Wesley Peterson: The Blood Pit Part 11

The pathologist gave him a rueful smile. 'Sorry, Wesley. I'll get round to them as soon as I can. In the meantime, I'll book this PM for tomorrow morning. That suit you?'

The chief inspector grunted in the affirmative as they left Colin to his work and made a swift tour of the small house.

Gerry Heffernan broke the silence when they'd reached the living room again. 'Tell you what, Wes, you go and have a word with the wife ...'

'Widow,' Wesley corrected automatically. Meeting Emma Tench wasn't something he was looking forward to. But he had no choice. He needed to find out what she knew. To gather any clues he could about the dead man's background or a.s.sociates that might lead him to the killer. Unless, of course, the attacks were random. That was a possibility that couldn't be ruled out.

Gerry Heffernan had picked up a DVD that had been lying on the coffee table. The case bore the words 'House Hunters our episode' in neatly printed letters. He dropped it into a plastic evidence bag and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

The two men parted at the front door. Gerry Heffernan cadged a lift back to the police station in a patrol car, leaving Wesley to face Simon Tench's widow. The nearest cottage stood about fifty yards away and Wesley walked up its crazy-paved path, bordered with an untidy array of bright flowers an English cottage garden, in stark contrast to the minimalism of the Tenches' home. The paintwork of the front door was faded green and there were old-fashioned net curtains at the small, leaded windows. This was an old person's house, Wesley guessed. But he had learned long ago never to underestimate the powers of observation of the average senior citizen. They had time to take in details unnoticed by the young with their hectic, overstretched lives. Perhaps he would be on to a winner here. He certainly hoped so.

Rachel Tracey answered his knock on the door and gave him a shy smile as she stood aside to let him into the tiny, dark hallway.

'She's very upset,' was the first thing she said. 'But she's a sensible woman ... a good witness. Not that she's been able to tell me anything much. When she left the house to go to work she says Simon was upset about some foal dying, but apart from that everything seemed normal.' She leaned forward. 'I think she suspects it was suicide.' She said the words almost in a whisper.

Wesley raised his eyebrows. 'Really? Was he depressed then or ... ?'

Rachel shook her head. 'She didn't mention anything like that. But she said he was sensitive ... took the death of any animals in his care very hard. She said he found professional detachment far more difficult than she does. She hasn't talked about suicide in so many words but I can tell it's on her mind.'

'Well, I can put her mind at rest then. There's no sign of a weapon and, unless it's a remarkable coincidence, it looks identical to Charles Marrick's murder.'

Rachel looked surprised. 'Are you sure?'

Wesley didn't answer. 'Is she up to having a word with me?'

Rachel nodded and put a hand on his arm. 'I knew him slightly, you know. Met him at a Young Farmers' do and he's been to my parents' farm to treat the beasts. He was a really nice bloke. Everyone liked him.'

Wesley didn't reply. She led him through into a small cluttered living room, all faded chintz and old hunting prints. A young woman in a pale blue nurse's uniform with a bloodstained hem, was seated next to an elderly lady with white hair, bent back and sharp pale blue eyes. The old woman's liver-spotted hand was resting on her companion's a gesture of comfort.

'This is Detective Inspector Peterson, Emma,' Rachel said gently. 'He'd like to ask you some questions if that's all right.'

The young woman gave a weak smile and nodded, giving Wesley a long, a.s.sessing look.

Wesley addressed the elderly lady. 'Do you mind if I sit down, Mrs ... er ... ?' He knew manners counted a lot for her generation.

'Mrs Crimmond. Please do.' The voice was clear and decisive. 'Where are you from?'

Wesley considered the question for a moment. 'Originally from London but I studied at Exeter University. My wife's from Devon and we moved here a few years ago.' He looked into her eyes and knew that he hadn't answered the question satisfactorily. 'My parents are from Trinidad. They came here to study medicine. My sister's a doctor too. She works as a GP in Neston.'

The old lady nodded, satisfied at last. Some would have taken the implication of her questioning as slightly racist, but Wesley guessed that Mrs Crimmond was of an age when she could disregard political correctness in order to ascertain exactly who she was dealing with.

Wesley turned to Emma and gave her a sympathetic smile. 'I'm very sorry for your loss, Mrs Tench. I'm afraid we have to ask you some questions. Are you feeling up to ...'

