The Merchant's House Part 11

'No way. I'd stake my pension on it. He's their only kid, after years of trying apparently.'

'She wouldn't be the first adoring mother who couldn't cope; something just snaps and ...'

'No, Gerry, you're on the wrong track there. The poor woman's desperate, rings every day.'

'Can't be easy.'

'It isn't, Gerry. It gets to me, I can tell you.'

Heffernan looked at his watch. 'Come on, Stan. Drink up. Work calls.'

Stan Jenkins drained his gla.s.s but showed no signs of moving. He looked up at Heffernan. 'Do you know, Gerry, I've actually started praying that we'll find this kid alive. I'm getting past it, getting too involved.'

Heffernan gave his fellow inspector a comforting slap on the shoulder and made his way through the a.s.sembled drinkers towards the door. Stan Jenkins rose to follow him, his face troubled.

Cedric Mutch didn't trust officialdom. Taxmen, VAT men (and women they were usually worse than the men), snoopers from the Social Security ... and police: police were the worst of the lot; police meant trouble.

When he got back to the office, his colleagues had greeted him with all the enthusiasm that medieval peasants must have reserved for one who brought the Black Death to their village. The police were waiting for him. And police were about as welcome in the shabbily appointed offices of Cab-u-like as plague rats.

Rachel's eyes stung with the fog of smoke as she invited Cedric Mutch to sit down. Mutch, a weasel-like man with thinning hair and an insignificant moustache, did so, and lit a cigarette with a cheap disposable lighter. Remembering the desirability of b.u.t.tering up the law (and his manners) he offered the packet to Rachel, who politely refused, and Steve, who resisted temptation.

'Now, Mr Mutch,' Rachel began. 'You took a fare to Peasgoode Avenue earlier today. Could you give me a description of the man and tell us where you took him next?'

Mutch couldn't get the information out fast enough, relieved that he himself wasn't the focus of the investigation.

Rachel could almost hear the sighs of relief as they left the premises and climbed into their car.

The address Mutch had given them was just outside the village of Whitstone, about four miles from Tradmouth. They drove out of the town past the whitewashed council estate, banished to Tradmouth's farthest end. They pa.s.sed the holiday park, uninviting in the autumnal drizzle, with its insubstantial chalets. Rachel's hand tightened on her seat belt as Steve turned left off the main road and tore down the narrow, hedge-walled lanes. She wished she had insisted on driving herself.

The cottage was easy to find. It had started small but had sprouted a couple of single-storey extensions over the years. It had the unfinished look of a house undergoing major renovation, an impression confirmed by the half-filled skip in the driveway and the piles of building materials in what had once been a well-kept front garden. There was no sign of life.

Rachel noticed that something had caught Steve's attention. He wandered around the garden examining bricks, guttering and bags of cement, consulting his notebook as he picked his way round the obstacle course. Rachel watched with curiosity; she had rarely seen Steve so conscientious.

'Hey, Rach, this stuff. I reckon it could be some of the gear nicked from those building sites. Same makes.'

'You're sure?'

'Well, I can't be sure, but ...'

'Well spotted.' Rachel thought a bit of encouragement wouldn't go amiss. 'You can look into it when we've dealt with the other business. Come on.'

He knocked at the door; a gla.s.s door of 1960s vintage. The flaking paint had encroached on the frosted gla.s.s; Rachel hoped that the renovations would include a replacement front door. A dark figure approached down the hallway. The door opened.

'h.e.l.lo, Charlie.' It was Steve who spoke, macho, swaggering, like he'd seen it done on the telly. 'Mind if we come in?'

Rachel showed her warrant card; at least one of them should be doing things by the book she'd have a word with Steve later. 'Detective Constable Tracey, Tradmouth CID. I presume you know DC Carstairs?'

'He was at school with my brother,' Steve chipped in helpfully.

Mr Carl stood aside to let them in and led them sullenly into the living room, seemingly the only room untouched by the hands of the absent builders.

'This your house, sir?' Rachel looked around.

'My sister's. She's away in Canada for a few weeks visiting her husband's brother.' Carl shuffled uncomfortably.

'Anyone else in the house, sir?'

A floorboard creaked above their heads. Rachel looked at Steve. Carl swallowed hard and shook his head.

'What were you doing in Peasgoode Avenue at around ten this morning, sir?'

'Er, I was on my way to visit a friend. I realised I'd forgotten something. I asked the taxi to bring me back here.'

'Bit expensive, taking taxis and changing your mind,' Steve said meaningfully. He stood blocking the door, arms folded. Rachel wished he wouldn't try quite so hard to play the macho copper. He'd clearly been watching too much television.

Carl shot him a dirty look. 'If you lot hadn't taken my licence off me I wouldn't have to rely on taxis, would I?'

Rachel tried charm. 'Who were you going to see?'

'A girl.'

'Could I have her name, please, sir? It might help to clear this up.'

'Look, I've not committed any crime, right?'

Rachel smiled politely. 'We can always discuss this down at the station if you prefer, sir.' The old ones were always the best. She saw the fight go out of Carl's eyes.

The door opened, almost knocking Steve sideways.

'It's okay, Carl. Thanks. I'd rather get this over with.'

Standing in the doorway was a man: average height; average build; mid-thirties; dark hair beginning to recede slightly. He wore jeans and a grey T-shirt. The type of man you'd pa.s.s in the street without a second glance.

