Wesley Peterson: The Blood Pit Part 18

The DCI didn't argue. But he looked as if he'd cheerfully give the leaker of the information a public flogging with his own hands.

'They're expecting us at Chester police headquarters this afternoon, Wes. You ready?'

Wesley nodded, thinking of his workload. Neil had telephoned last night just as he'd arrived home from work. He'd had another letter and he'd read it out to Wesley who'd copied the words down carefully. The content alarmed him, just as it had alarmed Neil. There was a threat 'I could even make you bleed' which particularly disturbed him, as did the obsession with blood and Satan. Whoever sent these letters whoever was playing the blood game was seriously weird ... maybe even dangerous. Wesley said he'd send an officer round to the dig to pick the letter up. And he warned Neil to take care to watch his back and be careful who he opened his door to.

'Maybe you should ask him to stop with you,' Heffernan suggested when he brought him up to date with the latest development.

Wesley considered the suggestion. 'I'll ask Pam. Her mother's coming to stay with her tonight while we're in Chester.' He grimaced. 'If she turns up.'

'As long as she's gone when you get back, eh.' For the first time that morning, his mouth turned upwards in a wicked grin. He knew Wesley's mother-in-law, Della, of old. He looked at his watch. 'If we set off about ten, we should make it to Chester by the middle of the afternoon, traffic jams permitting. I'm looking forward to seeing our Howard again.'

'Howard?'

'My cousin. The one who works at Chester HQ.'

From the expression on his face, Wesley guessed that he was regarding the family reunion with eager antic.i.p.ation. It struck him for the first time that he didn't know that much about the DCI's family up in the north-west. Perhaps he'd discover more when they were up there.

'I hear that our Rach was threatened with a shotgun yesterday.'

Wesley looked up, surprised at the change of subject and that the boss could be speaking so casually about such a serious matter. 'A shotgun. What ... ?'

'She and Steve went to see this Barty Carter. The one who had a row with Simon Tench. He greeted them by pointing a shotgun at them. And it was loaded.'

'Did Rachel tell you this?'

'No. It was Steve. He wants to call the Armed Response Unit in and organise a raid.'

'That figures,' said Wesley. Steve was known to favour the more dramatic aspect of policing.

'Apparently our Rach was a bit of a heroine. Talked Carter round and rescued an unspecified number of pigs from a squalid existence into the bargain.' He grinned. 'I've spoken to her and she doesn't think Carter's our man, by the way. She reckons he's more sad than bad. However, I've got someone having a look at his firearms licence. Can't have him going and pointing a dangerous weapon at all and sundry, can we?'

Wesley nodded. He trusted Rachel's judgement. But they'd keep a discreet eye on Barty Carter. Just in case.

'Rach had a funny phone call yesterday.'

'What kind of funny?' Wesley wished his boss would be more specific.

'Some woman telling her to talk to Celia Dawn that's one of the women Annette Marrick was with when her husband ...'

'And has she seen her?'

'Not yet. She's going to try her today.'

The main thing that had been on Wesley's mind since he'd left work the previous evening hadn't been mentioned yet. And, in his opinion, it was high time it was brought up. 'Anything else come in on that DNA match? The skeleton in the woods?'

'Not yet but I've asked for more information. Luton are sending us the file apparently.' He didn't look as if he quite believed it. 'Of course they didn't have all this DNA testing in those days but recently they've been going over evidence in some cold cases putting samples they'd kept into computers or whatever it is they do. That's how they found a match with our skeleton.'

'Have they got a name for us?'

Heffernan shook his head.

'So the man in the woods was a rapist.'

'Of schoolgirls. He raped a schoolgirl. Aged thirteen.' Heffernan, the father of a daughter, looked quite upset about it. 'Still, it looks like the b.a.s.t.a.r.d got what he deserved.'

'We still don't know how he died. Could have been natural causes.'

'Could have been. Let's work on that a.s.sumption, shall we, Wes? Case closed.'

'Suits me. Especially when we've got "the Spider" to deal with.' He grinned.

Heffernan muttered something unrepeatable under his breath.

'I'm sending Trish to have a word with the headmaster at St Peter's School today. See if he can shed any light on Simon Tench's background. I understand his parents are dead.'

'That's right. The mother died when he was in his teens and the father had a stroke a couple of years ago. Sad.'

'Very. I still think the fact that all the victims are the same age is significant. Perhaps they went to the same primary school. Or perhaps they all went to St Peter's and the other two were just away on the day of the photograph for some reason.'

'What about Charles Marrick's parents? Surely they've been contacted.'

'I've thought of that, Wes. It seems they divorced years ago. The mother married again and emigrated to Australia and the father died in a car accident.'

