Wesley Peterson: The Blood Pit Part 10

'When for?' Heffernan chipped in. 'You haven't told us how long he's been there yet.'

'I might know more when I've done a full examination, Gerry, but I can't promise anything.' He looked round at the line of uniformed police officers who were combing the ground in the hope of finding something anything that might provide them with some clue. Until they had something they were working blind. The bones could have been there for fifty years or five.

Gerry Heffernan looked at his watch. 'Not much more we can do here, is there, Colin?'

'Got plans for tonight, Gerry?' Colin asked casually.

Wesley saw his boss's face redden. 'Oh ... er, just going out for something to eat ... er ...'

Colin gave Wesley a wink. He'd heard all about the DCI's lady friend, Joyce, who worked in the register office in Morbay. If Heffernan thought he could keep his private life secret in Tradmouth nick, he was sadly mistaken.

'I think Gerry's right,' Wesley said. 'We'll get the area sealed off and we can start a fingertip search first thing in the morning.' He looked down at the sad pile of bones. 'If he's been there for a while, a few more hours won't make much difference.'

'So what happened? Why aren't you at the hotel?' Heffernan whispered as they made their way back to the cars.

'Della happened. She promised to babysit stay the night but she had a better offer.'

The DCI shook his head. 'Oh Wes, Pam must be gutted.'

'I'm not too pleased about it myself.'

'I don't know what to say.'

Wesley gave his boss a sad smile. 'We'll just have to have a quiet night in with the proverbial takeaway. There are worse ways of spending your wedding anniversary, I suppose.'

He drove home, thinking of the unknown man who had lain alone amongst the trees for years. He was somebody's son or father or brother. Somebody must be missing him. Unless he was a loner a tramp who just lay down one day and died. Some things were too sad to contemplate.

Steve Carstairs had hoped he was on a promise when he'd turned up to meet Joanne Beeston at the Flying Pig one of Morbay's flas.h.i.+er bars. His father had told him that Joanne seemed keen, whispering the words with a nudge and a wink. She'd mentioned him that very afternoon at work and said she was going home to the small flat she was renting near Bloxham harbour to have a shower and get changed. It sounded good. Attractive girl. Unattached detective albeit one who was temporarily suspended from duty. Steve's instincts told him he couldn't go wrong.

When Joanne was half an hour late he began to wonder if his confidence was misplaced as he sat in the soft black leather sofa in the corner of the bar, tapping his feet to the beat of the music and taking occasional swigs from his bottle of lager. But eventually she arrived, breathless and apologetic, fresh from the shower and looking beautiful. Steve got her a drink and she sank into the sofa beside him with a coy smile.

'Sorry I'm late,' she said, touching his arm lightly. 'I had things to do and I lost track of the time.'

There was an awkward silence while they studiously consumed their drinks, searching for something to say.

It was Steve who spoke first. 'Did my dad say anything ... after I'd been in today?'

Joanne smiled. 'Robbie says a lot of things. He's got the gift of the gab, your dad. Talk the knickers off a nun, he could.'

'About me? Did he say anything about me?'

She hesitated. 'He told me you'd been accused of beating up a suspect. Is that true?'

Steve nodded, annoyed with his father for betraying his confidence but then Robbie had betrayed him before so it was nothing new. 'I don't always do things by the book but I never touched the little toe-rag. Not that he didn't deserve a good beating. He murdered that bloke, you know. The one in Rhode ... the wine merchant.'

Joanne's eyes widened in surprise. 'Really? I didn't think they'd got anyone for that yet. It's not been on the news.'

'I met someone I work with.' He shuffled his feet. 'An ex-girlfriend actually,' he added almost proudly. 'She said the knife he tried to use on me was the one that killed that Charles Marrick.'

Joanne gave a theatrical shudder. 'You had a narrow escape then.'

Steve sat back and considered what she'd said. 'Yeah,' he said after a while. 'I suppose I did.' He grinned at her. 'Anyway, we've got him.'

He saw the look of relief on her face and wondered whether he'd said the right thing. A killer at large would have given him the chance to play Sir Galahad, to see her home, to check her flat, to insinuate himself into her life under the guise of protecting her. He felt suddenly annoyed with himself for missing this opportunity. Next time he'd think before opening his mouth.

'So it was really you that caught him?' She sounded impressed. Perhaps things weren't so bad after all. She was starting to think of him as some sort of hero and that suited him fine.

'Yeah. I suppose it was not that I got much thanks for it.' He thought it wise to change the subject before he started to rant against what he saw as his unjust treatment. The last thing he wanted to do was to bore her ... and he felt the injustice so strongly that he didn't think he could help himself. 'How long have you been down here in glorious Devon then?' He edged closer to her, his arm draped round the back of her seat.

'It'll be almost three weeks now.'

'Do you like it down here?'

'Bit quiet after Bristol.'

'So what brought you here?'

She shrugged. 'Fancied a change, didn't I? And I knew it from when I was a kid.'

