The Marriage Hearse (7 page)

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. ‘And do you think he did?’

‘She used to have a flat in Morbay. He got hold of the key somehow and he used to break in and leave things for her until
she had the lock changed. Stupid things. Teddy bears. Little presents. It was creepy. I don’t trust him.’

‘Do you know where we can find him, love?’ Heffernan asked.

‘Well, he was working at the hotel yesterday. I wonder if he took the job because he found out somehow that Kirsten and Peter
were having their reception there. I wouldn’t be surprised.’

Neither would Wesley but he said nothing.

‘How did she meet this Stuart Richter?’

‘Through work. She’s a secretary at a language college in Morbay.’ She bowed her head. ‘Sorry. I’m talking about her as if
she’s still alive. I just can’t get used to the idea that she’s …’

‘That’s OK,’ said Wesley gently. ‘What did Stuart Richter do there?’

‘Oh, he didn’t actually work there. He was working for the owner’s husband. Kirsten said he ran some sort of employment agency.’

They talked for another hour and by the time they left, Wesley felt he knew Kirsten better. Kirsten the schoolgirl, defending
a weaker girl from bullies; Kirsten the embittered daughter of divorced parents; Kirsten the efficient secretary; Kirsten
the carefree flirt, attracting men while Marion played the part of the plain friend; Kirsten the excited bride, relishing
being the centre of attention. But in spite of all this, Wesley still had no idea why someone would have wanted to kill her.

Kirsten Harbourn remained an enigma.

As it was Sunday, a day of rest, Brian Lightfoot felt somewhat reluctant to call the police, supposing that they wouldn’t
really want to be bothered with his little problem at the weekend. Besides, the skeleton wasn’t going anywhere. It had probably
been in the ground for a good few years and Brian didn’t reckon another day would make much difference.

He had watched while Big Eddie covered up the bones with a layer of soil. It had seemed like the right thing to do. More respectful
than leaving them exposed like that. And the police, when they arrived, could do what they liked. As long as they took them
away. Brian didn’t much like the idea of dead bodies on his land, even though that particular field was some way from the
house.

He’d told Big Eddie to go. He’d see to it from now on. It was his field after all. His responsibility.

‘You’re quiet,’ his wife, Margaret, said as he sat down for the cup of tea he usually enjoyed in the middle of the afternoon,
an
oasis in his day before he had to think of the evening’s milking.

‘What’s up?’

Brian hesitated. ‘You know that bloke with the metal detector?’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s turned up some bones in the lower meadow.’

Margaret seemed to lose interest. Animal bones were always turning up on farmland.

‘Human bones.’

She looked up. ‘You sure?’

‘Course I’m sure. He didn’t uncover all of them. I told him to stop and cover them up again until I told the police. But it
looked like a ribcage and …’

‘All animals have ribcages. Probably a dog … or a pig. Police won’t thank you for fetching them out to a dead dog.’

‘You’re a nurse. Why don’t you come and have a look?’

Margaret snorted. Viewing old bones was the last thing she fancied doing at that moment. But, after thinking it over, she
agreed that they had to be sure. If the remains were human, the police would have to be called in. After the tea was finished
and the mugs stacked in the sink, she pulled on her wellingtons and followed her husband down to the meadow.

As they neared the field, Brian was surprised to see that Big Eddie had returned and that he was kneeling over where the bones
lay, digging with a trowel. Brian shouted to him and the big man jumped up in alarm.

‘What the hell are you doing? I told you to go home.’ Margaret put a restraining hand on her husband’s arm and whispered to
him to remember his blood pressure.

Big Eddie stood there, sheepish. He shifted from foot to foot, his weather-beaten face turning beetroot red behind his beard.

‘If there’s anything down there that’s worth a bit, I couldn’t let the filth get their hands on it, could I? I was going to
tell you. I was. Honest.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Margaret asked, deeply suspicious. If she’d had her way Brian would never have let Big Eddie
on his land. But he’d insisted that it was like playing the lottery.
There was a chance, albeit an infinitesimally small one, of a big win.

Big Eddie drew something from his pocket. A small gold ring, with a red stone set in its centre glinting in his soil-stained
fingers. A treasure.

‘I found it on one of the fingers. If the filth got it they would have taken it for evidence and we’d never see it again.
I wasn’t going to keep it for myself, Brian. You do believe me. I’d give you your share.

Brian said nothing as Margaret put out her hand and Eddie handed over the trinket obediently. Not many people argued with
Margaret.