'Not a close family then.'

'Doesn't look that way. I've been told that the mother's coming back for the funeral.'

'She might be able to provide some more background for us. If she'll talk.' Wesley looked at his watch. 'I'll have a word with Trish then we'd better make a move. It's a long way to Chester.'

'It certainly is. But it looks like our killer made the journey.'

As Wesley left the office, he was suddenly struck by a fear that the Spider could be lying in wait, ready to claim more victims, if they didn't catch up with him fast.

Neil Watson reckoned he deserved a lunch break like everyone else. But what you deserve and what you get are sometimes two completely different things.

He'd been rather surprised when a uniformed police officer turned up and took the latest letter away on the request of DI Peterson. He'd also given a formal statement in the not-so-formal surroundings of the cow shed c.u.m site office. He said nothing to his colleagues about the purpose of the policeman's visit as far as everyone on the site was concerned, he'd reported some petty pilfering of equipment on another site he'd worked at. Somehow he didn't want to share the truth with all and sundry.

He hadn't been able to sleep the night before for thinking about the letters. They were starting to scare him. Someone was watching him. They knew his movements and where he lived.

He'd read about 'the Spider' in the Tradmouth Echo. No wonder Wesley had been elusive, he thought. There was a serial killer on the loose in the Tradmouth area a killer who paralysed his victims before letting them bleed to death. This modus operandi reminded him of the letter writer's obsession with blood and bleeding and the possibility of a link nagged in his mind. Last night Wesley had warned him to be careful and not to open his door to strangers and, for the first time in his life, Neil was really afraid.

He saw Lenny approaching and his heart began to beat a little faster. He straightened himself up, preparing for the encounter.

'Dr Watson. I've a theory about that pit the one Diane said contained traces of blood. You see the Aztecs used to ...'

'Yes, Lenny, I know what the Aztecs did. But we're a very long way from Mexico and there's doc.u.mentary evidence that this was the place the monks from Veland Abbey used for blood-letting. They thought it was good for their health. They would have had to dispose of the blood somehow and it's very probable that they used that pit.'

Lenny looked disappointed. 'The trouble is with the archaeological establishment is that they won't open their minds,' he said.

Neil gave him a businesslike smile. 'We just go on the available facts. How are you enjoying the dig?' It was a bold question but the only thing Neil could think of to say on the spur of the moment.

But Lenny didn't answer the question. 'If you listened to me, you'd learn the truth about what happened here. I feel this is a site of great evil, Dr Watson. Great evil.'

The last letter had spoken of evil. As Neil took a deep breath he felt his hands sweating. 'Look, Lenny, I've been getting some strange letters. You don't know anything about them, do you?'

Lenny stared at him for a few seconds before stalking away, weaving his way past the open trenches. As he watched Lenny's receding back, Neil didn't hear Diane approaching. He felt a gentle pressure on his arm and swung round.

'Diane, you gave me a shock.'

'Sorry. Trouble with Lenny?'

'You could say that.'

'I ... I was wondering if you fancied a trip to Veland Abbey. It's open to the public and I thought we could take the trainees. It'd help to put this site in context.'

It was an excellent idea. And one that Neil hadn't thought of. 'Sure. Great,' he said, pulling himself together. 'We can arrange it over the next few days. Just don't put me in a car with Lenny.' He came to a sudden decision. 'I've been getting some weird letters and I think Lenny might have sent them.'

Diane suddenly looked wary. 'Lenny? Why should he ... ?'

'I don't know. He seems like a bit of a nutter, that's all.'

'Maybe you're right,' she said quickly. 'Look, I'd better get back to the trench.'

Neil watched her as she hurried away. She was really quite attractive.

Celia Dawn's sullen daughter opened the door to the little pink house. As soon as she opened her mouth to say that her mother wasn't there she was on the Daisy Lady again Rachel knew that she had made the earlier call. However, when Rachel challenged her, the girl denied all knowledge. But she wasn't a good liar.

Rachel found Celia on the deck of Daisy Lady, sitting in the same place, almost as if she hadn't moved since Rachel's last visit. She looked nervous as she invited Rachel aboard like a woman with something to hide.

There was no point wasting time. Rachel came straight to the point and told her about her daughter's phone call, asking her bluntly whether she'd been telling the truth about her whereabouts on the day of Charles Marrick's murder.

'The little b.i.t.c.h,' were the woman's first words. 'She never misses a chance to make trouble for me.' She thought for a few moments, choosing her words carefully. 'She's got the wrong end of the stick. It was all quite innocent.'

'What was?' Rachel could see that Celia's face had turned red beneath her make-up. She had been found out and she wasn't pleased. 'I think you'd better tell me what happened.'

