

‘Oh the play.
The Fair Wife of Padua
?’

‘You can still make it?’

‘No problem. It should be an interesting night,’ she said with a hint of a double meaning.

Neil looked down at his watch. ‘I’m going to pay a call on Margaret Lightfoot and show her Clara’s picture.’ He was surprised
at how swiftly he’d begun to think of his girl as Clara.

‘I’ll keep on digging after the weekend. See if I can find any more traces of the Strongs or the Merisons in the archives.
I’m rather enjoying this, you know.’

Neil smiled to himself as he ended the call. Annabel’s enthusiasm was making his life a lot easier. He’d have stood no chance
of discovering the identity of the girl in the field without her. He surveyed his trench. At last they’d found some evidence
of occupation here. Some kind of courtyard, probably connected to the stables and probably dating to the eighteenth century,
judging by the finds that were starting to come out of the ground. Pottery and clay pipes mostly. Interesting but not wildly
exciting.

He muttered a few words to his second in command before disappearing into the stable block to clean himself up. He could hardly
turn up on Margaret Lightfoot’s doorstep covered in soil. Or Wesley’s come to that.

On the way to Upper Cudleigh he planned to visit Wes and Pam, to keep Wesley up to date with developments and to see how he
was. Show a bit of concern for an old friend.

When he brought his Mini to a halt outside Wesley’s house he saw Pam’s car parked outside. Next to it was a black convertible
Mercedes. Neil bounded to the front door and rang the bell. If Pam had a visitor, she could still pass on a message if Wesley
wasn’t there.

Neil was rather surprised when Pam answered, holding the front door half closed with one hand. She was slightly out of breath
and she had the guilty, dishevelled look of someone caught doing something they shouldn’t. Neil stood on the doorstep, momentarily
lost for words.

‘Sorry,’ he said after a couple of seconds. ‘Have I disturbed something?’

‘Er … it’s a bad time, Neil. Sorry,’ was the best she could think of on the spur of the moment.

‘Can I have a word with Wes? I won’t keep him long if you two …’ He gave her a knowing wink.

‘He’s at work. Look, I’d invite you in but …’ The door closed an inch or so.

Neil frowned, puzzled. ‘Tell him I called, will you?’

‘Look Neil, I’ve …’

‘Pam.’

She jumped as though she’d been shot. The voice from within the house was low pitched, definitely male. And it didn’t belong
to Wesley. Neil’s eyes met hers and he saw a split second of guilty blind panic. ‘I’ve got to go, Neil. See you tomorrow.’

The door was shut in his face and he stood there, stunned, on the doorstep.

Rachel Tracey gave Wesley a conspiratorial smile. ‘Do you think we’re doing the right thing?’

‘Do you?’

She didn’t answer.

‘You don’t think this clinic business has anything to do with Kirsten’s death, do you? You think we’re wasting our time?’

‘Did I say that?’

‘You didn’t have to. I can read you like a book.’

Rachel felt a warm glow of excitement, the kind of feeling she’d experienced as a child when she’d woken up on Christmas morning
and seen a sackful of presents at the bottom of her bed. He could read her mind. He knew her so well. She felt suddenly close
to him. Maybe she was deceiving herself. But for that moment she was contented.

‘I think it’s probably worth following up,’ she forced herself to say, keeping her eyes on the road. ‘You all right?’

‘A lot better, thanks.’

‘If you want to go home … get a bit of rest …’

‘No chance of that. The boss called. He wants me to visit the Crestons with him after we’ve checked out the clinic. Liston’s
told him he saw James Creston visiting Kirsten shortly after eleven on the day she died. And he claims he saw him come back
about forty-five minutes later.’

This was news to Rachel. She gave a low whistle. ‘But it still doesn’t mean Richter’s innocent. There is the DNA evidence.’

‘But it might have been James Creston she took her wedding dress off for. She might have been having an affair with her fiancé’s
brother.’

‘But isn’t James Creston supposed to be gay?’

‘Perhaps he had a change of heart.’

‘Don’t some people lead interesting lives?’ Rachel said with a hint of bitterness as she turned into the car park of the Novavita
Clinic.

‘I suppose Richter might have been watching the house and seen all this going on. Then, when James had gone, he went inside
and killed her in a fit of jealous rage before she had a chance to get herself dressed. It looks as if she left the door unlocked.’

‘That would explain why she asked her mother to check everything was all right at the hotel. It’s not usual for a bride to
get herself ready on her own and that had always puzzled me a bit. But now it makes sense.’

‘You ready for your big night tomorrow?’ Wesley asked as he climbed out of the passenger seat.

