Wesley Peterson: The Blood Pit Part 30

He'd been kind, Mr Dean. He'd carried her back home and told her father some story about an accident. She could tell by the look in her father's eyes that he didn't quite believe it but he was in no position to argue. And since her mother's death in a road accident, she had never been able to talk to him about anything deeper than trivialities so she kept her silence. Even when she was sent away to live with her aunt 'because it would be better', she'd never told. She'd been ashamed and nursed the secret that had festered inside her soul, unseen and suppressed. But when she'd met Chris Grisham up in Chester, the horror of that night had flooded back.

She'd been calling herself Jenny Pringle by then she'd adopted her aunt's surname and her father had always called her Jenny so Chris had had no idea who she was and at first she hadn't recognised him either. It was only when they got talking, trading their backgrounds, that he told her he'd been at Belsinger. Then the memory came back to her slowly, seeping like blood from a wound. She recalled his face much younger then and ridden with acne. But she'd said nothing. She let it carry on and when he became impatient with her refusal to sleep with him, she finished it, saying she'd rather be friends. She even told him that she thought she preferred women and he had made a coa.r.s.e joke but accepted it. You win some, you lose some.

She had had to use all her self-control to keep up the act, the pretence. And although he seemed quite amiable, she couldn't allow herself to see him as a human being. He was one of the boys who'd destroyed her life, left her emotionally paralysed; unable to form relations.h.i.+ps with men like the women around her did. She was petrified of physical contact. Dead to love. And she'd wanted him to die. To be helpless as she had been helpless. He had to know what it was like what he'd done to her.

The first time had been hard. She had made the hemlock she knew all about preparing herbs from her aunt who'd been keen on that sort of thing. She'd found the plant growing wild by a riverbank and had chopped up the leaves, put them in a blender and covered the pulp with best malt whisky the kind Chris liked before straining it and rebottling the poisoned drink. She knew it would paralyse him. She knew she'd be able to reveal her ident.i.ty and tell him what he'd done to her as he lay there helpless. And when she'd pierced his throat with the knife, he had had to lie there just as she had lain there on the sand, while his life blood drained away. It had been sweet, that first death. And the others had been easier almost enjoyable. She had become Nemesis. The avenging angel.

She had called on the others on Charles Marrick and Simon Tench in her market research role, armed with official-looking clipboard and small sample bottles of adulterated whisky. Funny how men can never resist the flattery of being asked their opinion ... especially about something like a fine malt whisky. She flattered and joked and they had no idea who she was. It had been so easy. She was sorry about Mortimer Dean, but he'd known the truth and he couldn't be allowed to betray her.

Now it was over. She could hear the sea, pounding relentlessly against the rocks at the edge of the beach. She had brought death to her tormentors and now it was her turn. This was how it had to end.

She began to walk towards the sea, staring ahead. But suddenly she heard a shout above the noise of the gulls. Someone was calling her name, running towards her, getting closer. She began to move, her eyes still fixed ahead. They wouldn't take her alive.

But she couldn't resist looking round and she was relieved to see that he'd come alone. Steve Carstairs was getting nearer, his progress hampered by the soft sand. If she was going to do it, it had to be now before he could stop her. She began to run towards the waves. Then into the water, gasping as the cold waves. .h.i.t her warm flesh. She waded out, frustrated at the weight of sea slowing her steps. She was up to her shoulders. Her neck. She walked on. He wouldn't save her. It was over. It had to be.

She could still hear him shouting. He was in the water too, up to his waist now. The current knocked her off her feet and she let the water take her, going under for the first time then bobbing up for breath.

She turned towards the sh.o.r.e but she couldn't see Steve. Maybe he had given up she hoped he had. Suddenly she spotted his head and arms thras.h.i.+ng about in the water. Then he went under. And she did the same.

When she surfaced again there were sirens. Police cars on the beach. And figures in wet suits coming after her, swimming strongly.

The next thing she knew she felt rough hands on her body, dragging her up on to the sand as she fought, coughing and spluttering. They were pulling at her arms, hurting her. Just like those boys had hurt her years ago.

Her head began to spin as the effort of the fight became too much. Someone the woman called Trish she had seen once at Steve's flat was putting a blanket around her shoulders. And someone was shouting, asking where Steve was as she slumped back, shuddering, and vomited on to the damp, golden sand.

