The Merchant's House Part 2

'Great. Go for it.'

'We could do with a few donations of Spanish treasure,' chipped in Matt bitterly. 'G.o.d knows we're underfunded. Just think of us freezing in the mud when you're sunning yourself in the Caribbean, won't you, Jane.'

Jane picked up her drink and looked away. This was obviously a th.o.r.n.y subject. Neil winked knowingly at Wesley, then took his pint and drank thirstily. He still seemed to have the drinking capacity of his student days: Wesley's had decreased with age and responsibility.

'Pity Pam couldn't make it; said Neil as he put his gla.s.s down.

'Another time. What was this exciting find you mentioned this morning?'

'We turned up a skeleton... in what would have been the cellar of the merchant's house. We've been a.s.sured by all the experts it's contemporary with the house.'

'What sort of skeleton? Man ... woman?'

'A baby, newborn or very young. Probably some servant girl had it in secret and it died or she did away with it. Went on all the time in those days. Still, it's interesting. I'd like to find out something about the house who lived there and all that. There's bound to be records.'

'Well, you can do all the detective work,' said Wesley. 'I've got enough on my plate with this murder up at Little Tradmouth.'

'I heard about it on the radio. Mad rapist, was it?'

'No sign of anything like that. And I never talk shop out of working hours.'

'So our Jane can sleep easy in her bed. Not that she does much sleeping when Matt's about.'

Wesley raised his eyebrows and looked across at the seemingly incongruous couple. Now he knew why the subject of Jane's Jamaica trip had aroused such acrimony.

'Another pint?' he asked. He looked at his watch. With any luck Pam would be asleep when he got back.

Rachel Tracey lay restless in the bed that had been hers from childhood. In the dark she could make out the shapes of the cups and rosettes that still stood on the mantelpiece of the cast-iron fireplace in the corner of the room, a reminder of past gymkhana triumphs. Being the only girl, she had never had to share a room; it was hers alone, a refuge from the uncertainties of the world.

She curled up, pulled the duvet further around her and listened to the sounds of the country night: the screech of the owls; the bark of a fox in the nearby woodland. Sleep wouldn't come. As she closed her eyes she could see only the face of Elaine Berrisford.

When she had gone to Hedgerow Cottage she had hardly liked to ask the routine questions: had Mrs Berrisford seen anyone, anything suspicious on or around the seventeenth? She had asked apologetically and hardly listened to the monosyllabic answers. To be there at all had seemed like an obscene intrusion on grief. Having done her duty, she had made a rapid exit.

Rachel turned over, switched on the bedside light and picked up the book she'd been reading. But she couldn't concentrate on the printed words. She saw only the image of Elaine's desperate, empty eyes. If only they could find the child alive ... if only they could find Jonathon Berrisford.

Chapter 3.

The ships are nearly prepared for sail. I have set Oliver in charge of the loading and he has so far proved trustworthy. One of the coopers fell ill with a sweating fever yesterday which did cause some delay, yet we should have the work done by Friday if the Lord be willing.

Elizabeth is no better and keeps to her bed and Jennet doth wait upon her.

The girl doth have a modest manner and fine eyes.

Extract from the journal of John Banized.

1 March 1623.

Wesley arrived at work bright and early the next morning. To his surprise DI Heffernan had beaten him to it.

'Don't get too comfy, we're going out in a minute,' the inspector called as he disappeared into his office.

'Right, guv.' Wesley sat down at his new desk and opened the drawers. They were empty apart from the bottom one which contained a pile of magazines. He pulled them out. He wasn't easily shocked but he found the sight of the bored-looking women in various states of degradation distinctly distasteful. He pushed them back into the drawer.

'Found his little comics, have you? I didn't know they were still there. I'd have organised a bonfire. No doubt he left them there hoping I'd find them.'

Wesley felt embarra.s.sed. He hadn't realised Rachel was behind him.

'I don't, er, really know how to get rid of them. I don't want to put them in the bin.'

'The sooner they're gone the better. He used to sit there reading one whenever he thought I was looking. s.e.xist pig.'

'Who did?'

'Your predecessor. Harry Marchbank ... DS.'

'I thought you meant the inspector.'

She laughed. 'You've got to be joking. He's a love.' She perched herself on the edge of the desk. 'Heffernan and Marchbank never got on. There was always a bit of an atmosphere. If Harry hadn't got out when he did, I reckon Heffernan would have got him transferred. Mind you, I didn't think he'd stay round here long anyway.'

'How do you mean?'

'He couldn't stand Tradmouth. Never fitted in. It was his wife who wanted to move down here, and when they split up he was straight back to London. Best place for him.' She blushed. 'Oh, no offence.... I didn't mean ...'

Wesley smiled. 'Don't worry, no offence taken.'

Their eyes met and Rachel returned his smile. He was an attractive man, she thought, with a gentle, thoughtful manner. It was going to be a refreshing change working with Sergeant Peterson. She stifled a sudden yawn.

'Tired?'

'Mmm. I didn't sleep too well last night. I went to see that poor woman at Hedgerow Cottage and I couldn't get it out of my mind. It must be awful to lose a child like that ... not to know what's happened to him. She looked so desperate, poor thing.'

Heffernan emerged from his office like a bear waking from hibernation. 'Come on, Sergeant, get your skates on. We've got to be there in half an hour. Don't want to miss curtain-up, do we?'

'Don't we?'

'You're not squeamish, are you, Sergeant?' asked the inspector with relish.

'Er, no ...'

'We'd best get going, then.'

'Anything from the house-to-house?' Heffernan asked as they went out of the station door.

