‘What is it?’
Heffernan pushed the list towards him. He took it and noticed that the date on the top of the sheet was 1989. ‘In the middle
… familiar name.’
Wesley’s eyes scanned the page and the name jumped out at him, causing his heart to beat faster. Helen Wilmer. A temporary
appointment: July till September. A summer holiday job. Helen had been a student. It fitted.
‘Well, we didn’t expect to find a link between our latest murder victim and Huntings,’ said Heffernan solemnly.
‘It probably doesn’t mean anything. Lots of students get jobs in supermarkets during their vacations.’
‘Funny to see her name there, though.’
The boss was right. It was strange to see Helen’s name on such an ordinary list. She was now a heap of dry bones but she had
once stacked shelves and put groceries through a till. Somehow it made her more real.
There was a sharp knock and the door opened. Rachel was standing there, her face serious. Wesley twisted round in his chair.
‘How are the Wilmers?’
She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. ‘How do you think? They’ve lived all these years with this vague
hope that one day she’ll turn up and now …’
‘Come and sit down, love,’ said Gerry.
Rachel forgave the ‘love’ for once. Emotional tiredness overrode feminist principles. She flopped down on the empty chair
next to Wesley and gave him a shy smile.
‘So how did it go?’ Wesley asked, fighting the urge to put a comforting hand on her arm.
‘They kept going on about what a lovely girl she had been. How she had been a Sunday school teacher and written poetry and
… I was almost crying myself in the end. I must be getting soft,’ she added bitterly.
‘Did they say anything that might be useful?’
‘They didn’t like the boyfriend. They said she’d changed since she met him …
became harder and stopped talking
to them. I think we should start with him. According to the Wilmers he was a bad lot.’
Heffernan scratched his head. ‘The case files said he was interviewed when she disappeared. He said he was in the pub with
his mates around the time she was last seen. The mates all backed him up, of course. They couldn’t make anything stick.’
Wesley thought for a moment. ‘Did you say she was a Sunday school teacher?’
‘At one time. Why?’
‘At Belsham church?’
‘Yes. The Wilmers mentioned the vicar who was killed … the Reverend Shipborne. They said he thought very highly of her.’
Heffernan was watching Wesley’s face. ‘You don’t think there’s a connection with the Shipborne case, do you?’
Wesley looked the boss in the eye. It was as though he’d read his thoughts. ‘She disappeared about a week after Shipborne’s
murder. No connection was made at the time because it was assumed that the vicar died in a robbery that went wrong. But what
if there was more to it than that?’
‘And she worked for Huntings.’ Heffernan sounded pleased with himself.
Rachel caught Wesley’s eye and gave him another shy smile.
Sunita Choudray let herself in with the key and called Pat’s name. There was no answer so she walked across the room and looked
out of the window onto the street below. She could hear the steady beat of music from one of the other flats … probably from
somewhere below: Loveday’s flat. She knew Loveday by sight but she avoided her. She avoided everyone in the squat … except
Pat.
Pat had told her once that Loveday came from a wealthy family … respectable. Sunita hadn’t asked why Loveday had swapped all
that for the squat; she didn’t want to know the details of her downward journey. Perhaps, like Sunita,
she had suffocated under the weight of respectability and, unlike Sunita, she had found the courage to break away.
Thinking of Loveday’s background conjured thoughts of her own home and she gave an involuntary shudder. Her parents, she knew,
wouldn’t rest until they saw her married respectably to a nice Indian man … and then there was Vikram, the doctor, the model
son who could do no wrong. At that moment Sunita felt all the expectations of her family crushing her but one thing was certain
– Pat’s existence must remain a secret: it would break her mother’s and father’s hearts if they knew the truth and Sunita
could never face that. In her family’s world, breaking your parents’ hearts wasn’t an option.
She heard the sound of the door handle turning. Pat was home. She took a step forward, preparing to greet her, but when the
door opened it wasn’t Pat who stood there. Loveday was facing her, framed in the doorway, frozen like a startled animal. She
wore frayed, well-washed jeans and a sleeveless black top that revealed a skinny midriff. A jewel winked in her navel, catching
the light from the window.
Sunita opened her mouth to speak. Then she noticed the scars on the woman’s wrist: old scars, shiny lines like snail trails
on the pale flesh.
Loveday stared at her for a few seconds before she spoke. ‘Where’s Pat?’ she asked. Her voice was accentless with the huskiness
of the habitual smoker.