She placed the ring carefully in a clean tissue and put it in the pocket of her cardigan before squatting down beside the
bones. The ribs were exposed, the hands laid across them. Whoever had buried this unfortunate corpse had taken the trouble
to lay it out properly, with some reverence. The rest of the skeleton was still beneath the earth. Margaret brushed some soil
off the thin ribs with the large, capable hands that were as adept at delivering babies as they were at bandaging ulcerated
legs. She stared at the yellowed bones for a few seconds before straightening herself up.

‘We’ll have to call in the police. They’re definitely human.’ She glanced at Big Eddie who was hanging his head like a naughty
schoolboy. ‘But I suppose tomorrow morning’ll do. I’ll look after the ring. The police might want to see it. It might help
them find out who she was.’

‘She?’

Margaret smiled. ‘Just a feeling. Those hands look too delicate for a male.’

Brian looked around, as if checking that they couldn’t be overheard. ‘There could be more jewellery down there. We could have
a bit of a dig around before the police come …’

Big Eddie nodded in agreement. ‘I’m still getting signals. There’s definitely more.’

But Margaret had other ideas. ‘And have them accuse us of interfering with a corpse and who knows what else. Use your brains,
Brian. Cover her up again and leave her be.’ She looked
at Big Eddie. ‘And no coming back. We do things properly. Do you hear? I think we could all do with a nice cup of tea.’

The two men followed her back to the farmhouse with their heads bowed. Brian Lightfoot had discovered quite early on in their
twenty-eight years of marriage that Margaret was always right.

Gerry Heffernan had headed straight back to the office after their visit to Marion Blunning. Wesley knew he should have tried
to get off home early to appease Pam. But he wanted to see Kirsten Harbourn’s cottage in Lower Weekbury again. Or rather Kirsten
and Peter’s cottage.

He wondered if the bereaved bridegroom had been back there since the discovery of his fiancée’s body. If Wesley had been in
the same position, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to face the place again.

When he arrived in Lower Weekbury, he parked the car down a lane about fifty yards from the cottage and walked slowly up to
the front door. He looked around, wondering how Steve Carstairs had got on with his door-to-door enquiries. It was only a
hamlet – not many doors to enquire at – and he thought it likely that the other cottages belonged mostly to weekenders, preoccupied
with their own affairs rather than their neighbours.

The young constable guarding the front door looked worried, as if he had the cares of the world on his shoulders.

Wesley smiled at him encouragingly. ‘All right, Dearden? Anything to report?’

‘Not really, sir. We’ve had a few journalists but apart from that …’ He said the word ‘journalists’ as Pam might have spoken
of the presence of ants in her kitchen.

Dearden opened the front door for him and he stepped inside the silent house. As he walked through the rooms he noted little
details. A magazine with a picture of a beaming bride on the front cover lay on the coffee table in the small living room.
Two toothbrushes in the bathroom – his and hers. The wedding dress hanging against the wardrobe like a giant white jellyfish
in the room where Kirsten had died and the make-up lined up on the dressing table.
The bed had been stripped by the forensic people and the bedside light taken away. Wesley bowed his head. This was a place
of thwarted hope; of life cut short by violence. And he could hardly bear to be there.

He returned to the living room and began to open the drawers of the Shaker-style beechwood sideboard. Perhaps there would
be something that would give some hint about her life and why she died. But there was nothing there he didn’t expect to see.
Photographs of happier days. Letters from the mortgage company. There were no personal letters – letter writing these days
seemed to be a dying art – but there was always the chance that her e-mails might reveal something. A computer sat on a desk
in the corner of the room. He’d ask someone to examine its contents and see if anything interesting came up.

He was about to go when something caught his eye. A glossy brochure on top of a pile of women’s magazines. The Morbay Language
College. He picked it up. It was in several languages, not all of which Wesley recognised, and showed pictures of happy, industrious
students – mostly beautiful young women – working in a spacious classroom or relaxing in the extensive and well-kept gardens
of a large, red-brick villa, presumably the college. This was where Kirsten had worked as a secretary. And first thing tomorrow
he and Gerry Heffernan would go there and discover whether her work colleagues could throw any more light on the young bride’s
life.

He walked slowly to the window and looked out. A car was passing, slowing almost to a halt. A blue car but Wesley couldn’t
see the make. The man inside was staring into the cottage and when he spotted Wesley at the window, he sped off suddenly.

Perhaps, thought Wesley, Constable Dearden had taken the car number. But he wasn’t holding his breath.

The large seaside resort of Morbay catered for all tastes and pockets. At one end of the social spectrum were the large hotels
on the sea front, attracting conference delegates and well-heeled tourists with their restaurants, health spas and indoor
swimming pools.

