The Merchant's House Part 8

Wesley wondered if Neil would be in the Tradmouth Arms that evening. He needed a drink.

'You look p.i.s.sed off, Wes.' Neil had never been one to sidle tactfully round the obvious.

'How are you getting on with that research?' Wesley had no desire to discuss his troubles, even though tonight Neil was alone, Matt and Jane having gone off to see a film in Morbay.

'I've been looking up the old parish records. The first Banized at that address was a Thomas died in 1601; his wife Margaret died a year later. I reckon he must have been the one who built the place. If you're free one lunch-time I'll take you to see their tomb. Pretty fancy, they weren't short of a sovereign or two. The tomb's damaged at the corner. Legend has it it was done when the church was being renovated in the early seventeenth century. A workman dropped something on it. Nothing's new.'

Wesley went to the bar to get more drinks. He was beginning to relax; to enjoy himself. When he returned Neil resumed his narrative.

'This Thomas had a son, John, who took over the business. It must have done well 'cause his tomb's quite an elaborate affair and all. He married the only daughter of a prosperous merchant from Neston, Elizabeth Pilner, and they had a son, Thomas, who became mayor in 1663. The vicar's a bit of a local historian he's been a lot of help. He says there are doc.u.ments about the Banized family in the local museum. I'll have a look when I've got some free time.'

'No clue about the skeleton?'

'Not a thing. Probably some servant girl's b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

'Where was it found?'

'About three feet below what would have been the cellar floor.'

'Did servant girls get that much privacy in those days to go digging up cellar floors?'

'How should I know? You're the detective. We're starting to dig the other part of the cellar tomorrow. Come along if you're interested.'

'Wish I could, Neil, but we're in the middle of this murder inquiry.'

He looked at his watch. It was nearly closing time. As it was Friday a few members of the weekend yachting fraternity had occupied a corner of the bar and were regaling each other loudly with tales of their nautical deeds. In another corner sat a huddle of elderly locals who threw occasional curious glances in Wesley' direction.

'Look, Neil, I'll have to go. You in her most nights?'

'Where else? We tried the Angel but it was a bit posh.'

Neil raised a hand in casual farewell and Wesley stepped out into the salty night air. Heffernan's house was virtually round the corner, and from where Wesley stood he could hear the lapping of the water against the quayside. He wondered fleetingly how his boss spent his evenings.

He walked slowly back home up the steep narrow streets that led away from the harbour, preoccupied with two questions. Would Pam be asleep when he got back? And would the cellar of the merchant' house hold any more grisly secrets?

Chapter 9.

Today Elizabeth was recovered enough to attend church. When we returned to the house she again took to her bed as the service had tired her greatly. The work on the church proceeds at a goodly pace. I have had words with the workmen who did allow a block of stone to fall and damage my father's tomb. Anne returns to her home next week. How I do fear her departure for Jennet will then be once more in our quarters. G.o.d grant me strength.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,

19 April 1623

"The boss said he wanted to see you as soon as you got in.'

Rachel dumped a pile of reports on Wesley's desk. He looked at them despairingly and took his coat off.

'Anything new?'

'I think we've got the murder weapon. That DC from Neston went down the cliff, found a big lump of branch caught in the bushes. No prints, of course, but a few traces of blood and hair that hadn't been washed away by the rain. It's all in the report. You'd best go and see the inspector. He's waiting.'

Heffernan beamed magnanimously as his sergeant entered, and told him to take a seat. At least somebody was in a good mood.

'Mrs Giordino okay?'

Heffernan sighed. 'Aye. She's settled at Betty Pargeter's B and B. Got one of the WPCs looking after her. I'm nipping round to see her in a minute.' He paused. 'Hope you didn't get into trouble yesterday.'

Wesley looked up, surprised. To have a superior officer concerned about the effect of unexpectedly lengthened working hours on your domestic arrangements was a whole new experience.

Heffernan continued, 'If you need time off again we'll arrange something.'

"Thank you, sir.'

'How's your wife?'

'She wasn't too pleased.'

'Yeah. Emotive subject, having kids. People get very ...'