‘I don’t know,’ said Sunita.
The woman hesitated for a moment before looking Sunita in the eye. ‘I saw you the other day,’ she said softly, before turning
on her heels and hurrying away, leaving the flat door open behind her.
A woman turned up unexpectedly last night asking to speak to me in private. She was a thin, nervous creature who reminded
me of a startled deer. Her name was Amy Hunting, not one of my parishioners … or at least not one I recognised as one of my
regular congregation. I invited her into the study and asked Mrs O’Donovan to make us a cup of tea. To cut a long story short,
she ended up confessing that she’d committed adultery with William Verlan, which surprised me greatly. Verlan’s always seemed
such a quiet man, earnest in his American way: he must have hidden depths that I never imagined. I gave her the usual stuff
about repentance and forgiveness and said that the affair must stop for her husband’s sake. It was an awkward meeting: the
woman seemed as troubled when she left as when she’d arrived, and somehow I felt I had failed her. Mrs O’D kept interrupting
us with phone messages. I must ask her not to disturb me when I have visitors – but I suspect she does it deliberately: she’s
a woman who likes to know what’s going on in the world
.I saw Dermot O’D yesterday. I’ve always wondered whether I did the right thing letting him go when I caught him taking the
magazine money from church. I thought he had been one of Damascus Farm’s
successes but now I’m really not so sure. However, I hear that he’s been seeing Helen Wilmer: she seems a nice girl and perhaps
she’ll keep him on the straight and narrow
.I drove up to Damascus Farm this morning. It’s wonderful to see those young lives being changed: funny how God works through
people like Barry Castello – just goes to show how you must never judge by appearances
.Barnaby Poulson was waiting for me when I got back. I’ve come to dread his visits and his gushing enthusiasm for Belsham’s
past. He wanted to know why I’d had the tower locked up. I told him the same as I’d told the bell-ringers … safety reasons.
He’s asked me to read over the final draft of his thesis for him when it’s ready: I could hardly refuse
.Stephen Wilmer, in his capacity as captain of the bell-ringers, is organising some sort of petition about the tower. I only
hope the whole thing will blow over soon and be forgotten
.From a diary found among the personal effects of the Reverend John Shipborne
When Wesley entered the chief inspector’s office he noticed how tired the boss looked. The bags beneath Gerry Heffernan’s
eyes were definitely growing darker and the laughter lines seemed to be furrowed deeper in his flesh. But then Wesley was
feeling the strain himself.
‘So where do we go from here, Gerry?’
Heffernan looked up. ‘God knows, ’cause I don’t. I had a dream last night. I was trying to climb this staircase and every
time I took a step upwards it slid back like an escalator going the wrong way.’
‘Frustration.’
‘Too right. And I’ve just had the Nutter on to me again. He wants the Hobson case dealt with as quickly as possible.
Top priority. Or he reckons it’ll look as though there’s some sort of cover-up.’
‘We should visit that school and try to identify the boy Hobson says he saw on the night of the murder.’
‘If he’s telling the truth. Sounds as if it comes from the bumper book of villain’s fairy tales to me.’
‘He stuck to the story. It was Norbert who ignored it.’
Heffernan shrugged his shoulders. ‘Okay. Put it on our list.’
‘And I want a word with Sunita Choudray, the assistant manager at Huntings. She’d know the store inside out … and she’s been
seen at the home of Patience Reid, the young woman who was fired. There’s probably a perfectly innocent explanation but I
don’t think there’s any harm in checking.’
Heffernan shrugged again. ‘If you think it’s worth following up, do it. What about the Helen Wilmer inquiry?’
‘Rachel’s trying to find out more about the dead girl. Dermot O’Donovan, the boyfriend, would be the obvious place to start.
I’ll organise someone to have a word with Mrs O’Donovan. It shouldn’t be hard to track him down.’
‘So everything’s under control,’ Heffernan said with a weary sigh. ‘Until someone decides to plant something nasty on Huntings’
shelves again or the press start rattling the Nutter’s cage by banging on about miscarriages of justice.’ He looked at his
watch. ‘You get on home, Wes. How’s your mate Neil, by the way?’
The mention of Neil reminded Wesley that they were still no nearer finding out what had happened on the night he was attacked.