In the middle there were myriad small hotels and guesthouses
boasting a confusing array of stars and rosettes by their entrances, a sign that they’d been inspected and recommended by
various august bodies. Proud little places which liked to consider themselves second to none on personal service, cleanliness,
full English breakfasts and hideously patterned carpets.

But the grandly named Loch Henry Lodge Guesthouse could claim none of these virtues. It stood, forlorn, in the centre of a
terrace of crumbling stucco mansions on the shabby side of town. There were no signs by its entrance bearing recommendations
from the tourist office, just a yellowing ‘vacancies’ sign fixed to the front door with peeling Sellotape. No holidaymaker
in their right mind would stay at the Loch Henry Lodge. Social Services knew of its existence and occasionally placed homeless
families in its not so tender care. The local prostitutes sometimes used it for assignations because nobody there asked too
many questions. It was a place of last resort. And a good place to lie low.

The man who stood watching the street from the upstairs front window ran his fingers through his raven hair and peered down
anxiously. Since the wedding he had been nervous. Watching. Hoping.

He came from a land where violence was an ever-present companion. It pervaded the air and the ground where its fruits lay
buried, ready to germinate in seeds of vengeance even unto the next generation. His land was a place of knives and guns and
he had lived with fear. But then he had seen her and everything had changed. She had given him hope. And now he thought day
and night of her fragile beauty. He longed for her, anticipating the moment when she would come to him and their bodies and
souls would be united.

He was in England now and England would be good. England would be safe, he thought … not realising that death stalked everywhere.

Nothing is known of Strong’s years in Devon and how he came to seek his fortune in the theatres of the capital. Perhaps the
restlessness of youth made him seek a more exciting existence than that offered by rural Devon with its life dictated by the
seasons and the Church calendar
.

He abandoned this narrow, ordered country existence for London’s Elizabethan theatre which was as unrestrained and boisterous
as the society from which it sprang. Rather like today, its audiences revelled in depictions of gruesome murder, madness,
vengeance, violence and lust. From his work we see that Ralph Strong was a man of passion, a man of his age, and had he lived,
perhaps we might regard him today as one of its foremost dramatists
.

From the programme notes for
The Fair Wife of Padua

It was the last week of term and Pam Peterson knew she would soon be free. Free of the routine of taking Michael to nursery
each day and leaving Amelia with the childminder. Free of having to prepare lessons and write reports every evening. The thought
made her heart lighter somehow. She knew she had been cool towards Wesley recently and had harboured uncharitable thoughts
about her sister-in-law, Maritia, who had done absolutely nothing to offend her, apart from buying Michael pets that needed
feeding and cleaning out. But when the school holidays came, when she wasn’t harassed and tired, she would try to mend her
ways and make it up to everyone.

The thought of the pub lunch she had enjoyed at the Horse and Farrier the day before brought a secretive smile to her lips.
Jonathan,
Mark’s best man elect, had sat next to her, chatting non stop, trading backgrounds, opinions on books and a hundred other
things. Mark and Maritia had looked on, seemingly glad that Mark’s oldest friend and their sister-in-law had hit it off, oblivious
to the undercurrents.

Perhaps Pam had imagined that Jonathan had looked at her as if he regarded her as an attractive woman, not just a primary
school teacher and the mother of two small children. But he had made her feel invigorated. Human again.

Over lunch they had talked about the lost Elizabethan play that was to be performed at the Neston Arts Festival. It would
be interesting to see Rachel Tracey treading the boards. The fleeting hope that she’d be dreadful in her part passed through
Pam’s mind. But she stopped herself, slapping down her inner bitch. There was absolutely no reason to be jealous of Rachel
… apart from the fact that she was a good-looking blonde who saw considerably more of her husband than she did and, in the
past, she had sensed a bat squeak of attraction between them. Jobs where men and women had to work together closely for long
hours were hotbeds of adultery. Unlike teaching, where the constant presence of twenty-five children was a useful and effective
aid to chastity.

Maritia had already left the house that morning wearing her painting clothes, intending to make an early start on the decorating
with Mark’s team of friends and parish volunteers who had rallied round to give the vicarage a fresh lick of paint. Pam looked
at Wesley across the breakfast table. He was reading the paper and munching noisily on a slice of toast and marmalade.

‘I’ll go into Neston after school and get tickets for that play. OK?’

Her husband looked up and smiled. ‘Fine.’

‘How is Rachel these days? Still looking for a flat?’

Wesley shrugged. ‘I think she’s given up the idea for a while. She usually helps out with the holiday apartments on the farm
in the summer months. I think she’s worried that it’s too much for her mother to cope with on her own.’

‘So there’s no significant other in her life?’ She tried to make the question sound casual.

