Wesley Peterson: The Blood Pit Part 19

Wesley had to concede that Heath was right. The fact that the dead man paid his rent up front had been no reason to set alarm bells ringing. Unlike two virtually identical deaths in another part of the country.

They walked up a flight of carpeted stairs. The carpet was new and the paint was fresh. As they entered the flat Wesley saw that this was no cheap rented h.e.l.l-hole the walls in the wide hallway were pristine cream and the floor was solid oak. And the art work on the walls must have come from one of the exclusive galleries they'd pa.s.sed on the way there.

Wesley pushed open the door to the living room. The sofa had been taken away and the carpet had been ripped up. 'This was where he was found?'

'That's right. Not a pretty sight. The constable who found him was sick.' Heath took a deep breath. 'The blood had seeped through and stained the ceiling of the shop below. They dialled nine nine nine when they saw it and a patrol car came round and the lads got the key off the landlord. There was no sign of anyone else being involved.'

'Have you spoken to Grisham's friends and family?'

'Yes. They said he never seemed the type. But then people surprise you, don't they?'

'He wasn't the type. He was murdered.'

Heath looked doubtful. Although he had alerted them to the similarities to the two Devon murders, Wesley felt that there was still a small sliver of doubt there. He wasn't one hundred per cent convinced that such an obvious suicide could possibly be murder.

'Didn't you think the use of hemlock was a bit strange?' Wesley asked. 'Wouldn't pills and booze be a more likely method of doing away with yourself?'

Heath looked smug as he strolled over to the bookshelves. 'See for yourself lots of books of herbalism and the use of plants in medicine. Seemed to be his thing.' He picked out a book and pa.s.sed it to Wesley. 'And there was this life of Socrates. One of our DSs noticed it he's a graduate ... cla.s.sics. He said this Socrates bloke topped himself by drinking hemlock.'

Wesley nodded. He might have come to the same conclusion himself.

Gerry Heffernan had begun to snoop round, opening drawers and cupboards. He took a pile of photograph alb.u.ms out of the top drawer of a sleek, birch sideboard and began to flick through it.

'Did Grisham have a girlfriend?' Wesley asked.

'Yes. But apparently it was cooling off before he died. Might have been why he killed himself. It all seemed to fit at the time.' It seemed that Heath was making excuses for his initial lack of suspicion. But Wesley had some sympathy for him. Hindsight was a wonderful thing.

'Where is she now?'

'Germany. She got a job there and went out shortly after we spoke to her. Forget what part she went to could have been Munich ... or was it Frankfurt? She got a job in some big hotel.'

'What was her name?'

'Jenny. Jenny Pringle. Nice girl. She hadn't been going out with Grisham that long but she was really shocked about what happened.'

'Did she live here with him?'

Heath shook his head. 'No, she worked in a hotel in the centre. Lived in.'

'You interviewed her yourself, I take it?' Heffernan spoke for the first time since they'd entered the flat.

'Yes. But as I said, she couldn't tell me anything much except that things between her and Grisham were cooling off. And she seemed to think Grisham might have been having some trouble at work.'

'We'd like to speak to her. Have you got an address?'

'I must have it back at the office but I don't honestly think she'll be able to tell you much. She hadn't seen him for a few days and when we called her to tell her he was dead she told us they'd rowed about her going off to Germany. She said her career was important to her. Her number was in his address book that's how we got in touch with her.'

'So it all seemed straightforward? Man having troubles at work then his girlfriend announces she's going abroad.'

'You've got it in one. There's no way we suspected murder.'

'You checked the girlfriend's alibi?'

'What do you think we are? The Keystone Cops?'

Wesley could tell that his question had hit a sensitive spot. Which wasn't what he'd intended.

Before he could say anything Heffernan stepped in. 'Come on, John, we've got to ask.'

Heath took a deep breath. Maybe he had been too touchy. But on the other hand he had two detectives from another force there, questioning his professional competence. 'Of course we checked it. She was working at the hotel. They were busy and she was working an extra shift at the time the pathologist reckons he died.'

Wesley smiled. It was time good relations were re-established. 'Can you tell us about his working life?'

'He worked in an art gallery. The Potterton Gallery in Bridge Street. He was a partner in the business.'

'But there was trouble at work?'

'The gallery isn't doing well. The other partners said they should all chip in a bit of extra capital but Grisham said it was throwing good money after bad.'

'So his partners would have a motive for getting rid of him?'

'I suppose so. His life was insured and they benefit. It might even save the gallery. But both partners have cast-iron alibis. One was in the States and the other was at the hospital. His wife had their first baby the night Grisham died.'

