Wesley Peterson: The Blood Pit Part 21

He paused to give the man a chance to reply but Dean remained silent.

'Were the three victims friendly at all? Did they ever hang round together?'

'Children's friendships can ebb and flow, Inspector. Today's bosom friend is tomorrow's casual acquaintance and vice versa. I really can't be sure whether this particular trio were friendly at any particular time.'

Wesley was sure he was lying. He knew all right. But for some reason he didn't want to say. And Wesley wondered why.

Gerry Heffernan was growing impatient. 'Look, we're trying to find out who killed your former pupils. What are you trying to hide? Are you shielding someone? Another of your ex-pupils maybe?'

Wesley watched the man's face but he was giving nothing away. However, he suspected Gerry had touched a nerve. There was no doubt Dean was hiding something. But what and why, he had no idea.

Then he had a sudden thought. 'The last headmaster is he still alive?'

'No. He pa.s.sed away shortly after he retired.'

'How did he die?'

This time Dean's face clouded. He swallowed hard. 'I'm afraid Mr Hadderson took his own life. He cut his throat.'

Gerry Heffernan caught Wesley's eye. 'Did he have any family?'

Dean shook his head. 'No. He never married.'

'Brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces?'

Another shake of the head. 'Not that I know of.'

It was Wesley who asked the next question. 'Any lovers, male or female? Any close friends?'

Dean's face reddened. 'I ... Well there was Norman Hedge.'

'Lover or friend?'

'That really isn't for me to say,' Dean replied, coy as a maiden aunt.

'Dr Wynn mentioned a Mr Hedge who taught history. He said he was taking part in a local excavation.' He looked Dean in the eye. 'I presume this is the same Mr Hedge?'

'That'll be Norman. Yes.' He looked worried. 'If you think he might be a suspect, you're mistaken. Norman wouldn't hurt a fly. He ...'

'That's as may be, Mr Dean,' said Wesley smoothly. 'But we still need to speak to him.' He caught Gerry Heffernan's eye. They'd learned all they could for now and pressing Dean further might be counterproductive. They'd call back soon. Besides, Wesley wanted to look at the postmortem report on Belsinger's former headmaster, Stanley Hadderson. He was wondering if there might have been more to the apparent suicide than met the eye. If the wounds on his throat were the same as those on the recent victims, it would open up a whole new set of possibilities.

Wesley took his leave, saying they'd call again, but trying to make the words sound as unthreatening as possible. If they were to get the full story out of Mortimer Dean, they needed him in a co-operative frame of mind.

But as soon as they'd left the shop, Dean turned the sign hanging on the door round to 'closed' and rushed to the back office.

He took a deep breath before switching on his computer. Like the police, he needed to know the truth.

CHAPTER 10.

When I discovered the truth about Brother William it just seemed right to link it to my own story. We're the same, Brother William and I.

Perhaps I'm growing tired of this blood game. But I can't tell you what it all means. You'll have to find that out for yourself, Neil. Think of it as a test.

It was time to go back ... and to pick up the local evening paper on the way. The writer needed to find out how much the police knew. With DNA testing available, they could do wonders these days and it surely wouldn't be long before they discovered his ident.i.ty.

But would they make the connection? Probably not. The only way they could find out the truth was if a confession was made.

Perhaps I shouldn't tell. Perhaps it would bring nothing but misery. But I know I can't keep it a secret much longer. I know I deserve punishment for what I did. Maybe I deserve death.

The urge to tell the truth was overwhelming. But why Neil Watson had been selected as Father Confessor, the writer wasn't sure. Perhaps he'd just looked as though he might understand.

Wesley arrived home at seven thirty and Pam rushed to greet him as soon as she heard his key in the door. She'd had a tough day at school. And besides, she hadn't seen her husband since he'd set off early the day before, bound for Chester and a night at some anonymous small hotel. Pam was surprised at how much she had missed him. She wanted to see him almost as much as she had back in those heady days when they'd first met.