'Nothing. No one's seen anything out of the ordinary. Mind you, there are quite a few properties empty up there ... holiday cottages.'

'You get a lot round here.'

'What about Hedgerow Cottage?'

'What about it?'

'Rachel mentioned it.'

'Thought you might have seen it on the news. It was about a month back. Little boy of two went missing Jonathon Berrisford. He just vanished into thin air. It's an isolated spot and n.o.body saw or heard anything. The only person there was his mother in the house. And there was a farm worker, Bill Boscople, in a field nearby harvesting. Not a sign of the kid.'

'So what do you reckon, guv?'

'Probably wandered off somewhere. They might find the poor little blighter in a ditch or something when the vegetation dies back. We had the helicopter out every day for a week. No sign.'

'What about his mother? Most murders are family affairs.'

'Well, it's not my case. Stan Jenkins is in charge ... you've not met him yet. He reckons there's no chance it's her and I trust Stan's judgement.'

'She might be very convincing.'

'She might be but my money's on the ditch.'

'And the father?'

'He wasn't there. They live up north somewhere. She's a teacher or lecturer of some kind and she spends the holidays in their cottage down here. He's a wine merchant, I think ... just comes down when he can. She's still at the cottage now. Wanted to stop down here just in case. I don't know if I'm a big softy or what but I hate anything to do with kids.' He sighed. 'Come on. We'd better shift ourselves. We don't want to be late.'

They reached the station carpark but Heffernan kept on walking.

'Aren't we going in the car, guv?'

'No. It's only down the road. You young ones nowadays ... you'll lose the use of your legs if you're not careful.'

Heffernan moved quickly for a big man, and they arrived at the post-mortem room early. The two policemen stood some way away from the action, and Wesley spent half the time studying the floor or the ceiling. For someone who came from a medical family he felt decidedly squeamish. During his archaeological training the bodies had been piles of dry bones: he would never get used to post-mortems.

Colin Bowman went about his work with an air of detached nonchalance which he had cultivated over many years of proximity to death. He addressed the occasional remark to the inspector, who leaned against the wall, arms folded, looking on with interest.

'So what do you reckon, then, Colin?'

'I'd say that the cause of death was severe head injuries caused by ... I don't really know. Something heavy, uneven; not something like a baseball bat but around the same size. I'd say a thick heavy branch, something like that. I've found traces of bark in the wounds. I'd say she was struck from behind and that's what killed her, then some maniac went to work on her face. Not very nice.'

'Anything else? Murderer right-handed or left-handed? Man or woman?'

'Now you're asking. If I had to guess, just off the top of my head before I do further tests, I'd say right-handed. As for s.e.x ... either, I suppose, if the weapon was thick and heavy enough, but I'm just guessing. The victim was in her early twenties. Natural blonde. Healthy. Average muscle tone not an athlete or one of your aerobics freaks. Five foot seven. Pretty average all round, really. All her own teeth, what's left of them. We can try and reconstruct them, see if they match dental records. Any idea who she is yet?'

'No missing person round here matches her description. She might have been doing seasonal work in Morbay and they a.s.sume she's gone home and not bothered to turn up. It happens. We'll need publicity if n.o.body comes forward. Any chance of an artist's impression ... something like that?'

Colin Bowman shook his head. 'Reconstruction's pretty specialised work. Can be done, of course, but it takes time.'

Wesley looked up. 'I know of someone in Exeter who might be able to do it. Professor Jensen from the university. I saw him reconstruct the face of a pharaoh's daughter.'

Heffernan raised his eyebrows. 'I've no objection to calling in a bit of outside help if nothing turns up in the next few days.' He patted Wesley heartily on the back. 'Good thinking. You can tell me all about this pharaoh's daughter over a steak and kidney pie at lunch-time.'

Bowman shook his head. 'You're the only man I know who can eat steak and kidney pie after a post-mortem. Your sergeant looks like a salad'd scare the daylights out of him.'

Wesley made for the door. He longed to get the smell out of his nostrils, out of his clothes. He longed to get home for a bath.

'There's just one more thing, Gerry.'

Heffernan turned. 'What's that, then, Colin?'

'She's had a baby fairly recently ... say in the past couple of years.'

The inspector made straight for the Fisherman's Arms, trailing Wesley in his wake.

'Got the victim's clothes back from forensic, sir.'

'Right, then, Rach. Let the dog see the rabbit.' Heffernan, comfortably full after an unsurpa.s.sable steak and kidney pie, sorted through the neatly labelled plastic bags.

'Any report come with these?'

"That's to follow, sir.'

'As usual. What have we here? Let's have a shufti.'

'Where's Sergeant Peterson, sir?'

'I took him out for one of Maisie's specials at the Fisherman's Arms. Just the thing after a post-mortem kill or cure.'

'And which did it do, sir? Kill him or cure him?'

'He's up at Little Tradmouth organising another search for the murder weapon. Fresh air'll do him good. And I've asked him to see Mrs Truscot again. I thought the name was familiar. I know her she sings in the choir.'

Rachel had difficulty imagining her boss singing his heart out in a church choir, but she had heard from various sources that he had a good voice. 'So you had a good lunch?'

'He's a bright one, that new sergeant of ours ... degree in archaeology.'

She raised her eyebrows. 'He never said.'

'And his parents are both doctors. So's his sister. His dad's a consultant heart surgeon from Trinidad. That's in the West Indies.'

'I did do geography at school, sir.'

'I'll tell you what, he's a breath of fresh air after the last one.' Heffernan chuckled wickedly. 'And I like the idea of his replacement being black. Marchbank was the most b.l.o.o.d.y racist sod I've ever met.'