He had a suspicion that Neil’s nighthawk and Helen Wilmer’s killer were one and the same person. But perhaps he was reading
too much into it.
‘He’s staying with me and Pam until he’s up to fending for himself.’
‘Taking in waifs and strays now, are we?’
‘It was Pam’s idea. She said she was going to help him out with some research.’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t know
whether it’s too much for her with the baby due next month.’
‘I suppose she knows best. Is Rachel still here?’
‘She was when I last looked.’
‘Tell her to get off home, will you. She’s been staying till all hours … making me feel guilty.’
‘What about you? Shouldn’t you be getting home?’
Heffernan looked up at him and gave a small, sad smile. ‘Not much fun going home to an empty house. I think I’ll stay here
for a while.’ He pointed to his paperwork. ‘Try and catch up on some of this lot.’
Wesley opened the door to the main CID office. At first it seemed that everyone had gone, then he saw Rachel working away
quietly. She had remained at her desk, frowning over a pile of witness statements from the Helen Wilmer file. Trying to find
something, anything, that would tell them what had happened to Helen between leaving her house and failing to reach the bus
stop. And trying to put off going back to Little Barton Farm until the last possible moment.
‘Time you went home, Rach,’ Wesley said lightly. ‘Had any luck with the flat-hunting yet?’
‘No. I didn’t realise it would be so difficult. Anywhere half decent costs a fortune.’
‘Go on, get home. We’ve got an early start tomorrow.’
Rachel looked up at him, her face serious. Then without a word she stood
up, fetched her coat from the stand and said goodnight. Wesley watched her go, then he returned to his seat at Heffernan’s
desk.
The first thing that Wesley noticed when he set foot in his living room was that Neil was again occupying his favourite chair.
The thought lasted only a split second before he told himself firmly that a man of his age shouldn’t have a ‘favourite chair’
– favourite chairs went with pipes and slippers, Labradors and late middle age. He was far too young for that sort of thing.
And yet the lure of home comforts
was strong after a day like the one he’d just had.
He forced himself to smile. ‘How are you, then?’
‘Surviving. Pam’s been looking after me,’ Neil said in the weak voice of an invalid. It crossed Wesley’s mind that he was
milking the situation for all it was worth. ‘Hard day at the station?’
‘You could say that. Where’s Pam?’
‘Getting the dinner. Michael’s in bed.’
‘What’s that?’ Wesley had spotted a large sheet of what looked like greaseproof paper lying on the floor beside the coffee
table. There appeared to be charcoal or pencil scrawling on it. Wesley had presumed at first glance that it was Michael’s
work, something to do with his creative development, but now he looked at it closer he wasn’t so sure … unless his undoubtedly
brilliant offspring had managed to master Latin already.
Neil shifted in the armchair and winced with pain. ‘We’ve been over to Belsham church. Pam did a rubbing of some medieval
graffiti on the wall of the tower. Remember, we thought it was vandals? And what we thought was bird droppings turned out
to be a medieval wall painting … the Three Living and the Three Dead. Know the story?’
Wesley nodded. He’d heard the gruesome tale long ago in his student days. ‘Isn’t the tower supposed to be dangerous?’ He felt
a sudden wave of anger that Neil had placed Pam and his unborn child at risk.
‘It seemed sound enough to me. I can’t understand why it hasn’t been cleaned out and opened up. It’s not every church that
can boast fourteenth-century graffiti and a complete medieval wall painting. There are bell ropes in there and light fittings …
but no bulbs: someone’s taken them out.’
Wesley sank down on the sofa. ‘Odd.’
‘I think there’s something in that tower someone doesn’t want anyone to see, and what better way of keeping people away than
putting it about that the place is dangerous.’
Wesley leaned forward; it was hard to stop yourself
thinking like a policeman when you’d been doing it all day. ‘So what have we got? A wall painting, possibly connected with
the plague. The plague pit you’ve been digging up near by. The tombs … ’
‘That mention of someone going missing.’ Neil picked up a notebook from the coffee table in front of him. ‘I’ve made a note
of all the inscriptions, and who’s this Robert – pray for him be he alive or dead?’
‘There’s that skeleton you found with his head bashed in. He had a fancy dagger. Could that have been Robert? He had gone
missing but all the time he was there under their noses, murdered and buried in Pest Field … like Helen Wilmer.’ He realised
that his imagination was running ahead of the available facts … but it was as good a theory as any.