As soon as he walked in through the door, he kissed her and asked how the children were. They were fine, she said. No problems. They were both in bed. Michael was reading and Amelia had fallen asleep immediately, exhausted by her day at the nursery. As if on cue, Michael appeared at the top of the stairs, a book clutched in his hand. Could Daddy read some of it with him?

Wesley ignored his growling stomach and hurried upstairs to do his fatherly duty and when he came down half an hour later, he found Pam slumped in front of the television, watching a cookery programme, too tired to do anything but lift her head and tell him that his dinner was in the microwave and suggest that he bring it in on a tray so they could catch up.

With the TV chefs chattering in the background, Pam launched into an account of the h.e.l.lish couple of days she'd had while he'd been away. Her mother had deigned to stay last night but she'd expected to be waited on hand and foot and hadn't seemed in the least bit repentant about letting them down on the night of their anniversary. At work the headmistress was being a b.i.t.c.h to one of the cla.s.sroom a.s.sistants, one of the other teachers was on the point of a nervous breakdown, and to top this she was going to have to spend most of next weekend doing pointless paperwork. Wesley put his arm around her. He sympathised the police force was exactly the same. Perhaps, he said whimsically, there'd be a revolution soon towering bonfires of forms and paperwork on the corner of each street. Beacons of freedom.

Wesley's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice coming from the television. He'd been about to go to the kitchen to fetch his dinner but instead he shuffled forward in his seat and searched for the remote control to increase the volume.

Fabrice Colbert was setting fire to something rich and creamy in a frying pan after pouring brandy all over it. It was a theatrical performance that had little to do with the kind of cooking that goes on in ninety-nine per cent of homes. But that was what Colbert's diners paid good money for.

'Wish you could cook like that.' Pam reached across and gave her husband a playful push.

'Mmm.' Wesley listened for a few moments to Colbert's or rather Collins's mock French accent and gave a derisory snort. 'Do you know his real name's Darren Collins and he's as French as I am? Comes from London. It's all an act.'

Pam raised her eyebrows in disbelief then she started to laugh. 'You'd never guess. He's got it off pat, hasn't he?'

Wesley had seen more than enough of Darren Collins over the past week or so and he was about to turn down the volume when something on the screen caught his eye. Behind the chef there was a banner anonouncing 'The Best Food Show fifteenth to the nineteenth of June. Chester Pavilion'. His heart started beating more rapidly. Christopher Grisham had died on the sixteenth of June. Collins had been in Chester when he died. In fact he hadn't a believable alibi for any of the Spider murders. And a chef of his ability would know all about hemlock if only to recognise the leaves of the wild variety and know that it wasn't wise to add them to a salad.

'What's the matter?' Pam asked.

He stood up. 'I've got to ring Gerry.'

'Are you two joined at the hip or something? You see him all day.'

Wesley realised that this would have to be done tactfully. 'I won't be long and I promise I'll try to make it to Maritia's next Sunday for lunch. That friend of Mark's will be there, won't he ... Jonathan?'

Pam recognised a repentant husband when she saw one but this wasn't what she wanted to hear.

'I'll have a lot of work to do for Monday,' Pam said quickly. 'I'm sure Maritia won't mind if we can't make it. She'll understand.'

Wesley shrugged. Pam had a point.

After he'd eaten his dinner and switched the dishwasher on, he sneaked into the hall to call Gerry Heffernan. Perhaps it was time they had another word with their favourite celebrity chef. And if they could find that he had some connection with Belsinger School, so much the better.

It had started to rain in Morbay. It often rained, giving the lie to those posters back in the 1930s that boasted of the resort's sand, sea, sun and smiling, swimsuited beauties.

The pavements near Morbooks glistened in the feeble yellow streetlights. It was dark now. Evening. And Mortimer Dean had finished his meal and cleared away. He lived over the shop. He liked it that way. He loved his books as he'd loved his charges back at Tavistock House. His books were his children now and they didn't answer back. Or make trouble like Charles Marrick had done. Books were perfect companions.