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. It was time to move on. Heffernan produced photographs of some of the Tradmouth dramatis personae: Fabrice Colbert, Annette Marrick, Emma Tench, Carl Pinney, Barty Carter. Heath looked at them blankly ... except the picture of Fabrice Colbert or Darren Collins: he recognised him from the television.

John Heath stood awkwardly near the door with his hands in his pockets while the two Devon detectives made a search of the flat. He wasn't sure what they were looking for and he doubted if they'd find it. Someone had gone through Grisham's things already and found no suicide note or any other clue to his death.

But fifteen minutes later, Gerry Heffernan gave a shout of triumph. 'Wes, come and look at this.'

Wesley, who had been examining Grisham's bank statements and finding nothing of much interest, hurried over to the sideboard where the DCI had spread out a school photograph. Around twenty boys, sitting neatly in rows in garish striped blazers.

'Recognise anyone?'

Wesley stared for a few moments. One adolescent boy looked much like another in his opinion. But when Heffernan turned the photograph over all was revealed. The boys' names were neatly printed on the back. And there they were. Christopher Grisham, Simon Tench and Charles Marrick.

'Belsinger School. That's that posh boarding school near Littlebury, isn't it?'

'You're dead right, Gerry,' Wesley said with a grin.

His mobile phone rang and after a short conversation he turned to the DCI again, resisting the urge to punch the air. John Heath probably thought he was c.o.c.ky enough already.

'That was Trish. She's just visited St Peter's School in Morbay. They said Simon Tench only joined the school in the sixth form. He'd been to a boarding school before that because his mother was dead and his father was working away. When his father returned to Devon, he sent Simon to a day school so they could be together. St Peter's didn't have the name of his former school to hand but they're going to dig through their records and let Trish know.'

'I think we've just saved them a job. It's Belsinger.' Heffernan chuckled.

'And Rachel's found out where Marrick ate his quail and garlic spuds. He had an intimate lunch with Celia Dawn on the day he died. Rachel's double-checking her alibi.'

'You two seem happy,' said John Heath, curious.

Heffernan caught Wesley's eye and grinned. 'Tell you what, John, we'll buy you a drink. We're celebrating.'

Neil Watson had rung Pam who'd told him that Wesley was away for the night. Chester. As a dedicated archaeologist, the fact that Chester was once the Roman settlement of Deva home of Valeria Vitrix, the twentieth legion immediately sprung into Neil's mind. There was a lot of good Roman stuff in the Grosvenor Museum. And there was a very interesting excavation of the city's Roman amphitheatre. He wouldn't mind a trip up there himself, he thought with a twinge of envy.

He was glad that relations with Pam were returning to normal. He'd missed their talks and their easy intimacy. The discovery of her fling with Jonathan had placed a wall of mistrust between them for a while and he resented this ... as though Jonathan had deprived him deliberately of something precious. But his thoughts were interrupted by a tinny rendition of the Indiana Jones theme tune his mobile phone was ringing.

He was surprised to hear Diane's voice on the other end of the line. She couldn't find her purse. She was certain she'd left it in the site office and Neil was the only person with the key. She was terribly sorry to bother him. She knew it was a nuisance.

He looked at his watch. It was coming up to eight o'clock and dusk was beginning to fall. 'Tell you what,' he said, 'I'll pick you up. You're in Neston aren't you?'

When Diane had recited her address and given him directions, he picked up the keys and locked up his flat carefully. He'd been far more cautious about his security arrangements since he'd started receiving the letters. You couldn't be too careful when there was a nutter playing games and making threats. A nutter who might also be a killer.

The roads were quiet when he picked Diane up at her flat and by the time they reached the dig the daylight had vanished. He hated driving on the narrow Devon lanes in the dark. At night they took on a sinister dimension as the hedges towered either side of the winding, single track road like magic thickets in a fairy tale and the headlights caught ghostly moths and scurrying creatures in their beam. As Neil drove, his hands stiff on the wheel, he felt as if he was on a theme park ride a cross between the roller-coaster and the ghost train.

When he brought the car to a halt at the farm gate which gave the only access to the site, Diane leaped out to open the gate but Neil produced a torch from the glove box and said they'd leave the car there and walk down the rough track to the site office.

'Look, Neil, this is very good of you,' said Diane as they walked in the darkness. 'I'm so sorry to drag you out like this. I know I'm a nuisance ...'

'Not at all. I hadn't anything planned.' He glanced at Diane and realised that he was glad of the distraction. He didn't want to be alone. 'Look, it's early. Fancy coming for a drink when you've ... ?'

She smiled, almost as though this was what she'd been hoping for all along. A more cynical man might have wondered whether the lost purse was a ruse but Neil's mind wasn't that devious. He saw it as serendipity.

'That'd be nice,' she said.