‘That fancy dagger you mentioned was sent away to be X-rayed and Matt tells me the X-rays have shown up a coat of arms … three
things that look like half-moons. Remember the coat of arms on the Munnery memorials in the church?’
‘Three half-moons.’
‘Spot on.’
‘So what does the graffiti say?’
‘It’s a bit hard to make out but I’m going to have a go at translating it tomorrow: it’ll give me something to do.’
Wesley stared down at the rubbing. It was a mess of pencil with scrawled, uneven words, some legible, most unclear. A full
translation would need concentration and a clear head. The way things were going at work, he’d leave Neil to it. At least
it would keep him occupied.
Then Wesley suddenly remembered something. ‘You didn’t see Mrs O’Donovan today, by any chance?’
‘She gave us the key to the church. Why?’
‘Did you notice a son hanging around?’
‘A son? Well, a bloke answered the door.’ Neil said the words with a sneer. ‘Might have been her son, I suppose. Why?’
Wesley smiled. Perhaps Dermot O’Donovan would be easier to track down than he’d expected. ‘No reason,’ he said as he picked
up the newspaper and scanned the headlines.
Pam called out from the kitchen. The meal was ready … getting cold. She sounded tired and impatient. Perhaps she had needed
some help, Wesley thought guiltily.
Neil stayed put. He would have his on his knee. As Wesley made for the kitchen he found he’d suddenly lost his appetite.
The atmosphere in the CID office on Monday morning could best be described as subdued, and the weather outside matched the
mood, grey and drizzly with an autumnal chill in the air. Winter was on its way, inevitable as death.
Gerry Heffernan too wore a funereal expression which sat uncomfortably on his chubby face. He pushed some files aside so that
he could see Wesley better.
‘I’ve had that Keith Sturgeon on the phone in a right old panic again. They had another letter in the post this morning and
some uniforms went over to fetch it first thing. This time our friend has branched out into poetry.’ He produced a plastic
bag containing a sheet of paper covered with the familiar cut-out lettering.
Wesley picked the letter up and examined it. ‘“Roses are red, violets are blue”,’ he read. ‘“If I work amongst them, I may
kill you.” I don’t think the Poet Laureate has anything to worry about.’ He read on. ‘“Two sold, two more coffins to make.
If Huntings doesn’t close more lives are at stake.”’
‘Hardly Wordsworth is it? What does that bit about roses mean?’
‘It either means our poisoner is a florist or … ’ He thought for a moment. ‘What works amongst roses and violets? Flowers …
’
‘Gardeners?’
Wesley frowned, then his frown slowly blossomed into a
triumphant smile. ‘Bees. Honey. Contaminated jars of honey. It hardly needs Sherlock Holmes to work it out, does it? Almost
as if our friend wants us to find them … but it’s a bit late if two have been sold already.’
Heffernan looked impressed but not convinced. ‘He’s playing games with us. We’ll tell them to get all the honey off the shelves.
Aaron Hunting’s given Sturgeon the go-ahead to close the store today. I think he’s getting worried.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘But Hunting’s worried that the poisoner’ll turn his attention to another branch if the Morbay store closes.’
‘If he keeps this up, he could ruin Huntings.’
‘That might be his intention. Who knows? Let’s get over there and look at their
honey pots.’
‘It’s always possible that the poisoner sent the poem to confuse us and it’s got nothing to do with honey.’
But Heffernan had stood up, knocking a pile of papers to the floor. ‘You know your trouble, Wes? You think too much.’
Wesley ignored this remark. ‘Surely Forensics and Huntings’ staff have checked all the stock?’
Heffernan shrugged his shoulders and made for the door. They wouldn’t make any progress by just sitting there.
As the two men drove over to Morbay, taking the car ferry, neither said a word. Wesley’s mind was on the threats to Huntings.
They would have made sense if money had been demanded, but he couldn’t think what the writer of the letters was after. Unless
it was just to spread fear.
Huntings’ carpark was empty when they arrived. Wesley watched as drivers swept in, got out to examine the large printed notice
on the supermarket doors, then got back into their cars and drove out again. Whatever was going on at Huntings, it wasn’t
good for business.
Keith Sturgeon answered the door almost as soon as Wesley rung the bell at the staff entrance. His flesh was grey and he looked
as though he hadn’t slept. He led them into the building with the news that Mr Hunting was in his office and he wanted to
see them.