He'd laid out biscuits on a plate in the kitchen, ready for his visitor. Chocolate biscuits of course. The very best. He didn't entertain that often. He had taken four pairs of gla.s.ses from the cupboard two sherry, two wine, two spirits and two beer. He really had no idea what his visitor would like to drink. He had also filled the kettle in case tea or coffee was required, covering all eventualities.

He looked at his watch and had a final tidy round, realising that he'd become so used to solitude that a simple visit now filled him with panic. Once he'd taken entertaining in his stride in his years at Belsinger the senior boys in Tavistock House and his fellow masters would often drop in for tea and chatter. But those days were long gone a distant memory. Dean examined his reflection in the large mirror hanging above a mahogany sideboard too big for the room. He was getting old. A step nearer death every day. But at least he had his books.

When the doorbell rang he adjusted his bow tie in the mirror, hurried down the stairs and fixed a smile to his face as he undid the lock.

Friday dawned bright and sunny. And the sun had brought out the weekend sailors on the River Trad, escaped from the confines of their city offices a day early to make the most of their precious leisure time in their Devon retreats.

Even though the killer everyone was calling the Spider was still at large and the skeleton in the woods remained unidentified, Wesley felt remarkably cheerful. Although one look at Gerry Heffernan's face told him that the DCI didn't share his good spirits.

'Something the matter?' He felt he knew Gerry Heffernan well enough by now to do a little prying.

Heffernan sat at his desk, turning a cheap plastic pen over and over in his fingers. 'Joyce's mum was rushed to hospital yesterday. Suspected stroke. Joyce rang me last night she was in a bit of a state so I went round.' He looked up. 'It doesn't look good, Wes.'

Wesley was rather surprised at this sudden rush of concern for his lady friend's elderly mother. After all, she had been an impediment to his relationship with Joyce since they'd met almost a year ago. Suffering from Alzheimer's, Edna Barnes had caused problems for them at every turn.

'Joyce is really upset,' Heffernan said softly. 'I wanted to stay with her at the hospital but ...' He waved his arm to indicate the pile of paperwork on his desk.

'She'll understand,' said Wesley unconvincingly.

'Does Pam?' the DCI replied quickly, looking Wesley in the eye he'd know if he was lying.

Wesley gave his boss an enigmatic smile, giving nothing away. 'Did you tell Rosie where you'd gone last night?' he asked out of curiosity. In his opinion the fact that his boss went to desperate lengths to keep Joyce's existence a secret from his daughter, was ridiculous. Rosie wasn't stupid. She was bound to find out sooner or later.

'This job provides the perfect alibi, Wes. I told her there'd been a new lead in the case.'

Wesley sighed and shook his head. 'You're going to get found out one of these days. And talking of new leads, are we paying Darren Collins another visit this morning?'

'I suppose we should. If he was up in Chester at the time Christopher Grisham was killed ...'

'And what about this Celia Dawn the woman who gave Marrick his quail lunch?'

'Rachel's been checking that one out. Ms Dawn was telling the truth about where she got the quail it's part of Winterlea's new gourmet range apparently.' He snorted with derision. He was more of a fish and chips man himself.

'And we need to have a word with this Norman Hedge. He'll be at Neil's dig so we can call there after we've seen Collins. Okay?'

'Anything new come in from Forensic on those letters Neil's been getting?'

Wesley shook his head. 'Nothing useful.'

'Think there's a chance our Spider could have written them?'

Wesley opened his mouth to say something but his train of thought was interrupted by the urgent ringing of the phone on Heffernan's desk. The DCI picked it up.

It's always hard to judge what's being said from hearing one side of a conversation and Heffernan's contribution seemed to be a series of affirmative grunts. But Wesley could tell by the expression on his face that the news was good ... if not exciting.