'I didn't exactly lie to you ...'

'Just left things out.'

'I can't see that it's important.'

Rachel said nothing. The tactic worked and the silence encouraged Celia to talk.

'Okay. Charlie came here to the boat around eleven thirty that morning. We ... Just for old times' sake. It was all over but ...'

'Obviously.' Rachel immediately regretted her sarcasm. She had to keep the woman on side.

'No, honestly, it was. But ... Anyway, I told him I was meeting the girls at two and that he'd have to go.'

'The girls? I presume you mean Annette and Betina?'

She nodded.

'So you and Marrick went to bed and ...'

'He was hungry. I keep some ready meals in my little freezer here Winterlea's gourmet range. I put one in the microwave for him after we'd ...'

Rachel suddenly remembered something. 'It wasn't quail and garlic potatoes by any chance, was it?'

Celia's eyes widened, as if Rachel had performed some remarkable mind-reading trick. 'How did you know?'

'The stomach contents at the postmortem,' she replied brutally and watched Celia wince. 'What time did Marrick leave?'

'Not long after one o'clock. He didn't want to b.u.mp into his wife, did he?'

'No, I don't suppose he did.' Rachel looked at the bruises on Celia's face, just visible beneath the blusher and eye shadow. 'What about those bruises? Did he do that?'

'No,' she said defensively. 'I walked into a cupboard door. That's the truth.

Rachel didn't believe her but she let it go for now. 'Do you know a man called Simon Tench? He was a vet?'

Celia shook her head, avoiding Rachel's eyes.

'I'll have to ask you to make a statement.'

The woman nodded meekly. But Rachel suspected that this new version of events might prove to be as unreliable as Celia's original statement. In other words, a pack of lies.

The traffic on the M6 was dreadful as it always was during the working day and it was four o'clock by the time Wesley Peterson and Gerry Heffernan hit the Chester suburbs. Wesley had entered the address of Cheshire police headquarters into his sat nav and he was rather surprised when the disembodied female voice directed him to an ugly high-rise block, at odds with the city's historical image, not far from the Roodee racecourse and the elegant castle which housed the law courts.

They were expected, which was good. As was the tea they were offered in the office of the detective inspector who had conducted the initial investigation into the death of Christopher Grisham. The DI, whose name was John Heath, was on the defensive at first and Wesley sensed he was embarra.s.sed about his swift conclusion that Grisham had died by his own hand. But then all the evidence had pointed that way and the coroner had seemed happy with the verdict. It was only the news of the similar deaths over two hundred miles away in Devon that had made DI John Heath reconsider his first a.s.sumption.

Some men would have become obstructive when their bubble of professional pride had been p.r.i.c.ked but Heath seemed to take it philosophically. He was a big man, overweight, bald and nearing retirement. And he knew Gerry Heffernan's cousin, Howard, which endeared him at once to the DCI.

Heath said it would be easier to walk to Christopher Grisham's flat than to travel by car. He'd lived right in the centre, in one of the main streets given over to pedestrians. Wesley had never visited Chester before and he was glad to combine duty with a spot of sightseeing. He knew Chester was a walled city and that the walls were more intact than those of his old university city, Exeter: perhaps when the day's work was over, he could persuade Gerry Heffernan to indulge in some impromptu tourism.

John Heath led them through the streets, past the Grosvenor Museum and into wide thoroughfares thronging with shoppers. Wesley studied the buildings as they walked. Lofty, half-timbered shops rose up either side of the street magpie black and white. Many had covered galleries on the first floor revealing a second tier of shops behind their bal.u.s.trades. These were the famous Rows, unique to the city a masterly method of medieval s.p.a.ce-saving.

'So where did the victim live?' Wesley asked, wondering how much further they had to go.

'Right in the heart of things. Just coming up to our right. He had a flat in the Rows ... top floor above an antique shop.'

Heath turned sharp right, weaving his way through a group of j.a.panese tourists, and led them up a narrow flight of steps to a wide walkway with a wooden balcony on one side and a row of small shops on the other. To the left of an expensive-looking antique shop was a door. Heath took a key from his pocket and placed it in the lock.

'The landlord's had a firm of cleaners in to get rid of the worst of it,' he said, wrinkling his nose. 'Grisham's stuff's still in here. His relatives haven't cleared it out yet. The rent was paid a couple of months in advance so the landlord's not in much of a hurry.'

'You wouldn't pay a few months' rent in advance if you planned to kill yourself,' Wesley observed.

'It might have been a spur of the moment decision.' There was a hint of resentment in Heath's reply, as though he thought that Wesley was being too clever by half.