Rachel spoke. 'h.e.l.lo, John.'

Steve Carstairs watched open-mouthed as their quarry strolled into the room and sat down on the battered green Dralon sofa, a look of resignation on his face.

He spoke quietly. 'Look, I'm sorry for causing so much trouble. I panicked when I heard she was dead. I needed time on my own. I loved that girl. I did ... I loved that girl.'

The remnants of his composure disappeared. Near to tears, John wiped his arm across his moistened nose and eyes. Rachel watched him carefully. As far as she could tell the grief seemed genuine. But you never could tell.

'I think we should get down to the station, sort things out,' she said gently.

John followed her meekly to the waiting car.

In the recently screened-off section of the site Dr Bowman smiled as he bent over the exposed skeleton.

'Well, I can just about say with certainty that she's dead.'

'She?'

'Oh yes, it's a she. And there's still some fragments of hair and clothing. Look. Quite well preserved. Doesn't look modern, I can tell you that much. Not much else, though, at the moment.' He looked at Neil. 'You're sure this wasn't a burial ground of some kind?'

'You're standing in what was the cellar of a late-sixteenth-century merchant's house. The shop would have been at the front over there with a parlour behind, then the courtyard, then the kitchens and warehouse at the back. Look, you can see the remains of the well in what would have been the courtyard.' The doctor nodded. 'I found this near the hand; it might have been buried with her.' Neil held out a coin, not yet cleaned up. 'We've photographed it in situ but I thought I'd have a look at it. Might help with the date.'

'And does it?' Dr Bowman asked, curious.

'It's James I, a sovereign.'

Wesley had been watching the proceedings with interest. 'I think we can take it the police needn't be involved, then?'

'There'll be formalities, of course, but I think this one's out of your jurisdiction, Sergeant,' said the doctor. 'About four hundred years out, so you can relax.'

'Can you tell how she died?'

'That depends. I'll get her back to the mortuary and have a look. Just out of interest, of course.'

Jane was hovering nervously. 'If you could be careful with any fabric that's there, Doctor ... I'd like to examine what there is, if I may. Maybe send it for conservation if it's suitable.'

'Naturally.'

It was over an hour before the skeleton was gently released from its resting place by trowels and brushes. Colin Bowman took the opportunity to go to lunch, but Wesley helped as much as his unsuitable clothes would allow.

When the doctor returned, he bent over the skeleton which lay awaiting its journey in the mortuary van. He turned to the archaeological team, who were standing awkwardly, unsure what to do next.

'You're absolutely certain that this section of the site didn't show signs of recent disturbance?'

'Yeah,' said Neil with conviction. 'There was a layer of concrete on top of this lot which dated back to the turn of the century, then soil and rubble filling in the cellars, then the flags of the old cellar floor. This is about three feet under the flags.'

'Thank G.o.d for that,' said Bowman with evident relief.

'Why?' Wesley asked, his curiosity aroused.

'I won't know for certain till I've made a proper examination, maybe not even then. Look at those dark stains on the facial bones. They could have been caused by the rupture of blood vessels. That's often an indication of suffocation or strangulation. And look at this round the neck. Looks like the remains of a strip of leather, a belt or something. Would you agree?' He looked up at Wesley. 'I think you might have a murder victim on your hands, Sergeant.'

Chapter 13.

Trade is good and I am needing more help in the shop. This morning I did meet with a captain in the b.u.t.terwalk who had news of my ships. He a.s.sures me all is well and the weather fair. Elizabeth is desirous of moving the stair from the pa.s.sage to the back of the shop. It would be better for her to keep watch on the shop were I to be out of the house. Master Mellyn, the carpenter, saith he knows of a ship's mast which can be used in the construction.

I did see Jennet this morning in the garden, gathering herbs. She did not see me.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,

18 May 1623

Heffernan switched on the tape machine, uttered the legally required words, then sat back and looked at the man on the other side of the table. Sometimes this was how killers looked defeated.

'When did you meet Karen Giordino?'

'Couple of years back. Business trip to Blackpool. She worked at the hotel.'

'What do you do for a living, Mr Fielding?'

'Sales executive agricultural chemicals.'

'And you were selling these in Blackpool, these agricultural chemicals?'

'No. It was a conference.'

Heffernan sat back. 'Very nice. Conferences in hotels, pretty girls. Unfortunately Sergeant Peterson and I never get the chance, do we, Sergeant?' Wesley shook his head co-operatively. 'We leave that sort of thing to chief superintendents and the like. Are you married, Mr Fielding?'

'Divorced.'

'Was this before or after you met Karen?'

'Er ... I was separated then.'

'Did you move in with Karen right away?'

'No. That was about two years ago. I was seeing her every weekend and she wasn't having much luck with her modelling work so we decided to rent a cottage together. Other side of Morbay. Then the owners wanted us out so we got the flat.'

'Were you happy?'

John looked up. It seemed a strange question. 'We were okay. Had our ups and downs like everyone.'

'And a couple of weeks ago you had a down, eh?'

'I didn't say that.'

'What made you do a runner? Why didn't you stay in the flat?'

John sat for a while contemplating his fingers. 'I was scared. Karen had disappeared and I heard that a blonde woman had been found murdered. Then when I saw her picture in the papers I panicked. All right?' He looked up defiantly.