Neil unlocked the heavy duty padlock that secured the site office door and entered, switching on the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. A brown leather purse lay on the filing cabinet in the corner. Neil took it to Diane who was hovering in the doorway and she thanked him profusely. If it hadn't been there if she'd lost it somewhere else she didn't know what she would have done. All her credit cards were in there her whole financial life not that there was much finance involved as she was an archaeologist.

Neil let the wave of thanks wash over him. It wasn't often he was treated as a hero and he knew he should really make the most of it. As he locked up, his mind was on the question of where was the best place to go for a drink. Somewhere in Neston would be best, he thought, so he could drop Diane off and get home at a reasonable time.

They'd begun to make their way back to the car when Diane froze. 'What was that?'

They both stood quite still as their ears became attuned to the noises of the night. One faint sound was out of place and unmistakable. A voice, chanting on one note softly, hypnotically.

The excavation itself was some way away behind the site office and Neil hadn't really thought it necessary to look there and check that everything was as it should be. But now he changed his mind. There was somebody there. Somebody intruding on his excavation. His first thought was night hawks treasure hunters. He'd had trouble with them before. But, in his experience, night hawks didn't usually chant.

He put an arm out to Diane, telling her to stay where she was. If she regarded him as a hero, he might as well live up to her expectations. He switched off the torch and crept round the side of the building. The moon was full and the scarred, pitted ground was bathed in a silvery light that enabled him to avoid the trenches.

The one thing he hadn't expected to see on the site was a cloaked figure standing within a circle of dancing candle flames, its arms raised, chanting to the moon. Neil froze and watched for a few moments as the figure began to move. It was at the edge of the circle now, bowing to the points of the compa.s.s, moving and muttering. And at the centre of the circle was the blood pit.

Neil began to creep forward when his foot caught on one of the small test pits he'd ordered to be dug on the unexcavated section of the site and he stumbled, swearing softly under his breath.

The figure in the circle of light froze, silhouetted against the candle glow and the moonlight. Neil's heart beat fast as he straightened himself up and looked around for Diane. He saw that she had flattened herself against an ancient wall that had once formed part of the monastic manor house and her presence gave him new courage. He wasn't on his own.

'What the h.e.l.l's going on?' he called, flicking his torch on and trying to sound authoritative.

The figure hesitated for a second then took off at great speed before Neil could focus the torch beam, disappearing into the trees surrounding the field with its cloak billowing behind. Neil was only too aware of the trenches and pits that lay between him and the fugitive and that this sort of terrain could be treacherous in bad light. He knew that pursuit was useless.

'Did you see who it was?' asked Diane as she picked her way cautiously over the uneven ground.

Neil turned round. 'I can't be sure but I think our friend was trying to recreate a Bronze Age Aztec ritual.'

Diane allowed herself a snort of derision. 'You mean Lenny?'

Neil gave her a nervous smile. 'We'd better clock in early tomorrow get rid of those candles before anyone sees them and starts asking questions. I only hope he wasn't sacrificing anything,' he said as an afterthought.

Diane linked her arm through his as they walked back to the car. And the watcher in the trees didn't emerge until they had driven off.

Wesley Peterson and Gerry Heffernan set out early the next morning. Six thirty a very uncivilised hour in Heffernan's opinion. The previous evening they had met up with Gerry's cousin, Howard, at the small hotel on the outskirts of Chester, selected for them by DI Heath. They stayed in the bar till nine thirty when Howard had promised to return to his wife who hadn't been well. After Howard's departure, neither man had been in the mood to paint Chester red so they had an early night.

Howard was a cheerful, plodding sort of man and Wesley could see a distinct family resemblance to Gerry. The same nose. The same eyes. The same portly figure. Howard was quite happy to remain a sergeant and it seemed that he regarded Gerry as the thrusting, ambitious member of the Heffernan clan. But then he had never served in the Met as Wesley had. These things are all relative.

They arrived back in Tradmouth around lunchtime and Wesley knew it wasn't worth going home as Pam would be at work and the house would be empty. He was glad when Gerry suggested lunch at his place a chance to catch their breath before returning to the hurly-burly of the incident room.

Trish Walton had phoned the DCI's mobile during their journey. St Peter's school had been through their records and found that Simon Tench had come to them in the sixth form from Belsinger School where he'd been a boarder. It was the link it had to be and now they needed to visit Belsinger to discover why three former pupils had been done to death in such a bizarre manner.

A tea-stained copy of yesterday's local paper was lying on Gerry Heffernan's coffee table and Wesley read the headline 'Police Hunt for Spider Continues'. Heffernan picked it up and grunted with disgust. He really did need to have a word with Ray Davenport put an end to this sensationalist nonsense once and for all. Wesley was about to reply that, in his opinion, the story seemed quite accurate but he thought better of it. Discovering the ident.i.ty of their mole in the CID office could wait. They had more important things to do.

