The Marriage Hearse (8 page)

She looked at him as if he’d crawled from under a stone. ‘No. I prefer not to mix with my staff socially.’

‘Your secretary was getting married and you weren’t even
invited to the evening do?’ Heffernan asked, as though he found the omission suspicious.

‘That’s right.’

‘Didn’t you get on, then?’

Carla Sawyer looked faintly annoyed. ‘Of course we did … on a professional level.’

‘What can you tell us about her?’ Wesley asked.

‘She was good at her job. I believe she and her fiancé had bought a house not far from Neston. He gave her a lift into the
office every morning – she doesn’t … didn’t drive. She was having a big wedding in Stoke Raphael. That’s all I know. I’m a
busy woman. I don’t pry into the private lives of my employees.’

Wesley studied her. There was a hardness there. Her lack of curiosity about her employees’ lives was probably caused by indifference
rather than any sense of tact or delicacy. He didn’t like the woman. He suspected she was probably as hard as her hairdo.

‘What about your other employees? Did Kirsten have any friends amongst your staff?’

Carla pressed her lips together, as though friendship wasn’t something she encouraged in her time. ‘I often saw her with one
of the teachers … Simon Jephson.’

‘Was it just her in the office or …?’ Gerry Heffernan looked at her expectantly.

‘There’s Gemma. She does filing and general clerical work.’

‘We’d like to talk to her. Was she going to take over Kirsten’s
work while she was on honeymoon?’

Carla smiled, a patronising grimace which almost cracked her make-up. ‘Oh, no. Gemma’s hardly secretary material. I’ve got
someone in from an agency. In fact she only started this morning so I’d better check that there have been no disasters.’

‘Can’t get the staff these days,’ said Heffernan, his face poker straight. ‘Mind if we use your office to conduct our interviews
or would you rather we went somewhere else?’

Carla and the chief inspector stared at each other for a few seconds, like a pair of cats trying to establish dominance. As
Heffernan had the force of the law behind him, Carla Sawyer thought it wise to back down.

‘You can use the staff room. How long will you be?’

‘That depends, love. We’ll need to see everyone. Staff and students. I’ll get a couple of constables down here to organise
things, don’t worry.’

Carla opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. She stood up. ‘I’ll show you to the staff room.’

As they were leaving the room, Wesley noticed a photograph on the filing cabinet near the door. ‘Who’s that?’

‘My husband if you must know.’

‘I believe a young man called Stuart Richter used to work for him. Do you know him?’

‘No.’ Her answer was short and to the point.

She led them through tall, gloomy corridors and up a wide flight of mahogany stairs to a large, shabby room lined with faded
armchairs and sofas – someone’s cast-offs. There was a round dark wood table in the centre, its once glossy surface marred
by the pale rings left behind by a thousand hot coffee cups. The dark flowered wallpaper was peeling in places. It was a room
of faded splendour. A sad room.

‘If we could make a start …’ Wesley looked at Carla expectantly and smiled. ‘I think we’d better see Simon Jephson first.’

She frowned. ‘I’m afraid he’s not here. He didn’t turn up this morning … hasn’t even rung in.’

Wesley glanced at the chief inspector. ‘Is Jephson in the habit of doing that?’

‘No. He’s usually quite reliable.’

Heffernan gave Wesley a meaningful look. ‘Don’t worry, love, we do house calls. Got his home address, have you?’

‘I’ll get it for you.’ Carla Sawyer left the room, gliding out on her stiletto heels like a galleon in full sail.

‘Darren and Trish can deal with things here when they arrive,’ Heffernan said once she was out of earshot. ‘I reckon we should
find this Simon Jephson. The sooner the better.’

Once they had Jephson’s address they told Carla that someone else would be along shortly to conduct the interviews and she
watched them leave with barely suppressed irritation. Before they left she explained through gritted teeth that the students
were
paying handsomely for the privilege of improving their English and any disruption would mean they weren’t getting value for
money which, in turn, would have a negative effect on the college’s reputation abroad. Heffernan hadn’t believed a word of
it – half the students probably skived off lessons anyway. But she’d sounded very convincing.

Now all they had to do was talk to Simon Jephson and hope his unexplained absence wasn’t sending them off on a wild goose
chase.