'You came here on holiday?'

'Mmm. What about you? Lived here all your life, have you?'

Steve detected a note of mockery in her question. Mummy's boy. Never been away from home. 'I'm thinking of going to London ... joining the Met. I fancy a change ... just like you.' He smirked. 'How do you like working at Burton's b.u.t.ties?'

'It's okay.'

'And that's the summit of your ambition, is it ... a sandwich shop?' He immediately regretted his sarcastic tone. 'Not that there's anything wrong with ...'

'It's all I could get at short notice. It's a job. I did a computer course in Bristol so maybe I'll be able to move on soon. And I've done a bit of interviewing work ... that was really interesting.' She took a sip of Bacardi Breezer. 'I'm keeping my options open.' She paused. 'I like your dad. He's good fun.'

There was a long pause before Steve replied. 'He walked out on me and my mum,' he said simply. 'But like you said, he's good fun. What about your family? What does your dad do?'

She gave a dismissive grunt. 'Did. He's retired.'

'What did he do before he retired?' Steve suddenly became aware that he was interrogating the woman. But he was curious. He wanted to know all about her.

'Nothing glamorous. He was a caretaker. Want another drink?'

Steve liked a woman who stood her round. But when he gave her a lift back to Bloxham, she didn't invite him in.

Some things needed time.

When Emma Tench returned from her s.h.i.+ft at the hospital at seven forty-five on Sunday morning she sensed something was wrong. Simon's Land Rover was parked outside, just as it should be. And the curtains were still drawn across he was never an early riser on a Sunday. But everything seemed too still the birds too quiet in the fields around the cottage as if the world was holding its breath.

The door swung open and she stepped inside. As the curtains were still drawn the room was fairly dark, but she could see the glossy estate agents' brochures strewn on the coffee table in an untidy heap. She walked in, intending to straighten them. But as she put her hand out to touch the brochures, she saw him out of the corner of her eye, slumped in his usual armchair. For a split second she thought he was asleep and opened her mouth to speak, to scold him for having too much whisky and pa.s.sing out before he could get upstairs.

But when she saw the blood she stood for a few seconds paralysed before saying his name, tentatively at first. Then with the heartrending despair of a mother seeking a missing child.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, she saw the drying blood splashed on the walls and floor and spread out around Simon's body like a rusty aura.

He was dead, staring with horrified eyes at the ceiling, and even Emma's medical training couldn't bring him back to life. She sank to the floor, her skirt touching the pool of blood on the bare wooden boards, and screamed.

Wesley Peterson took his wife's hand tentatively, as though he feared that she would s.n.a.t.c.h it away. 'I'm so sorry about this.'

Pam let him hold on to her hand for a few seconds then she withdrew it. She kept telling herself that being married to a policeman meant that he could be called away at inconvenient moments; that she should be glad he wasn't in the pub with his mates or spending time with another woman or like some husbands in the bookie's gambling their meagre savings on the favourite in the three thirty at Newton Abbot. Wesley was only doing his job. And, besides, it was all her mother's fault that she wasn't waking up in a hotel bed with crisp white sheets and having a leisurely shower and a full English breakfast. It was Della who had ruined their anniversary ... but she still felt a little resentful that Wesley wouldn't be there for Sunday lunch.

'It sounds similar to that murder in Rhode,' said Wesley, hoping that if he confided in her a little, made a point of sharing that part of his life, she might come to understand.

'It'll be a serial killer then,' Pam said flippantly. 'In which case I won't be seeing you for a while. You'd better leave a photograph so the kids don't forget what their dad looks like.' She saw the hurt expression on Wesley's face and immediately regretted her words. It isn't his fault, she told herself, repeating it in her head like a mantra. It isn't his fault. She remembered what had happened last time she'd felt this pent-up fury. And she recalled her fall from grace with shrivelling embarra.s.sment ... tainted with a frisson of excitement.

'I'd better go,' Wesley said, kissing her forehead with a tenderness that surprised her.

She put her hand on his arm. 'I almost forgot. Neil called yesterday. He's had another letter. I promised to tell you but with my mother and everything, it went completely out of my mind.'

'Did he leave the letter?'

She nodded. 'I put it in the drawer so the kids couldn't get at it.' She opened the drawer and handed it over. 'It's all about monks and blood. Pretty revolting.'

Wesley read it with a frown. The mention of the blood made him uncomfortable. Could the writer have known about Charles Marrick's death? Is that what the letters were about? He put it carefully into his pocket. 'I'll give him a call when I've got a moment,' he said.

He left the house just as little Amelia began to cry for attention. He felt bad about leaving. But he had no choice so he climbed into his car and started the engine. It was time to face the reality of violent death.

He was to meet Gerry Heffernan at the murder scene and when he arrived there he found him pacing up and down like a caged animal outside the confines of the police tape that hung around the boundaries of the cottage's small, gravelled, front garden. Wesley parked some way away, by the entrance to a field full of Friesians, and the chief inspector greeted him with a gruff 'Hi'. He wasn't a morning person.