Gerry Heffernan and Wesley Peterson had hardly said a word on the journey back to Tradmouth. Both men felt numb, stunned. And both experienced a nagging guilt that in life they hadn't really liked Steve Carstairs. In death, they both knew, Steve would become a fallen comrade. A hero. De mortuis nil nisi bonum. n.o.body would ever speak ill of Steve again.

It was Heffernan who broke the stunned silence. 'Those currents are b.l.o.o.d.y lethal, Wes,' he said softly. 'He was an idiot to go in there. He didn't stand a chance.'

'She did.'

'She was b.l.o.o.d.y lucky for once in her life.'

'I doubt if she'd see it that way. She's got a life sentence ahead of her.'

'Or a spell at Her Majesty's pleasure in a secure psychiatric hospital. Under the circ.u.mstances ...'

Wesley shook his head. 'She planned it so carefully. There's no way any jury's going to believe a plea of insanity. And she killed Mortimer Dean just to cover her tracks.'

Gerry Heffernan didn't answer. Wesley, he knew, was probably right. 'Didn't you say you needed to see Neil?'

'Yes. It seems he's done our job for us. He's found out the truth about this skeleton business.' He gave Heffernan a brief outline of the facts.

The DCI gave a low whistle. 'That's a turn-up for the books. Fancy going to see him now?' he said like a parent trying to give a child a treat to distract him from something unpleasant.

But Wesley hardly felt in the mood for Neil at that moment. Steve filled his thoughts. Steve whom he had never really liked. Steve who'd given him a hard time. Steve whom Gerry had threatened to return to uniform as soon as the Spider case was over. He could hardly believe he was dead. That he wouldn't slouch into the CID office in that leather jacket like Jack the Lad, fancying himself.

'I'll have to go and break the news to his mum,' Heffernan said quietly. 'Say what a fine officer he was and that he'd died trying to rescue someone.' He sighed. 'Why is it I feel like such a hypocrite, Wes?'

'Can't you leave it to CS Nutter?'

'No, Wes. I've got to do it myself. He was part of my team. Why don't we see Neil first thing tomorrow, eh? See what he's got to say about those bones in the woods.'

'Barry Ickerman 'What?'

'The skeleton's name. Barry Ickerman. s.e.x offender of the parish of Luton or thereabouts.' He sighed. 'We've cleared up two cases today. Why is it I don't feel like celebrating?'

Gerry Heffernan touched his sleeve. He knew exactly what Wesley meant.

Wesley was silent as they drove out to Stow Barton the next morning with Heffernan by his side. He parked by the gate and both men made their way to the excavation. The first person they came across was Norman Hedge. He smiled nervously at Wesley who greeted him solemnly.

'Any progress, Inspector?'

The two policemen looked at each other. There was no harm in giving the man the bare facts. After all, he'd suffered at Charles Marrick's hands too. 'We've made an arrest, Mr Hedge. A young woman who used to live at Belsinger School. She was the daughter of the caretaker there a Janet Blincoe.'

Hedge looked surprised. 'I remember her. She was a nervous little thing terrified of her own shadow. She disappeared suddenly went to live with her aunt or something. Surely you've made a mistake.'

After a few rea.s.suring words, they went off in search of Neil. They found him talking to Lenny. Lenny looked bored: Neil's archaeological and historical findings were clearly still at odds with his imaginative version of what went on at Stow Barton. Blood rituals are far more compelling than the uncomplicated if old fas.h.i.+oned medical procedure of blood-letting. Who needs the facts to get in the way when you've already decided on the story? It was a good job Wesley was used to keeping an open mind or Carl Pinney would still have been behind bars for Charles Marrick's murder.

Neil spotted the two detectives and beckoned them into the site office. Wesley noticed that he looked pale and drawn. Not his usual self. He sat on a rickety office chair by a makes.h.i.+ft desk while Wesley and his boss perched on a pair of upturned milk crates.

'Are you okay?' Wesley sounded concerned. He'd rarely seen Neil so agitated, playing with a trowel that had been lying on the desk, turning it over and over in his fingers.

'Not really.'

'Sorry I couldn't see you yesterday but ...'

Neil looked up at him reproachfully.

'So what happened?'

'Diane tried to kill herself.'

'Is she ... ?'

'Still in hospital. But she'll be fine.'

Gerry Heffernan cleared his throat. 'Wes tells me you've found out who killed our skeleton in the woods. After my job, are you?' he said, his mind only half on the question. He knew he had to see Steve's mother and he wanted to do it sooner rather than later ... to get it over and done with. And there was his father too at Burton's b.u.t.ties. He'd almost forgotten about the father.