‘No idea. I haven’t asked.’ He returned his attention to the newspaper headlines. As usual it was all bad news. ‘Interest
Rates to
Rise.’ ‘Global Warming Worse than Feared.’ ‘Dead Bride Named.’ Fortunately, he didn’t have to concern himself with the economy
or climate change. The dead bride, however, was his problem.

‘When I go over to Neston I might pop to Tradington Hall to see Neil. Maritia won’t mind picking the kids up.’

‘Give him my regards,’ Wesley said as he folded the paper and placed in neatly on the worktop.

‘What time will you be home? Any idea?’ She knew it was a stupid question as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

‘I’ll try not to be too late. Sixish maybe,’ he said rashly, meaning it at that moment but only too aware that promises are
fragile … easily broken.

It was almost time to face another day – and, hopefully, the killer of Kirsten Harbourn.

Stuart Richter lay on the hard, narrow single bed and stared up at the cracks in the magnolia-painted ceiling. He felt sick.
Weak. He hadn’t felt like breakfast. The adrenaline pumping round his body had banished all trace of hunger. Food was the
last thing on the mind of a hunted animal.

She was dead. And the police would soon be round asking questions.

He thought of Marion Blunning, that self-righteous, interfering, frog-eyed bitch. She had always been there, in his way. Keeping
him from Kirsten; whispering poison in her ear. What did she know about love?

He would teach her a lesson. He would take her by the throat and squeeze the life out of her. He smiled as he imagined her
face contorting and her body going limp. Just like Kirsten’s.

His shift started in an hour but it was too dangerous to stay. His bags were packed ready.

He would make himself scarce before the police came for him.

It was the only way.

After clearing away the breakfast dishes – a token gesture to maintain the peace – Wesley had kissed Pam and set off for the
police station. It was a glorious day so he’d decided to walk down the
steep streets into the centre of the town. Besides, he needed to get some exercise: if he wasn’t careful he’d end up with
a waist-line like Gerry Heffernan’s.

But when he arrived in the incident room, he found to his surprise that Heffernan had arrived there before him. He was already
standing by the notice board, waiting expectantly as the team drifted in and took their seats.

Wesley sat at the front, staring at the board. A picture of Kirsten cuddling up to Peter Creston in what looked like a pub
had joined the other pictures of the dead girl. There was a list of names beside it in Heffernan’s spidery writing. And in
the centre of the board, in block capitals and ringed, was the name Stuart Richter.

Gerry Heffernan beamed at his team. He was in a good mood again. Maybe it was because Rosie was home, Wesley thought. The
boss had never been suited to solitary living.

‘Steve and Paul. I want you to go out to Stoke Raphael and pick up Richter. He’ll be at the hotel.’ Even Steve Carstairs received
an encouraging smile. ‘And I want everyone on the list of wedding guests to be interviewed if they haven’t been already. If
she farted when she was fourteen I want to know about it. Rach, you make sure that’s organised, will you?’

Rachel nodded earnestly. It was routine but something might turn up.

‘And I want you to have another word with that bridesmaid, Marion Blunning. There might be something she’d tell a fellow female
that she wouldn’t have thought to tell me.’ He grinned. ‘She’s a nice lass. Very cooperative. See what you can find out, eh?
Why don’t you have a look round the dead woman’s cottage with her? It might jog her memory or she might notice something out
of place.’

He turned to Wesley. ‘Me and Inspector Peterson are going to visit the language college where the dead girl worked. I’ll need
a couple of DCs to join us in about an hour to conduct interviews with her colleagues, and presumably, as it’s a college,
there’ll be students and all.’ He looked round. ‘Darren and Trish. OK? Any questions?’

Steve Carstairs cleared his throat. ‘I’ve traced the number of a
car that old lady, Mrs Lear, saw parked outside Kirsten’s cottage. It’s a blue Vauxhall registered to a John Quigley. Address
in Morbay.’

‘You’d better get round there after you’ve picked up Richter. See what this Quigley character was doing there.’

When the officers drifted off, Heffernan signalled Wesley to join him in his office but no sooner had they crossed the threshold,
looking forward to a cup of coffee and a chance to collect their thoughts, when Trish Walton came rushing towards them, waving
a piece of paper. She looked worried. Wesley’s heart sank. More complications.

‘We’ve had a call from a lady in a place called Upper Cudleigh.’

Gerry Heffernan grinned widely. ‘Cuddly. Sounds a friendly place.’ He chuckled at his own joke as Wesley looked at Trish and
raised his eyes to heaven. He didn’t know what had got into the chief inspector. Still, it was better than having him lumbering
round the office like a bear with personal problems.