Gerry Heffernan seemed reluctant to return to work and Wesley didn't really blame him. But some things couldn't be put off so they set out to walk through Tradmouth's narrow streets beneath a battleship grey sky. When they arrived at the police station, the CID office was busy, which was what the DCI liked to see and, as they entered, Trish Walton bounded up to them, an eager to please expression on her face.

'Do you remember that break-in at the veterinary clinic where Simon Tench worked?' she began. 'Well the intruder left a fingerprint and we've found it belongs to Carl Pinney. Some drugs were taken. Ketamine mainly. Horse tranquilliser.'

Heffernan looked at Wesley. 'So we've found our link between Tench and Pinney. Steve'll be delighted.'

'We've still not established any connection between Pinney and our other two victims. But if we find he's taken a trip to Chester ...'

Trish looked at him in alarm. 'So it's definite then? The Chester killing's identical?'

Wesley had almost forgotten that the rest of the team hadn't yet been brought up to date on the Chester development. It was high time they were. He asked Trish to muster the troops or what troops were still in the office and not out making door-to-door enquiries or interviewing potential witnesses and Gerry Heffernan prepared to deliver his commanding officer's speech. He had brought photographs of the Chester victim and the crime scene with him and he gave them to Wesley to pin on the notice board.

Once the briefing was over, the DCI beckoned the new boy, Lee Parsons, over. The young policeman looked positively scared. Maybe he hadn't yet learned that Gerry Heffernan's growl was a lot worse than his bite.

'Lee. I want you to go and pick up Carl Pinney. He's due to appear before Morbay magistrates today for mugging our own dear DC Carstairs. He'll get community service because, allegedly, it's a first offence which only means he hasn't been caught at it before. He'll be thinking it's his lucky day but I want you to spoil it for him. We've matched his prints to a burglary at the vet's surgery where Simon Tench worked so I want him brought in again. Take DC Johnson with you he'll show you what's what.'

Lee's apprehension had vanished. 'Right you are, sir.' He scurried off to find Paul Johnson. 'It'll be good experience for him,' Heffernan said softly.

Wesley couldn't argue with that. However, he was impatient to follow up their new lead about the victims' school days. If all three had attended the same boarding school, the answer might well lie there. They needed to visit Belsinger School as soon as possible.

An hour and a few phone calls later, they were on the road to the village of Littlebury which lay on the coast just beyond Millicombe and Belsinger School.

Steve Carstairs had been making routine enquiries the only kind he seemed to get nowadays. He had been manning a road block with a couple of uniforms near Simon Tench's house or a lane block to be more accurate asking any pa.s.sing motorists if they'd been in the area around the time Tench had been murdered and, if they had, had they seen anything suspicious.

It was all a waste of time in Steve's opinion. The killer would hardly have been dancing in front of the traffic waving a blood-stained knife at pa.s.sers-by. He would have been covered in blood and taking great care not to be seen if he had any sense. And there was no reason to doubt this killer's intelligence. He was running rings round them so far.

Steve was due to report back to the incident room at two and a middle-aged DC from Neston had just arrived to relieve him. He exchanged a few pleasantries with the man and pa.s.sed on DCI Heffernan's instructions, anxious to get back to what pa.s.sed for civilisation in Tradmouth. He was sick of being sent on all the c.r.a.p jobs. It was as if the boss didn't trust him ... which he probably didn't.

Steve drove back to Tradmouth, hunger gnawing at his stomach. He'd get something to eat at his dad's shop. Joanne would be there which was reason enough to call in. He hadn't seen her since Sat.u.r.day night and now he was eager to see her again, which he found rather surprising. Perhaps it was true about the ones who played hard to get being the most desirable.

As he parked in the police station car park he looked out for Wesley Peterson's car but he couldn't see it. The boss and DI Peterson had been on some trip up north probably living it up on expenses and if they weren't back yet, it wouldn't matter if he was a few minutes late, he thought. Although since his little bit of trouble with Carl Pinney, he'd been more careful than usual about bending the rules. In the current climate, you had to watch your back. Instinctively, he turned to look up at the CID office windows as he scurried out of the car park. There were always those ready to stick the knife in.

He walked past the Boat Float where small craft bobbed up and down on the high tide, and hurried down the High Street towards Burton's b.u.t.ties. The lunchtime rush was over so there weren't many sandwiches left in the refrigerated display just inside the shop doorway. He picked out a lonely ham baguette, sitting on its own on the top shelf and carried it over to the counter where Joanne greeted him with a shy smile.