'Yes, sir.'

The door opened and Steve Carstairs's tousled head appeared. Why, Heffernan wondered, did DC Carstairs always have to look as if he'd spent the previous evening at an all-night party. Perhaps he had, if station gossip was anything to go by.

'Excuse me, sir, there's been a call from the manager of a bank in Morbay. He's recognised the photo in the paper, says she's got an account there.'

'Right. Get over there, will you.'

'No need, sir. The branch is open Sat.u.r.day mornings so he's faxing me all the details.' Carstairs stood there like a child expecting the reward of a sweet.

'Go and see him anyway. If he recognises her, he's obviously met her. Find out what he knows.'

Crestfallen, Steve Carstairs left the room.

When the fax arrived half an hour later, Wesley entered the inspector's office and placed the information on the desk. Heffernan studied it and looked up, his eyes glowing with renewed interest.

'Well, we've got an address now. The rest should be plain sailing.'

Rachel looked through the gla.s.s and saw the boss at his desk, head in hands. Her instinct was not to disturb him, but police business came first. She knocked briskly and opened the door.

'That address, sir. Wesley's about to go over there with Steve. You okay, sir?'

The inspector looked up. 'I've just had to explain to a woman why it wouldn't be a good idea to see her daughter's body. Apart from that, I'm fine.' He took a deep breath. 'Sorry, Rach, I shouldn't be taking it out on you. Tell Wesley to take that key that was found in the bag, will you see if it fits the door to her flat.'

'How did Steve get on at the bank?'

'The manager didn't know her. Just seen her the once when she came in to get some pa.s.sport photo signed. He shouldn't really have done it if he didn't know her, but Steve reckons he fancied her.'

'Steve would reckon that, wouldn't he, sir. What about her bank account?'

'The current account fits in with what we know about her. No regular salary but whatever she was up to didn't pay too badly. Let's just hope it wasn't immoral or illegal. You've run her name through the Police National Computer?'

'Nothing known, sir. Our best bet is to trace this boyfriend. Did the mother say anything this morning?'

'She wasn't really in the mood for a cosy chat. Poor cow, she's not had much of a life, and now this ...'

'Yes, sir,' said Rachel sympathetically.

The address the bank had given turned out to be a flat in a white-stuccoed villa in the better part of Morbay; 22 Peasgoode Avenue. Not a bad address, thought Steve Carstairs. Could do with something like this myself.

'Nice place,' commented Wesley.

Steve didn't reply.

Wesley rang the doorbell marked 'Flat 2'. There was no answer. He took the key that had been found in the handbag from his pocket and tried it in the lock. It didn't fit.

'Let's see what the neighbours can tell us.' He rang the bottom of the three bells. The door was opened by a well-dressed middle-aged woman, elegantly coiffeured and carrying a minuscule dog, the breed of which Wesley didn't know, not being a dog lover himself. The woman looked them up and down with practised disdain, expecting them to begin a sales pitch for a new concept in double glazing. Wesley thought it prudent to produce his warrant card. The polite, well-spoken graduate touch would be needed here.

'Sorry to disturb you, madam, but we're making enquiries about the tenants of Flat two. I wonder if you could help us.'

The woman, doyenne of the local neighbourhood watch and only too eager to be a good citizen, invited them in and provided tea and biscuits. Unfortunately, there was nothing much she could tell them. The couple had lived there only for six months and, as the cliche goes, kept themselves to themselves. Apart from a nod and a mumbled good morning if they happened to meet in the communal hallway, she had had nothing to do with them. She had noticed no visitors and she hadn't seen them for the last month or so. No, they definitely did not have a baby; the walls were thick but not that thick; children weren't allowed in the flats anyway. What did the man look like? Well, ordinary; mid-thirties older than the woman; dark; average build; average height... just average. Yes, she would be willing to try to build a picture of him anything to help the police. Wesley wished all his interviewees were so co-operative.

The inhabitants of Flat three weren't. The immaculately dressed young couple who drew up in their red Porsche as Wesley and Steve were leaving made it clear that they had nothing to do with their neighbours, nor did they want to: they hadn't time for that sort of thing, they explained frostily as they unloaded their brown paper bags full of French sticks and sun-dried tomatoes. They made it absolutely clear that they wanted nothing to do with the matter.