Emma Tench looked sh.e.l.l-shocked as she drew her hand away from the old lady's and nodded her a.s.sent. She'd answer any questions he wanted. But it was clear from her expression she didn't expect the first one he asked.

'Did you or your husband ever have any dealings with a man called Charles Marrick?'

Emma's mouth fell open for a moment. Then she took a deep, shuddering breath. 'I knew him. He was a patient of mine. He was rushed in with a burst appendix last year. I saw it on the news that he'd been found murdered. But what's that got to do with Simon?'

There was a long silence while Wesley decided how much to reveal to her. She was a sensible woman, he thought. And a discreet phone call to the hospital earlier had confirmed that she'd been on duty and was therefore in possession of an unbreakable alibi. He decided to take the risk.

'There are certain similarities between Mr Marrick's death and that of your husband. We think there might be some connection.'

Emma Tench closed her eyes. Wesley could hear her breathing against the background of muted birdsong that seeped in through Mrs Crimmond's old, ill-fitting windows.

'How exactly?' It was Mrs Crimmond who asked the question, c.o.c.king her grey head to one side like a curious bird.

'As I said, there are, er ... certain similarities.' He turned back to Emma. 'Can you think of any link at all, however tenuous, between Mr Marrick and your husband?'

Emma looked up. 'Only what I've already told you ... that I nursed him once.' She paused. 'I didn't like him much and I can a.s.sure you he had nothing in common with Simon. Nothing at all.' There was another long silence then Emma spoke again. 'I was scared Simon might have killed himself, you know. He felt things very deeply and he lost a valuable foal yesterday. It wasn't his fault but he was the type who always blamed himself. I thought ...'

Wesley could see tears welling up in her eyes. He reached out and touched her arm gently. 'We're pretty sure he didn't take his own life, Mrs Tench ... Emma.'

She began to cry, taking in great, gulping breaths. Rachel rushed to her side and put her arms around her while Mrs Crimmond clucked comfortingly, stroking her hair as if calming an animal. Wesley guessed there was some relief in her tears relief that Simon hadn't chosen to abandon her. Suicide, he knew, was the hardest thing for relatives to come to terms with that a loved one could choose death over a life spent in their company. But Wesley was certain Simon Tench hadn't chosen his exit from this world. Someone else had chosen it for him.

'Are you feeling up to giving DS Tracey here a statement?' he asked when the sobs had subsided a little.

Emma nodded. 'There's nothing much I can tell you but ...'

Wesley thanked her and asked Mrs Crimmond if he could have a word in private. The old lady led the way into the kitchen, shuffling along in a pair of men's slippers, supported by a stick.

'It's so terrible,' she said once they were alone. 'I've become quite fond of Simon and Emma, you know. I know they only rented the cottage and they were looking for somewhere to buy but it's nice having a young couple next door. And they're thoughtful ... not like some. Emma does bits of shopping for me and ...'

'I know, Mrs Crimmond. It must be a terrible shock for you.' He knew he had to come to the point before she rambled on for hours about the virtues of her late neighbour and his wife. He smiled encouragingly. 'It would help us catch whoever was responsible for Simon's death if you could recall anything unusual you heard or saw last night. Anything at all.'

Mrs Crimmond sat herself down heavily on a folding stool that stood next to the sink. 'I've been thinking but I'm afraid I can't help you. I saw nothing and I heard nothing. But then I am a little bit deaf.'

'You didn't look out of the window and see a car outside at any point in the evening?'

The old lady looked at him sharply. 'Do you think I wouldn't have mentioned it if I had? There's a pa.s.sing place down the lane. If someone wanted to visit next door un.o.bserved they could have parked there.'

Wesley made a mental note to get uniform to check the side of the road there for tyre marks. The Tenches' cottage was fairly isolated, well on the outskirts of the village. If someone had murder on their mind, it would be easy to park well away from the house and walk.

'I don't spend all my life spying on my neighbours, you know.' The old lady sounded quite offended. 'I have better things to do. I've joined the silver surfers at the library and last night I sent some e-mails before watching a repeat of Inspector Morgan on the television. I need the volume on quite loud so I wouldn't have heard any sounds outside, I'm afraid.'

Wesley forced himself to smile. It was just his luck to find a silver surfer who had abandoned the pleasures of net curtain surveillance for high technology.

Simon Tench was a popular and blameless man who, as far as anyone knew, hadn't an enemy in the world. But someone had killed him. And the last thing Wesley Peterson and Gerry Heffernan needed was a motiveless crime. They were always the most difficult kind to solve.