'So tell us about it,' Wesley said gently.

Neil scratched his head. 'Okay. Where do I start?'

'Try the beginning.'

'Well, Diane was just a kid at the time. She was on holiday at Sunacres and she was playing in the wood when this man tried to attack her. She had a penknife with her and lashed out, I suppose. It was an accident self-defence at worst.'

'She didn't tell anyone?'

Neil shook his head. 'She was scared stiff. She just left him there and tried to pretend it never happened. You can understand it really. Terrified kid. Bad man. It must have been awful for her, keeping that to herself all these years. What a thing to have to live with ... no wonder it sent her over the edge.'

'I'm sure no charges will be brought,' said Wesley. 'But we'll need to speak to her.'

'Yeah, I know.' He reached across the desk and picked up a pile of papers. Photocopies. 'Annabel found these. Extracts from the Comperta the report John Tregonwell, Henry VIII's commissioner, made about Veland Abbey.' He paused. 'Diane found the abbot's journal in the cathedral archives in Exeter too and something in it reminded her of what happened ... brought it all flooding back. Here, take this copy. I've got another. It makes for interesting reading.' As he handed the papers over to Wesley he looked from one man to the other. He'd been so engrossed in Diane's problems that he hadn't noticed until now that the two policemen seemed more subdued than usual. 'What's the matter? You look as if you're off to a funeral.'

'Steve's dead ... DC Carstairs. He drowned trying to rescue a suspect.'

Neil's mouth fell open. 'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l,' he muttered. 'That's bad.'

Annette Marrick pa.s.sed the man in the High Street. She almost didn't recognise him dressed like that. Last time she'd seen him he'd been wearing shorts. On the day she'd found Charlie dead he'd been walking across the drive of Foxglove House with a woman. She stared back at him for a second then turned away.

If he'd witnessed anything, he would have told the police. And, if she was honest, she didn't really care any more. Charlie was dead and she was glad. It saved the expense of a divorce and this way she kept the house.

But something made her pick up the phone and dial DI Peterson's number. She'd rather liked him. And, since Petronella had gone back to Bath, she wanted someone to talk to.

The atmosphere in the CID office was tense. One of their own was dead. It didn't matter if he'd been an awkward b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He was one of them. His mother and father had been told. His father had also been informed about the involvement of his a.s.sistant, Joanne. He'd said he didn't believe she was the killer they'd all been calling the Spider but he didn't do much arguing. Steve was gone and the world and its priorities had changed in a moment.

Janet Blincoe was safely under lock and key. She'd be notorious for a while then she'd drop from the public's radar only to be resurrected from time to time in true crime books. Wesley had told Heffernan he felt a bit sorry for her. But the DCI had replied that he was too soft. Always had been. Had he ever considered a career as a social worker?

There seemed little to do now apart from tie up the loose ends. Wesley had a headache coming on after comforting a sobbing Trish Walton. The depth of her grief surprised him. He suspected it surprised her too.

He needed a distraction so he picked up the papers Neil had given him and began to read. First he tackled the report of King Henry's commissioner, John Tregonwell, into the state of Veland Abbey with its intriguing remark at the end about an event so terrible he could not speak of it. Then, before he could make a start on the abbott's journal, his phone rang.

It was Annette Marrick. She had something to tell him. It probably wasn't important but she'd seen a couple walking away from the gates of Foxglove House on the day her husband died. She'd thought they were just out for a walk so she'd forgotten all about them. But she'd seen the young woman since in that sandwich bar on the High Street in Tradmouth. And she'd seen the man today that's what had triggered the memory. Wesley asked her to describe him and Annette was happy to oblige. In fact she sounded eager to talk. It must be lonely, he thought, in that rambling house alone with the bloodstains and the memories.

He thought about the call as he began to read the extract from the abbott's journal.

Then he told Gerry Heffernan he was going out. He had something to do.

Father Joseph left them alone. He answered to a higher authority than the police but he didn't believe in rocking the boat. If an inspector wished to see Brother Francis that was okay by him.

'How are you?' he asked as Francis sat down opposite him in the plain little visitors' room with the large crucifix in the centre of the wall.

'Shaken. She is all right?'

'She's been taken into custody. But I'm afraid one of our officers drowned trying to rescue her.'

Francis looked shocked. The colour drained from his face as he made the sign of the cross and muttered a prayer for the dead. 'I'm so sorry,' he said, his head bowed. And he sounded as though he meant it.

