The Merchant's House Part 17

Wesley looked at his watch. It was nearly time to brave the bank manager.

Rachel looked out of the car window as they drove through Morbay and thought how the place had changed.

In her childhood the resort was the very pinnacle of respectability: retired colonels; tea dances among the potted palms; highcla.s.s shops; young families consuming ice cream while seated in munic.i.p.al deckchairs on the beach below the ornamental gardens. She had been brought there as a treat. Parts of the town still retained the aura of bygone prosperity: the white villas perched above the town, one of them the home of Karen Giordino, were still leafy and desirable. But the town itself, Rachel noted, was showing signs of wear, like an elderly lady wearing too much makeup. The purveyors of luxury goods in the main street by the marina were slowly being replaced by amus.e.m.e.nt arcades. Hoteliers, hit by hard times, were accepting guests from the DSS rather than the rosycheeked young families of yesteryear. Gangs of youths roamed the streets in and out of season. The Drug Squad kept a careful eye on the place. It was not how Rachel remembered it.

She asked herself why she had allowed Steve to drive, knowing perfectly well it wasn't one of his talents. She told him as much. 'Your driving's b.l.o.o.d.y lethal. I'll make sure I come with Sergeant Peterson next time.'

'Fancy him, do you? Is it true what they say about black men?' Steve leered unpleasantly and put his hand on her knee.

Rachel hit the offending hand hard with her fist and turned on him, furious. 'I've had enough of you, Steve. You're getting as bad as Harry b.l.o.o.d.y Marchbank.'

'Good copper, Harry Marchbank,' said Steve with a smile.

'He was an ignorant pig, Steve. And you'd better not follow his example or Gerry Heffernan'll have you back on the streets handing out parking tickets. Understand?'

Steve was silenced for a few moments, but he knew he had touched a nerve. Maybe Rachel did fancy Wesley Peterson. It was a situation that would need watching.

The address they had been given was on a fairly respectable side of town. Rows of Victorian semis, only a few divided into flats, stood each side of Albert Road. Number 33 had two bells. Rachel rang the bottom one. There was no answer, so she worked her way up.

The door was answered by an elderly lady, still sprightly, with sharp blue eyes. Rachel thought that here was a good witness: nothing much would get past her. She asked if a Sharon Carteret lived there.

'There was a young lady on the bottom floor. She introduced herself as Sharon, but she didn't say her second name. They don't nowadays, do they? She seemed a nice girl quiet.'

'Did she live alone?'

'Dear me, no. She had a husband ... and a little boy. Very sweet he was. Such a shame they didn't stay long. I did offer to babysit, you know. Won't you come in? I'll pop the kettle on.'

Rachel was longing for a cup of tea, Steve for something stronger, but he'd make do. They followed the lady, who had introduced herself as Mrs Willis, up the stairs.

Her flat was cosy and filled with the memorabilia of a lifetime. She had obviously lived in this topfloor flat for many years. Rachel said as much.

'Oh yes, dear. I've seen a lot of comings and goings in that bottom flat, I can tell you.'

'Can you tell us about this family downstairs? Are they still living there?'

'Oh no, dear. It's empty at the moment. They moved out very suddenly while I was away.' She suddenly looked coy. 'My dancing partner thinks they did a moonlight flit, but I wouldn't like to say.'

'What were they like?'

'As I said, she was very nice. He never spoke. Wore an earring.' She whispered confidentially. 'I think she might have married beneath her.'

Rachel nodded and tried to look suitably disapproving. 'And the little boy?'

'Such a sweet child the image of his father.'

'What was his name?'

'Daniel. They called him Danny.'

'And the father's name?'

'Chris.'

'Did Sharon talk about herself?'

'No. No, she didn't. I came down and introduced myself. I always believe in being a good neighbour. Sharon was very polite, told me their names, but that's all really. I don't think he worked. If he'd been out during the day I would have invited her up for a cup of tea. It's surprising what you can learn over a cup of tea. But then I suppose you know that in the police force. What have they done? Why are you after them? Have they robbed a bank?'

'No.' Rachel decided to spare Mrs Willis's feelings. 'It's something quite different. What happened when they went? Did they say anything?'

'I'm afraid I was away. I've just spent three weeks at my daughter's in Brighton. When I got back yesterday they'd gone, just disappeared. I asked the landlord but he didn't know any more than I did. The rent was paid till the end of the month so he didn't worry. You know what these landlords are like nowadays, only interested in money. More tea?'

'No, thank you, Mrs Willis. That was lovely.' Rachel, ever a favourite with her numerous greataunts, was good with elderly ladies. 'Is the flat downstairs occupied now?'

'Oh no, dear. It's still empty.' She delved into an empty vase and pulled out a key. 'I've got this. The landlord's left me one in case anybody comes to view it.'