As they walked out through the front door, Wesley noticed a girl watching them intently. She was stick-thin with olive skin
and her hair was scraped back into a ponytail. Her brown eyes were wide with fear. She looked terrified. As soon as their
eyes met she scurried away, like a mouse who’s just spotted a cat.

‘I wonder what’s up with her,’ he said.

‘Who?’ Heffernan’s attention had been focused elsewhere.

‘Never mind,’ said Wesley as he turned and hurried back to the house.

‘Where are you going?’ Gerry Heffernan called after him, exasperated.

Wesley pretended not to hear and five minutes later he returned to his puzzled boss, having discovered from Carla Sawyer that
the frightened girl was French and her name was Françoise Decaux.

After he had called Trish on his mobile to tell her to pay Mademoiselle Decaux particular attention, he steered the car towards
the Neston road … and Simon Jephson’s address.

Steve Carstairs parked in front of the Stoke Raphael Country Hotel and undid his seat belt.

‘Nice place this,’ said DC Paul Johnson, making conversation. ‘My cousin had her wedding reception here. Nice do.’

Steve looked at Paul and smirked. Paul was a tall, gangling young officer, only recently recovered from an untimely bout of
acne. ‘Lots of tasty bridesmaids, were there?’

Paul blushed. ‘Four, but two were my sisters so they hardly count. Others weren’t bad though. It was a big do. Cost a bloody
fortune.’

‘Like that Kirsten Harbourn. She was pushing the boat out. Shame she didn’t live to enjoy it.’

‘So this Stuart Richter, the ex-boyfriend who was stalking her, actually works here? Wonder if she knew when she booked the
place.’

‘Nah … he’d not worked here long. The theory is that he found out where she was having the reception and got a job here. What
was he hoping to do, eh? Jump out of the wedding cake and carry her off like Tarzan?’

Paul didn’t smile. ‘Or kill her.’

Steve shrugged. ‘Suppose we’d better see what he’s got to say for himself.’

As soon as they reached the foyer they were hustled into the duty manager’s office behind the reception desk. Police were
bad for the hotel’s image the harassed young manager explained. Things had been bad enough since the press found out the dead
bride’s reception was to have been held there. One intrepid photographer, posing as a hotel guest, had got into the Neston
Suite and photographed the room, complete with place settings and wedding cake. The image had appeared in a national tabloid
with the caption ‘the cake that will never be cut’. Unsurprisingly, the management of the Stoke Raphael Country Hotel was
rather anxious to forget the whole unfortunate matter.

They were told that they would find Stuart Richter in the Mayflower Restaurant where he worked as a waiter. The manager looked
at his watch and said he’d be grateful if they’d be discreet and bear in mind that they were short staffed and Stuart would
be needed for the lunchtime rush.

Steve summoned all the dignity that a man can muster when his mouth is filled with chewing gum, and reminded the manager that
they were investigating a murder. If they had to take Richter in for questioning, there was nothing he or anyone higher up
in the hotel pecking order could do about it.

The manager, suitable cowed, directed them to the Mayflower Restaurant. Paul gave him a brief word of thanks as they left
his office. Someone had to consider public relations.

When they reached the Mayflower Restaurant they were told by an irate head waiter that Richter hadn’t turned up for his shift
… and if he hoped to keep his job, he was sadly mistaken. The man’s ruddy complexion marked him out as a prime candidate
for high blood pressure. And Stuart Richter, during his time there, had done nothing to lower it. He had been lazy, clumsy,
incompetent. The man sounded rather relieved to be rid of him, in spite of his looming staff shortage.

After a series of enquiries, they finally located Richter’s room. It was unlocked. Paul pushed the door open and they stepped
inside. The bed was unmade and the room smelled strongly of cheap spray deodorant. If Richter had made his getaway, it hadn’t
been that long ago. Steve stood staring at the impression of a head on the thin pillow while Paul busied himself searching
the wardrobe and drawers.

‘He’s gone,’ was his final verdict. ‘He’s done a runner … taken all his things.’

Steve swore under his breath. ‘Are you going to tell Gerry Heffernan or shall I?’