Trish waited for the chuckles to die down before continuing. ‘She lives on a farm and she says a skeleton’s turned up in one
of their fields.’

‘Turned up? Was it buried or did someone dump it there?’

Trish blushed. ‘She didn’t say. Just thought we should know.’

Wesley looked at his watch. This was the last thing they needed. ‘I’d better call round and have a word with this …’ He examined
the sheet of paper Trish had just handed him. ‘Margaret Lightfoot.’ He glanced at Gerry Heffernan who seemed to be in some
happy daydream, sitting with his feet up on his desk, a tranquil expression on his chubby face.

‘It can keep an hour or so,’ the DCI said casually. ‘A skeleton can’t get up and go anywhere, can it? Send a patrol car over
there to secure the scene till we’re ready. I want to get to the Morbay Language College before anyone there has a chance
to put their heads together and concoct an official version of the Life and Times of Kirsten Harbourn. Skeletons can wait.’

Wesley made the necessary arrangements and at half past nine he and Heffernan arrived at the gates of the Morbay Language
College. Everyone there would probably have heard the news by now. He just wished he’d been there to see their reactions.

The college was housed in a large red brick Gothic villa in one of the older and more respectable districts of the resort.
In the nineteenth century when it had been built, it had housed one wealthy bourgeois family. In less prosperous times, it
had become a nursing home before being transformed into a private hotel. Then, with the growing popularity of package holidays
in places considerably sunnier than the English Riviera, the hotel owner had decided to throw in the towel and had sold the
building to a language college, teaching English to foreign students.

Wesley climbed the imposing stone steps that led up to the open front door, passing a couple of fresh-faced blonde girls burdened
with books. They looked in his direction and stared before hurrying off. He wondered whether they were aware that one of the
staff was dead. Probably not. They were young and in a foreign land and more likely to be concerned with their own affairs.
And besides, Kirsten had worked in the office so they might not even have come into contact with her.

The entrance hall was quiet. Wesley noted the colourful encaustic tiles on the floor. Original features. Pam would have loved
them.

Gerry Heffernan marched towards a closed door and turned the handle. The chief inspector always regarded the words ‘Private
Staff Only’ as a personal challenge. He pushed the door open and walked in.

‘It’s good manners to knock,’ said a shrill female voice.

‘Sorry, love. I think I’m a bit lost. I was er … looking for whoever’s in charge.’ Heffernan was doing his Innocent Scouser
Abroad act again, a role he was rather good at.

The woman at the desk stood up. It was hard to guess her age but Wesley suspected she wouldn’t see forty again. Her hair was
a glossy, strawberry-blonde helmet kept in place by a generous application of hair spray and she had probably spent at least
half an hour on perfecting her make-up which gave her a slightly old-fashioned, artificial appearance. She wore a pink tweed
suit – imitation Chanel, or perhaps even the real thing – and a pair of patent leather shoes with vicious-looking stiletto
heels.

She introduced herself as Carla Sawyer, the college principal.
She was in charge, she said, looking Gerry Heffernan in the eye. Her expression gave nothing away as they showed her their
ID. As she motioned them to sit, it occurred to Wesley that maybe she hadn’t heard about Kirsten. If she had, she was remarkably
cool about it.

‘I expect you know why we’re here,’ Wesley began.

‘I do read the papers, Inspector.’

Wesley glanced at his boss. The woman wasn’t even going through the motions of displaying sorrow at the loss of a colleague.

‘So you know Kirsten Harbourn was found dead on Saturday – the day she was to be married.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’ll have heard that we’re treating her death as murder? She was strangled.’

For the first time Carla Sawyer looked uncomfortable. ‘There’s so much violent crime these days. If the police did their job
…’

‘You think it was a random attack then?’

‘What else could it be? They allow all those psychopaths to wander the streets nowadays. Care in the community. Nobody’s safe.
I tell the students to be careful … never to go out alone at night.’

‘Very wise,’ Wesley said, thinking it was time this lecture on the inadequacy of the police force came to a close. ‘What exactly
did Kirsten do here?’

‘She was my secretary.’

‘So you must have known her well?’

‘I have a college to run, Inspector. I can’t spend my time gossiping with my staff. She was a good worker, always efficient.
But I can’t say I knew her well. I’m not in the office that much. I teach a little. And I go abroad to recruit students. Kirsten
dealt with day-to-day routine matters. She was quite trustworthy.’ She looked round the office. It was neat, well ordered.
But he had the impression that this woman had taken Kirsten Harbourn for granted.

‘I presume you were invited to the wedding,’ said Heffernan.