Rachel took the key. 'Thank you, Mrs Willis, you've been very helpful. I'll bring back the key when we've had a little look.' She smiled sweetly.

Rachel stood in the hallway looking at the key. She could tell Steve was growing impatient. She drew another key from her pocket.

'Sergeant Peterson gave me this,' she said. 'It's the one that was found in the handbag.'

She tried it in the lock. It opened the door. They hadn't needed Mrs Willis's spare key after all.

The flat had a chill air, an unoccupied feeling. The furniture stood plain and unadorned, waiting for the next tenant to add their touch of individuality. The place was cleanish, modern and unpretentious. Rachel had seen better... and much worse. But there was something bothering her, something at the back of her mind. And she couldn't think what it was.

Wesley had once considered accountancy as a career, but after several seconds' thought had dismissed the idea. His visit to the bank confirmed the wisdom of that decision. Rows of figures had never been his strong point.

The bank's records, now neatly consigned to computer, had revealed that the large sum had been paid into Sharon Carteret's newly opened deposit account roughly two years ago; the monthly payments had begun a year after that. All the transactions had been conducted in cash. Where, Wesley wondered, had the money come from? He sat at his desk back at the station and looked at the information the bank had given him. It didn't make sense ... yet.

The bank's records also showed that Sharon had changed jobs a few months before the money was paid in. She had once worked for a building society in Tradmouth. Another line of enquiry.

He worked till six, managing to reduce the size of his paperwork pile by more than twothirds. After explaining to Heffernan where he was going and being offered the services of PC Johnson, he set off for the Embankment. Johnson's presence in uniform would add a useful element of officialdom when he tackled the boy with the metal detector.

Mr Seddon had been right about the boy's routine. A few youths, too old for school and at a loose end, were hanging about at the top of the castle ferry steps. They weren't doing anything illegal, or even very antisocial, just slouching aimlessly, consuming cans of drink and cigarettes. Two of them clutched metal detectors like wands of office. The ferryman tied up his small bluepainted craft below and eyed the boys with some suspicion. Wesley strolled over to them casually. Johnson followed behind. He recognised some of these lads as younger alumni of his old school, Tradmouth Comprehensive. He hoped they wouldn't recognise him.

Wesley showed his warrant card and asked who had taken a ring to the jeweller's. Darren, who had never been mixed up with the police, stared at Wesley with hostile interest, but stayed silent. The boys all shook their heads and tried to look as blameless as a gaggle of choirboys. But unfortunately for Darren, Mr Seddon chose that moment to come out of his shop to lock up. The jeweller saw the policemen and started to approach the group, but Darren spotted him first and took to his heels, clutching the metal detector, his prized possession, to his chest. Johnson gave chase; he had not been Tradmouth Comprehensive's 800 metres champion for nothing.

The rugby tackle grazed Darren's elbow and his pride but didn't damage his metal detector. The other boys scurried away as Johnson brought Darren back. The police were bad news. They didn't want to get involved.

Darren looked as if he'd rather be anywhere than being frogmarched along the Embankment by a sixfoot spotty policeman.

'Is this the boy, Mr Seddon?' Wesley said quietly. The lad stood pathetically in front of him.

Seddon nodded. 'I'll unlock the shop, Sergeant. You can talk to him in there.'

Darren, in Wesley's judgement, told the truth or the truth according to Darren. 'It was only a bit of waste ground. I only dug it up like I do on the river. What's wrong with that? It don't belong to no one.'

Wesley explained patiently and in the simplest of terms about private property and archaeological digs. Darren hung his head. 'I've not got to go to court, have I? Me mum'll kill me. I never knew it were against the law. I never ...'

The boy looked so small, so pathetic, that Wesley found himself feeling sorry for him. Strictly speaking he should have charged him, but he decided on this occasion to use his discretion.

'Darren, I'm going to ask you to come to the site with me and show us exactly where you found the ring and anything else you took that night. Okay?'

Darren nodded. His eyes had begun to fill with tears.

Mr Seddon watched them go. The ring was a nice piece; he could have made a few bob on it, he thought, but it wouldn't do to get on the wrong side of the law in his business. He shrugged and locked the shop.

Neil was surprised to see Wesley in the company of a boy in a baseball cap and a young uniformed policeman. Darren hung back, looking guilty, as Wesley explained the situation and returned the jewel of the dig to its rightful keeper.

Neil spoke to the boy. 'Has the sergeant explained about the damage those metal detectors can do?' Darren, crestfallen, nodded and shuffled his feet. 'Tell you what. Come round here tomorrow morning and I'll let you do a bit of digging.' Darren nodded again, eagerly this time. 'You'll have to do exactly as you're told, mind. And bring that infernal machine of yours and you can go through the spoil heaps, see if there's any coins we've missed. Okay?' Darren's eyes shone. Just wait till he told his mates. 'Off you go now. See you tomorrow. It's hard work, mind.'