The landlord was the next step a property company in the up-market redeveloped end of Morbay. Not cheap.

As soon as their warrant cards were produced, Wesley and Steve were hustled into the back office of the plushly carpeted premises as though the staff were afraid of contamination. A grey-suited woman with too much make-up introduced herself as Liz, found the relevant file and grudgingly handed it over. The flat was in Karen's name and she had written the rent cheques. The deposit had been paid in cash. There was no sign of any references but then, Liz explained, they weren't always insisted upon. If tenants didn't cause trouble and paid their rent on time, it wasn't the job of a landlord to pry into their private lives, she added self-righteously as an afterthought.

When asked for access to search the flat, Liz looked at Wesley as if he'd made an obscene suggestion. Torn between exercising what she had learned in a.s.sertiveness cla.s.ses and being accused of obstructing the police, the latter won. She produced the key disapprovingly and announced that she had better go with them.

When they asked Liz to wait outside the flat while they made their search, she was about to argue but thought better of it.

It was obvious that n.o.body had lived in the flat for a while. The fridge had been cleared out and the bread bin was empty. Karen had left the flat not intending to return for some time. It reminded Wesley of a house left by someone going on holiday for a few weeks. There were female clothes in the wardrobe and women's magazines scattered about, but there was little sign of male occupation apart from a sports bag in the hallway containing a selection of casual clothes and underwear, all from well-known chain stores. Perhaps the man of the house had moved out some time before. Was that what this was all about? A lovers' quarrel? Most murders, Wesley reminded himself, were domestic: find the boyfriend and you've found the murderer.

Steve was flicking through a small pile of CDs on a shelf near the fireplace. 'No rap or reggae, I'm afraid, Sarge,' he said with a smirk.

'I prefer cla.s.sical myself,' replied Wesley casually as he searched through a selection of blockbuster paperbacks, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with s.e.x and violence. He looked across at Steve, who was engrossed in one of the glossy magazines.

'Come on, Steve, put that down and get searching that bureau. I'll radio through and get them to send someone over.'

Steve hesitated and shot Wesley a resentful look.

'Is there a problem?' Wesley asked calmly. Perhaps he was imagining things.

Steve stood up slowly, his eyes downcast. 'No, Sarge,' he mumbled.

Wesley went over to the window and looked out. Liz was standing frostily by her car. She would have a long wait.

'How's it going, Rach?' Heffernan burst into the office and flung his anorak onto the coatstand with some aplomb.

'Fine, sir. Just entering this into the computer.'

'Rather you than me. Any tea going?' She looked up at him coolly and he thought better of his request. 'No, love, don't bother. Don't want to be spending all afternoon in the gents'. Anything new?'

'Wesley and Steve are searching the flat now, sir. They called in for some help so a couple of uniforms went down.'

'Anyone in the flat?'

'Don't think so, sir.'

'Rach, can you get down there and have a look through this woman's things see if they give you any ideas.'

'Will do, sir.'

Rachel picked up her jacket and made a quick getaway before the boss had a chance to change his mind.

Heffernan opened the door to his office and looked at his desk, overflowing with paperwork. Something would have to be done. He sat down and began to sift through the mountain, putting things into piles: forensic reports; post-mortem report he must look at that in more detail, maybe he would take it home tonight, though it would hardly make suitable bedtime reading.

The new section had been cleared ready for the detailed dig. It was a slow process but Neil by nature was a patient man; he had to be.

The flags of the original cellar floor, photographed and doc.u.mented, were carefully laid aside and the painstaking trowelling and brushing burrowed away into the foundations in the hope of finding an earlier building on the site; a glimpse into Tradmouth's more distant history.

Seagulls circled overhead, shrieking so loudly that Neil almost missed Jane's voice calling him over.

She stood back from where she'd been digging and Matt, sensing an important find, strolled over to her. The three of them stared down at the disturbed earth.

'Could be an animal bone,' said Neil optimistically.