As they returned to Tradmouth police station, Heffernan made a call on his mobile. Carl Pinney was to be picked up and brought in again. He'd be summoning his solicitor, of course, but that wouldn't stop them. He'd been in possession of the knife that had killed Charlie Marrick and he'd been on the loose when Tench was killed. At the moment he was number one on their list of suspects, even though Wesley wasn't convinced the murders were his style at all. As to their number two, Fabrice Colbert might have had a grudge against Marrick but there was absolutely nothing to connect him to Simon Tench ... yet.

Gerry Heffernan felt in his pocket. 'I found a DVD of that property programme at the Tenches' place. Thought it might be worth having a look at it.'

Wesley said nothing. He couldn't really see how the Tenches' half hour of fame would be relevant. Unless the killer had seen it and chosen Tench as his next victim for some twisted and unfathomable reason. But then Charlie Marrick, as far as they knew, had never made it on to TV.

'I'm going to ask someone to have a word with the owner of the horse Tench treated,' Wesley said. 'There might be some sort of bad feeling there or ...'

Heffernan shook his head. 'Sam didn't say anything about the owner taking it badly. These things happen. But I'll ask him ... get the details.'

Wesley said nothing. It was a long shot. And probably irrelevant. He pulled into the police station car park and suddenly remembered Neil Watson's strange anonymous letters and their mention of blood. The murders of Charles Marrick and Simon Tench and now the discovery of the bones in the woodland next to Sunacres Holiday Park had driven Neil's little problem from his mind. But he wanted to have a closer look at those letters when he had a moment. With their mention of blood, they might have some connection to the case. But on the other hand, they might be completely irrelevant. Another long shot.

They entered the police station, nodding to the sergeant on duty, and climbed the stairs to the CID office. The fact that it was a Sunday made no difference it was buzzing with purposeful activity like Fabrice Colbert's kitchen.

Wesley found a report waiting for him on his desk eagerly awaited news from Fingerprints. He smiled to himself as he read it and half walked, half ran to Gerry Heffernan's office.

Heffernan looked up as he entered. 'Nothing from missing persons on that skeleton yet,' he said. 'I've asked for a list of all men of that age who've gone missing in the area over the past fifty years.'

Wesley said nothing. The skeleton had been there a long time by the looks of it so a week or so would probably make no difference. But it was possible that the person who'd killed Marrick and Tench might decide to kill again. That was their priority for now.

'The list might be a long one,' Heffernan continued. 'There must be lots of blokes over the past fifty years who've decided to up and leave. I can think of a couple it could be men who've disappeared without explanation but ...'

Wesley nodded. The boss had a point. And of course it was always possible that the dead man hadn't been reported missing in their area. He could be from anywhere. 'Once we've sorted out these murders we'll make this skeleton our priority,' he said optimistically. 'I've just had an interesting report from Fingerprints.' He smiled. 'I asked them to do it urgently but, as it's the weekend, I wasn't expecting such good service.'

Heffernan looked up, curious. 'Go on. Don't keep us in suspense.'

'Those prints I lifted off the pen Fabrice Colbert used have been checked. And my little bit of rule breaking's paid off. They match the ones found in Charles Marrick's bedroom.'

Heffernan frowned. 'But weren't they ... ?'

The grin on Wesley's face widened. 'From the fingerprint evidence it looks like our Frenchman's a phoney. Fabrice Colbert is Darren Collins.'

Heffernan's eyes widened with disbelief. 'You've having me on.'

'The prints match. I wondered why that picture of Collins seemed so familiar. He was much younger ... and thinner ... and he had less hair and a bigger nose. But when I studied it again I could definitely see the resemblance. With a bit of plastic surgery ...'

'You said Collins had a tattoo.'

'Tattoos can be removed. Especially if you want to start a new life.'

'As a Frenchman? There are French staff in his restaurant that wine waiter for a start wouldn't they twig? You might be able to fool an Englishman with a fake French accent but a Frenchman ...'

Wesley had to acknowledge that the boss had a point. His own schoolboy French although considered quite good in his time would never convince anyone east of Kent. But he wanted to see Fabrice Colbert and find out the truth ... whatever that was.

'We could always have Sunday lunch at Le Pet.i.t Poisson ... in the interest of our enquiries, of course,' Gerry Heffernan said with a hungry look in his eyes.