Rachel Tracey had called on Theresa Harbourn, more to reassure her that the police were doing all they could than in the hope
of discovering anything new. Theresa’s sister from Manchester had been with her, keeping her company and doing a sterling
job of fending off reporters and the curious. Rachel was relieved that the bereaved mother had some company. And it meant
she didn’t need to stay any longer than she had to.

She asked some more questions about Stuart Richter but Theresa had already told them all she knew. If Kirsten had confided
in anyone, she said, it would have been in Marion Blunning. As Rachel called Marion to ask her if they could meet at Kirsten’s
cottage in Lower Weekbury, she had the uncomfortable feeling that there was some side of the dead woman’s life that she wasn’t
yet aware of.

She was impatient to look round the place with Marion. Women, best friends in particular, were observant about other people’s
lives and possessions. Perhaps Marion would spot something out of place or come up with some fresh ideas. It was a long shot
but it was worth a try.

When Rachel reached Lower Weekbury she found that, as the
roads had been unusually clear, she was early for her appointment with Marion. She sat in her car and waited, taking a photocopied
script out of the glove compartment to pass the time.
The Fair Wife of Padua
. She only had five lines to say in all but, with all that was going on at work and helping her mother with the holiday lets
when she got home to the farm, she hadn’t yet been able to fix them in her mind.

She turned to a page, streaked with transparent yellow marker pen, and read it through. ‘Aye, madam, I did see thy husband
and I trow he looked most melancholy, his visage like unto one cursed with all the sorrows of the world.’

She placed the stapled pages on the passenger seat and sighed. She’d never learn it. Never get her mind and her lips around
the archaic language. She used to enjoy amateur dramatics in her younger days but now she wished she hadn’t let her mother
persuade her to get involved. Nowadays she had other things on her mind.

Marion Blunning turned up exactly on time, parking outside the cottage in her small white Fiat as arranged. Rachel climbed
out of her car and walked towards her.

‘Marion? I’m DS Rachel Tracey. Thanks for coming.’

Marion smiled shyly. ‘Anything I can do to help … Have you found Stuart Richter yet?’

‘Someone’s gone to the hotel to pick him up,’ she said confidently, hoping that Steve had returned to the station by now with
their man in tow. But, when Steve was involved, things didn’t always go to plan.

She took the key to the cottage from her handbag. ‘Do you mind going inside and having a look around. I just thought that
as you knew Kirsten so well, you might notice anything unusual.’ She opened the door and they stepped into the narrow hallway.
‘Not working today?’

Marion explained that she’d booked a few days off work, thinking she’d need a break after the wedding. She was so upset about
what happened that she’d decided to take them anyway. But now, she said, she found herself looking for distractions to take
her mind off the horrific events of the weekend and she wished she was back at work in the hospital – at least she’d be doing
something useful. Whenever she thought of Kirsten, the reality hit her afresh. It was like a bad dream.

As she was about to shut the front door Rachel glanced outside. The small, unmodernised cottage a little way down the lane
would probably have a fairly good view of the comings and goings at Honey Cottage. The occupant, a Mrs Lear, had already been
visited and had reported that a blue car had often been parked nearby in the weeks preceding the murder. Although, thanks
to an ill-timed phone call, she hadn’t been looking out of her window at the time of Kirsten’s death which was lucky for the
killer but unlucky for the police. Mrs Lear had been helpful enough to note the blue car’s registration number and Steve was
due to visit its owner after he’d picked up Stuart Richter. She closed the door behind her and led Marion inside. As they
passed the staircase Marion looked up, uncomfortable. That was where it had happened.

‘We can sit down,’ Rachel said when they reached the living room. ‘The forensic people have finished here so it doesn’t matter
what we touch. You knew Kirsten well so it would be helpful if you could have a look around. See if there’s anything you think
is unusual or out of place.’

‘Have you asked Peter?’

‘Not yet, but we will be doing.’

Marion stood up and walked around the room, absentmindedly touching magazines and ornaments. ‘It all looks OK to me. This
room anyway.’

‘Did you often come here?’

Marion nodded.

‘I believe she had builders in.’

Marion hesitated. ‘Yes.’

‘How did she get on with them?’

She looked a little uneasy. ‘Fine.’