Wesley decided on the element of surprise. 'What were you doing with Janet Blincoe at Foxglove House on the day Charles Marrick died?'

The monk looked stunned. Then he put his head in his hands.

'She didn't work alone, did she? I was wondering how she came to know about poisons. You work in the gardens here, don't you?'

Francis nodded. 'Yes, but I a.s.sure you that Janet's knowledge of poisons didn't come from me. She already knew all about hemlock. The aunt who took her in was a keen herbalist. She'd taught her a lot.'

'Whose idea was it to get your revenge on Charles Marrick?'

There was a long silence. 'Janet got in touch with me via e-mail. She'd found out where I was through the school website that Mortimer Dean so a.s.siduously kept up to date and suggested that we meet. She said she had something to tell me. This isn't an enclosed order, Inspector. I was able to go up north to meet her. She was living in Chester and we met halfway, in Lichfield ... in the cathedral. She said she'd met Christopher Grisham ... and then she told me she'd killed him. I was shocked, of course, but I understood. I can never forget what happened that night. I told her she had to go to the police and make a full confession but ...'

Wesley looked the man in the eye. 'You never raped her, did you? And she didn't try to kill you today. The hospital said your wounds were only superficial. When you heard us coming you wounded yourself to make it look convincing. If we hadn't arrived, Janet would have just gone away. Left the area and taken up a new ident.i.ty, am I right? You met her to say goodbye.'

'If that's what you believe ...'

After a few moments of silence Wesley spoke again. 'Janet wasn't the only person Charlie Marrick raped back then, was she?'

His mouth fell open and the colour drained from his face. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Marrick raped you too.'

Francis looked up. There were tears welling in his eye, trickling down his cheek. 'I've spent my life trying to come to terms with what happened; doing my best to forget. My faith told me quite clearly that I should forgive but somehow I never could, however hard I tried. Marrick scarred my body and my mind, inspector. I kept quiet about Janet's rape because Charlie threatened that if I didn't, I'd be next. I did as I was told but he ...'

'He did it anyway?' Wesley suddenly felt deeply sorry for the man sitting there before him.

'You don't know what he was like. He was evil.'

'So you helped her to kill him,' Wesley said gently.

Francis wiped his eyes with his sleeve. 'It was a terrible thing to do,' he whispered. 'Even to the man who ...'

'What about the others Simon Tench and Mortimer Dean?'

He swallowed hard. 'Janet killed Simon he'd been one of the ones who ... She'd seen him on some property programme, she said, with his smug wife her words not mine.'

'And Mortimer Dean?'

The tears welled again. 'Mortimer had always known exactly what happened, you see. Janet gave me some of the poisoned whisky she'd prepared. Mortimer was very partial to single malt. I took it round as a present. He was delighted. I wanted him to die happy, you see.'

'But why?'

'Because he knew too much. Janet said he couldn't be allowed to betray us. I didn't want to kill him, honestly. But I knew she was right. As he lay there I told him how sorry I was ... asked his forgiveness.'

Wesley recited the familiar words of the caution and then led Brother Francis gently away.

CHAPTER 15.

From the journal of Abbott Thomas Standing 11th October 1535.

Brother William came to me this hour weeping and sore afraid. I a.s.sured him of my protection even though he killed a man. I told him that man was corrupt, a devil, and he has asked forgiveness of Our Lord who died for our sins on the cross and pardons all that truly repent, so his soul is in no peril.

Brother Silas was ever a corrupter of souls like the serpent in Eden. And when he tried to force Brother William to submit to his unnatural l.u.s.ts as he had forced other novices I have since learned Brother William stabbed him at the seyney house with the lancet the brother infirmerer uses for the bloodletting. It seems that the leisure of the seyney house inflamed Brother Silas's desires. It may be that the rule is too lax there. By some misfortune the blade struck Brother Silas's throat, in a place where the blood flows freely and cannot be stopped. Brother William was sore afraid and his tormentor bled to death as it was night and in a most private place so there was no help to be had.

Brother William confessed all to me and I absolved him of his sins. Perhaps I too am guilty as I feel no pity at this man's death. Brother Silas lies in the chapel tonight and the brothers keep vigil. I have told Brother William not to touch the corpse lest it begins to bleed again as murdered corpses are wont to do in the presence of their murderer. He will be buried tomorrow in the brothers' resting place and I pray that will be an end to the matter.