Wesley trusted he was joking. Neither of their bank balances would run to it. They'd have to make do with a quick bite at the Fisherman's Arms to feed the inner detective before their rendezvous with the great chef. If he wasn't who he said he was, he was back as joint top of their list with Carl Pinney. All they had to do was establish some link with Simon Tench. Perhaps he'd eaten at Le Pet.i.t Poisson and complained about the food.

'I've just been thinking about the quail,' said Wesley. 'We've had people asking round all the local eating places and we still don't know where Marrick had lunch. If the quail was the source of the hemlock, it's always possible that a contaminated meat was kept frozen and used for the purpose. Colbert got all huffy when we suggested he used frozen food but people have been known to lie to us from time to time. If he did use the quail to poison Marrick, it makes a brilliant murder weapon, don't you think?'

'If he'd left it at that. Why all the blood? Why mess up his neat little MO.'

'To put us off the scent? Or sheer sadism? I'll be interested to see whether any hemlock's found in Simon Tench's body. There were no defensive wounds there either ...'

'So you reckon our Great French Chef could be a villain who's changed his ident.i.ty and does a nasty little sideline in hemlock takeaways delivered to the doors of Charles Marrick and Simon Tench?'

Wesley didn't answer. When it was put like that, it sounded far-fetched.

'We'll have a word with him anyway ... see if he's got an alibi for Tench's death. Let's hope for his sake it's a better one than he rustled up last time.' He paused. 'Anyone heard anything from Steve Carstairs?'

Wesley shook his head. The last thing on his mind was DC Carstairs. And he wanted it to stay that way.

Sunday had never been Neil Watson's favourite day. Sundays usually meant not working and to Neil a day without work without digging up the past or writing reports about it was a day wasted. He sat alone in his flat on the ground floor of a large Victorian house which stood on a leafy road not far from the centre of Exeter. It was a s.p.a.cious flat with high ceilings, ornate cornices and an original fireplace in each of the main rooms. He loved it, loved its airiness.

The one thing it lacked was another human being. This didn't normally bother Neil as he was usually working or socialising with his archaeological colleagues. But sitting there at his old pine table, that bore the rings left by a thousand coffee mugs, with his books and papers spread out before him on a quiet Sunday listening to the distant bells of Exeter Cathedral drifting in through the open sash window, he felt lonely and suddenly envied Wesley Peterson his growing family. But he'd had his chance with Pam when they were at university and, fearful of involvement, he'd let things drift. There had been women since but all his relationships had fizzled out somehow like fireworks in the rain. What woman, he always wondered, could compete with his trenches and artefacts and the camaraderie of the dig? But the training excavation at Stow Barton felt different somehow. He didn't know whether it was the strange letters he'd received, but he felt uneasy about it and wished he had someone to discuss it with ... someone to share the load.

He'd rung Wesley but there'd been no answer. But then he remembered their planned anniversary treat the meal and the night in the hotel with a twinge of envy. He walked into the small kitchen, took a frozen meal for one out of the freezer and popped it in the microwave. When it was ready, he switched on the TV and ate his meal on his knee in front of a repeat of House Hunters a wealthy gay couple from the Midlands in a quest for a mansion to call their own and house their extensive collection of objets d'art. Neil ate hastily, taking in sustenance rather than taking pleasure in the taste and texture of the food, and when he'd finished he returned to the table and opened a book he'd bought in a secondhand bookshop. A battered volume without a dust jacket that had cost him five pounds. A book about medieval monasteries.

He flicked through the pages until he came to the section on monastic medicine. The monks, the book informed him, were bled every six to seven weeks and the purpose of this blood letting was to prevent them from falling ill. He read on, thinking how his mysterious letter writer had been spot on with his facts. The monks had indeed enjoyed the experience of being bled and they'd looked forward to it as a holiday from the daily grind of work and prayer.

Monastic houses, it said, often had manor houses well away from the main complex where the brothers could go to be bled and live the comfortable life for a few precious days. In 1334 the Abbott of Burton, according to the book, granted five days' indulgence from the blood-letting 'from mid day on Easter day until vespers on the fourth day after in that place known as the Seyney House with increased allowance of bread and beer beyond the usual corrody.' Rest and extra beer. Sometimes, the author told him, the monks took the relaxed regime of the seyney house as an opportunity to indulge in lax behaviour and idle gossiping. No wonder they liked it.