‘Ready as I’ll ever be. Not that I have many lines. But at least I’m left alive at the end, which is more than I can say for
most of the cast. The director told us it was an Elizabethan revenge tragedy. And Elizabethan revenge tragedies usually have
a rather high body count apparently.’ She grinned.

‘I’m looking forward to it.’

‘Is Pam?’

‘Yes. Of course,’ he said quickly, not knowing if this was true. Pam had been remarkably noncommittal about the prospect.
‘You do know that the boss is bringing his new lady friend?’

‘Yes. You’ve met her. What’s she like?’

‘She seems very nice,’ was all Wesley could think of to say. Normally he hated the word ‘nice’; it seemed lazy; the sort of
adjective you use when you can think of nothing better to say. But ‘nice’ did seem rather appropriate in Joyce Barnes’s case.

When they reached the reception desk they asked to see Sandra Grey who seemed reluctant to allow them to examine her records
at first. But when Wesley explained that he only wished to see those relating to Kirsten Harbourn’s birth, she softened and
said she’d see what she could do.

Fifteen minutes later the secretary came in bearing a thin file with Theresa Harbourn’s name printed on the front. As she
placed it on the desk, she looked at Rachel as though pleading with her not to let it slip that she’d given her information
on her last visit. Rachel gave the girl a small reassuring smile. Her secret was safe.

Wesley opened the file and studied it for a few moments. It soon became clear why Ms Grey had made so little effort to keep
it from him. The file told him nothing he didn’t know already. Theresa Harbourn had been artificially inseminated using donor
sperm. She had become pregnant and nine months later had produced a baby girl. Weight seven pounds, eight ounces.

‘Is there any way of finding out who was the biological father of Theresa’s child?’

Sandra Grey’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s there.’ She pointed to a reference number at the top of the file.

‘But can we find out his name?’

‘What would you want to know that for? He can’t possibly have had any contact with the girl. There’s talk of changing the
law now but then it was all completely anonymous. There’s no way anybody involved could have found out …’

‘Please, Ms Grey. This could be important.’

Sandra Grey stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I have to respect the confidentiality of our patients and donors.’

‘I could get a search warrant.’

Sandra Grey sat down again. ‘I don’t like this, Inspector. I don’t like it at all. We promise our donors confidentiality.’

‘I can assure you, Ms Grey, that nobody will be approached unless it’s absolutely necessary to our investigation.’

She thought for a few moments, then looked at Rachel for confirmation.

‘Inspector Peterson’s right, Ms Grey. We’ll be very discreet.’

Sandra Grey came to a decision. She buzzed through to her secretary again and asked for the donor files for 1981.

After what seemed like a long wait, the secretary bustled in with the file. It was much thicker than Theresa Harbourn’s and
she placed it carefully on the desk, avoiding Rachel’s eyes this time.

Theresa opened the file and began to flick through it. Eventually she found what she was looking for. She sat back in her
chair, her fingers forming an arch.

‘There’s really nothing sinister in here, Inspector. The donor in this case was a student. His physical characteristics matched
those of Mrs Harbourn’s husband as far as possible. He was twenty-one.’ She took a sheet of paper from the file and pushed
it towards Wesley. On it were the young man’s name, address, occupation and physical details. Below this was a record of his
donations. The boy – now a middle-aged man who probably had a family of his own – could have fathered a dozen children who
he wouldn’t know if they walked past him in the street. It was a strange thought. As strange as his likely indifference to
the death of his daughter, Kirsten … his own flesh and blood.

‘May I take a photocopy of these records. I assure you they’ll be destroyed if they’re not relevant.’

Reluctantly, Sandra Grey agreed and Wesley left the clinic with his copies … although he couldn’t, for the life of him, see
how they were going to be any use.

Neil had been gratified to see Margaret Lightfoot’s face light up when he produced the picture of Clara. But he could sense
that she was caught between excitement and sadness. After all, Clara had been strangled by her lover and had lain for centuries
in a makeshift, untended grave in a farmer’s field.

But Ralph Strong had eventually received his comeuppance. He had had to flee Devon and he too had been murdered in a tavern
brawl. A death for a death. Justice.

However, his encounter with Margaret hadn’t taken his mind off Pam – the look in her eyes; the evasion, the man’s voice. He
felt uneasy, restless. And shocked, even though he had always considered himself unshockable. Pam and Wesley had been together
since university days, solid as two rocks. Even when he had been just a little in love with Pam himself, he would never have
done anything to hurt Wesley. Friendship is too important.

Now as he stood on Pam’s doorstep, ringing the bell insistently, he felt numb, as though he himself had been betrayed. After
a minute or so the door flew open. And Pam looked nervous.

‘What the hell …?’

Neil pushed past her. ‘Is he still here?’ She grabbed his arm but he shook it off.