Darren grinned widely and ran off before Neil could change his mind.

'Thanks, Neil. Nice bit of community service you've arranged there.'

'Come off it, Wes. We could do with a few extra pairs of hands, you know that. Time's short. I got to the museum this afternoon after I'd seen you. Turned up quite a lot of information. They even had the original accounts from when the place was built three shillings for timber and all that sort of thing. And the records of the shop accounts. It's fascinating if you've got time to go through it all, which you probably won't have. There's even more stuff at that museum so I'm going back there tomorrow. The Banizeds were what you'd call comfortably off. They sent ships out to Newfoundland in the spring, brought back cargoes of salted fish and traded it for wine and luxury goods in Europe that's on top of the cloth trade, of course. They can't have been short of a bob or two. One interesting thing in 1623 they replaced the staircase and used a ship's mast for the centre post. It's all down in the accounts. An early example of recycling. And the cellar was flagged in 1624 so our bodies probably predate that.'

'You're going to use all this in the exhibition?'

'You bet your life I am. Pity we don't know who the bodies belong to.'

'Keep digging and you might find out. Jennet's a possible. Looks as if the ring was buried with her.'

'Trouble is, Wes, we might never know.'

'I'd better be off. Got a lot to catch up on.'

Wesley walked off slowly, reluctantly, heading for home. Pam had put the card proclaiming tomorrow's clinic appointment in pride of place on the mantelpiece. He hoped, for her sake, that nothing would prevent him from keeping it. He walked up the hilly streets wondering what mood she would be in when he got home.

Chapter 18.

I am drawn to Jennet's chamber every night. I tell my wife I am at work in the warehouse. How easily the lie doth come to my lips. My l.u.s.t hath made me a deceiver but I cannot give up what I must have. I plunge into Jennet's fair body each night as a man doth plunge a burning hand into cool water. To have her is to cool for a time the burnings of my desire. But my appet.i.te doth increase with consumption.

Elizabeth is glad that I have ceased my importunings as she feels most unwell. I am unable to help myself. I cease even to pray for the Lord's forgiveness.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,

10 June 1623

In Steve Carstairs's wildest s.e.xual fantasies, he was surrounded by a bevy of nubile young models, only too pleased to do his bidding. He could hardly believe his luck when he sat in the office of Tradmouth Models on a rainy Thursday morning waiting to interview the last of Karen Giordino's colleagues. It hadn't been like this when he'd been on the beat. CID got all the good jobs.

The model, a willowy blonde named Mimi, crossed and uncrossed her remarkable legs as Steve tried not to stare. He asked her the questions on the list, the same questions as he had asked the others.

'Did you know Sharon Carteret well?'

'Well as anybody, I suppose. She wasn't the sort of girl who mixed, if you know what I mean. She was very quiet.'

Steve nodded. 'Can you tell me anything about her? Did she talk about a boyfriend, for instance?'

'She never mentioned one. She didn't talk much about her private life. There are some of the girls round here don't talk about anything else, but Sharon... well, she was just the girl on the desk, part of the furniture. She was a bit, you know, mousey. It's Phil we come here to see, after all. n.o.body took much notice of Sharon.'

'Were you there when Sharon found Karen Giordino's photographs?'

'The ones there was so much fuss about? Yeah. I'd just called in and Sharon was twittering on about not knowing what to do with these b.l.o.o.d.y photos. I said to keep them and give them back when Karen came in next. She put them in her bag and said she might drop them off at Karen's if she got the chance.'

'You don't know if she did call at Karen's?'

'No. Karen was off to France soon after. Never heard any more about it.'

Mimi recrossed her legs and a shiver went down Steve's spine.

'What about when Sharon first started here? Did she tell anyone about herself then? Was there anyone she did confide in?'

'No. I told you. She kept herself to herself. There was one girl who used to use this agency she's moved now, gone to London she used to tease Sharon when she first started.'

'Tease her? What about?'

'About her weight. She was a bit plump when she first started here.'

'How did Sharon react?'

'She took no notice never said anything. She did lose weight, though, so perhaps it might have upset her. I don't know. You could never tell with her.'

Steve looked at his list. He could think of no more questions except one. 'If you're not doing anything tonight, do you fancy a drink?'

Mimi smiled and surrept.i.tiously pulled up her skirt to reveal even more of her alarmingly long legs.

'Nice carpet,' whispered Wesley, trying to take Pam's mind off things. She smiled weakly.

A nurse strolled towards them, smiling. She wore a crisp blue uniform of the type nowadays only seen in Carry On films and private hospitals, the design having been superseded in NHS establishments by something more practical.