'So what have we got?' Wesley asked.

'A nurse came off night duty and found her husband lying dead in the lounge.'

Heffernan paused. And Wesley knew there was more ... something that the DCI the man with the strongest stomach at Tradmouth nick found disturbing.

'Trouble is,' he continued. 'I know the victim. Well, I don't know him exactly I've never met him but I know of him. He's our Sam's new boss.'

'A vet?'

'Yeah. One of the partners in the practice. Name of Simon Tench. Our Sam's mentioned him quite a bit. He took him round with him to the farms ... showing him the ropes. Our Sam liked him. He's going to be gutted.'

Wesley nodded, unable to think of anything suitable to say.

'There's no sign of a break-in or anything missing so it's not a robbery gone wrong. And there's another thing, Wes.'

'What?'

'The MO. It's exactly the same as the other one ... Charles Marrick.'

'You've been in?'

'Took a peep. I tell you, Wes, it's exactly the same. Two wounds in the neck. No defensive wounds. Bled to death. It can't be a coincidence. We're looking for the same killer. I'd put money on it.'

Wesley raised his eyebrows. 'A dodgy wine merchant and a popular local vet. What can they have in common?'

'Search me.'

Wesley felt in his pocket. 'Neil had another letter blood and monks again. Could there be a connection?'

He handed the letter to Heffernan who scanned it quickly. 'No harm in sending it to the lab, I suppose.' He looked up and saw the police photographer emerging from the front door. 'I suppose we should take a look. The wife's being comforted by a neighbour. Rachel's with her and Colin's inside doing his bit. He'll be demanding overtime at this rate.'

Wesley followed Heffernan to the front gate where both men donned white overalls.

As they entered the house Wesley looked around. The front door led straight on to the living room. Cream walls, wood flooring, pale modern furniture. This was a rented property designed to appeal to the young professional market. Neutral. Inoffensive. Apart from the blood.

Neither man spoke and even the normally jocular Colin Bowman looked subdued. The body of Simon Tench sat slumped in the cream armchair, now stained a deep rusty red. Blood had gushed from two wounds on his neck and splashed on to the walls and the low white ceiling before running down on to the chair and the stripped wooden floor.

Wesley put his hand to his mouth. The smell of blood was strong here and a couple of flies were buzzing around in search of sustenance.

'Nasty,' was the first word Colin greeted them with. 'I met him recently, you know, at a Rotary Club do. He seemed a really nice chap and I know his wife from the hospital. Where is she now, by the way?'

'Being looked after by a neighbour,' Wesley answered quietly, staring at the dead man's face which bore an expression of horrified surprise.

'They got married eighteen months ago and rented this place,' Heffernan said. 'They were looking for somewhere to buy. In fact they were on that property programme on the telly House Hunters. He was full of it, our Sam said ... being on telly like that.'

'So Sam reckoned he was a nice bloke ... not the type to have enemies?' Wesley said quietly, almost whispering in the presence of the dead.

'Oh aye. Opposite to that Charles Marrick.'

The pathologist looked up. 'Bad business, Wesley. Terrible.'

'Would you say Tench and Marrick were killed by the same person?'

Colin nodded. 'It looks that way. But why?'

The two policemen looked at each other. They didn't have an answer for that question. Yet.

'How long has he been dead?'

Colin took a deep breath and looked at his watch. Normally he kept a professional distance from his cadavers ... it went with the job. But standing there next to the corpse of Simon Tench, he seemed genuinely upset. 'It's only an estimate but I reckon about twelve to sixteen hours. So that means he died yesterday evening ... any time between seven and eleven. Maybe I'll have a better idea when I've done the PM.' He looked at Gerry Heffernan. 'That boy ... the one you arrested I presume he's still in custody?'

'Afraid not, Colin. He tried to mug DC Carstairs but unhappily our Steve took it upon himself to punch the little b.u.g.g.e.r in the cells. Place crawling with solicitors they move like arthritic snails when you're buying and selling your house but, boy, do they s.h.i.+ft when the likes of Pinney snaps his dirty little fingers. The little toe-rag knows his rights. He was released the next day.'

Colin Bowman gave Heffernan a meaningful look as if to say 'If you'd held on to him, Simon Trench might still be alive'. Heffernan couldn't think of anything to say. He was thinking the same himself. And he was blaming Steve Carstairs for making it so easy for Carl Pinney. He'd played right into his hands.

'I suppose we'd better pick him up again,' said Heffernan with a sigh.

'There's no sign of a struggle. If Pinney had attacked him ...'

'Perhaps he'd fallen asleep in the chair. Perhaps he didn't have a chance to fight his killer off. We'll have to see if anything's missing.'

Wesley nodded in agreement then he suddenly remembered something. 'Colin, have you had a chance to look at those bones from the wood yet?'