He switched on his laptop and brought the pictures he had taken of the site at Stow Barton up on the screen. He studied the ones he had taken of the strange pit and smiled. He had sent samples off to the lab but he was as sure as he could be that he knew exactly what it was. It all fitted. It had been used for the disposal of blood. Human blood. Blood from the monks who had come to Stow Barton for their six-weekly treat.

The trouble was, his letter writer had known all this before he did. And he wondered how.

Ten minutes pa.s.sed before his reading was interrupted by the urgent ringing of his doorbell. The sound made him jump and set his heart thumping against his chest. He hadn't been expecting company.

He rushed out of the flat into the communal hallway and when he opened the door he saw his colleague, Diane standing there with a bottle of white wine and a shy smile. As he stood aside to let her in he caught a whiff of her perfume. Things were looking up.

The lasagne Wesley had eaten at the Fisherman's Arms lay rather heavy on his stomach as he drove out to Le Pet.i.t Poisson. It was two o'clock and he reckoned the Sunday lunchtime rush at the restaurant would be past its peak by now. Time for the chef de cuisine to abandon his knives and ladles and answer some pertinent questions.

It was Jean-Claude Montfort who met them at the entrance and ushered them discreetly through to the back out of sight of the diners who were enjoying their desserts and coffee in the restaurant. He couldn't have looked more uneasy if they'd been from the Environmental Health Department. Wesley found himself wondering whether he knew the chef's secret. Maybe he'd ask him later, depending on how the interview with Colbert or was it Collins? went.

The kitchen at Le Pet.i.t Poisson was still as active as an ants' nest with each white-clad chef focused on his or in one case her appointed task. Gerry Heffernan observed in a whisper that Colbert ran a tight ship. And with those words the captain himself appeared, striding across the tiled floor, hands behind his back like Captain Bligh on the bridge of the Bounty.

He didn't look pleased to see them. Ignoring their presence, he picked up a spoon and tasted the contents of a pot bubbling away on the ma.s.sive stove while the pot's youthful guardian looked on in trepidation. He pulled a face and barked 'more salt' like a military order.

'We'd like a word, Mr Colbert,' Gerry Heffernan said to his disappearing back, shooting the words out like a shot across the bows.

The chef turned. 'Very well. In my office.' If this man really had been Darren Collins in a former incarnation, Wesley thought, he certainly kept up the pretence well. His French accent was convincing ... not just a parody like the cast of 'Allo 'Allo. Wesley suddenly feared that a mistake had been made somehow. He could see Colbert's neck and there was no sign of a tattoo. In fact he didn't look much like the photograph of the youthful Darren Collins at all. He nudged Heffernan who looked slightly more confident than he felt that they weren't going to make colossal fools of themselves.

When they reached the chef's office he invited them to sit, his expression a blend of wariness and impatience. 'What can I do for you gentlemen?' he asked.

Gerry Heffernan gave Wesley a discreet nod. It was up to him to broach the subject and he suddenly felt apprehensive.

'Monsieur Colbert. Would you mind if your fingerprints were taken? For elimination purposes of course.'

Colbert stared at him as if he'd made an offensive remark. 'This is ridiculous. This is police hara.s.sment. You think that because Charlie tricked me with the wine labels that I kill him. I tell you, I did not. I have a better punishment for him ... to tell the world he is a crook. His reputation would be nothing and his business, it will fail. For a man like Charlie who likes the good things in life, Inspector, this is worse than death.'

Wesley nodded. Fabrice Colbert certainly had a point. Revenge, he had heard it said, was a dish best served cold and Colbert was more than capable of serving up this particular dish from his vast freezer and finishing Marrick's reputation in the West Country for good.

Gerry Heffernan didn't favour the subtle approach. He leaned forward, looking Colbert in the eye. 'You don't half look familiar. You're the spit of a villain called Darren Collins did three years for a post office robbery in London years ago.' He watched the man's face carefully. 'You and him could be twins.'

There was a long silence. It was as if Colbert had gone into a trance. Or perhaps his past was just coming back to haunt him.

He shuffled restlessly in his chair. 'Er ... look. I don't want this to get out. I'd be grateful if it stayed in these four walls.' He spoke quietly but the French accent was gone, replaced by a London tw.a.n.g. 'If I give you my prints, you're going to find out sooner or later so I'd better come clean.'

Wesley glanced at his boss. He hadn't expected it to be so easy.