When he'd put the receiver down, he looked up, a smile of smug satisfaction on his face. 'That was Luton police. I told them about the initials on that ring BI and they went through their records. We've got a possible identification for our skeleton in the woods. They've come up with a character called Barry Ickerman who hasn't been heard of since 1989. They a.s.sumed he'd just left the area wife said he'd walked out and she didn't know where he'd gone. Turns out he was a suspect in that rape they mentioned only they didn't have the DNA technology in those days.'

'But at least they kept the samples.'

'Too right.' He rubbed his hands together gleefully. 'It's great this. Run a few samples from unsolved cases through some machine at the lab and it comes up with a name. Just like magic isn't it.'

Wesley had to smile at the DCI's childlike enthusiasm.

'They're faxing us everything they'd got on Ickerman. His ex-wife's still living in Luton so at least we can hand the body over for burial.'

'So we're not treating it as suspicious?' Wesley said hopefully. Getting rid of the bones in the wood would be one thing less to worry about. And with the Spider about, they could do without distractions.

Heffernan shook his head. 'There'll be an inquest and my money's on an open verdict. End of story unless new evidence comes our way.'

That was it. They could forget about the bones in the wood and concentrate on more urgent matters.

Wesley was about to leave the office when he hesitated at the door and turned round. 'Wonder what Ickerman was doing in Devon,' he said.

Heffernan gave a dramatic shrug. He didn't know. And he certainly didn't care. The man had been a pervert. Good riddance.

It was just routine. At least that's what Rachel Tracey and Paul Johnson told the headmaster of Belsinger School. At his morning briefing Gerry Heffernan had told them to go to the school and ask any teachers who had known Marrick, Tench and Grisham some pertinent questions.

Someone must know something, Rachel said to Paul as they drove out to Littlebury. The three victims must have something in common besides the fact that they were in the same house at the same school at the same time. Or perhaps they didn't. Perhaps the Spider, for some reason best known to himself, harboured a murderous hatred of all boys who had been in Tavistock House that particular year.

Bullying was the first thing that sprung to Rachel's mind. What if another boy had been bullied beyond endurance by Charles Marrick and his cronies and had resorted to the ultimate revenge? If this was the case, Paul Johnson pointed out, it meant that Tench and Grisham must have been Marrick's accomplices. Rachel had a good feeling about this theory. Bullying could blight lives. She felt a little uncomfortable as she recalled her own school days. She was only too aware that she had been bossy and intolerant of the weaknesses of others. But had she been a bully? Perhaps she'd been a borderline case. And that was something she wasn't exactly proud of.

They were expected, which relieved Rachel of the burden of awkward explanations. A fearsome secretary in half-moon gla.s.ses showed them into the headmaster's study. Somehow it was exactly as she'd imagined a headmaster's study in a public school to be oak panelled and masculine with an array of gleaming silver sports trophies on display amidst the old school photographs. It was like something out of an old film, she thought. Hardly real. And quite unlike the comprehensive school she and her brothers had attended.

Dr Wynn was all co-operation. He'd already had a visit from a DCI Heffernan and a DI Peterson and was prepared to help in any way. He'd mentioned the enquiry to some of the longer-serving members of staff who'd been there at the time the victims had been pupils and they were happy to share their reminiscences, even though they doubted whether they could be of much help.

Dr Wynn announced that they could use the staff room to conduct their interviews. He spoke as though he was doing them a special favour and Rachel guessed she was supposed to sound duly grateful for the gracious concession. But she didn't. It was a murder investigation and she was calling the shots.

The staff room was like a larger, untidier, version of the headmaster's study. Dark oak panels and venerable leather armchairs gave it the feeling of a gentleman's club. Rachel felt like picking up one of the felt-tipped pens that lay on the table by the window and scrawling some obscene graffiti about the place. It was too smug by half.

There were four teachers in all who'd been serving at the chalk face when the three victims were schoolboys. Physically they were all quite different but Rachel thought they all looked similar somehow with their dusty black gowns flapping behind them. There was something semi-monastic about them, absorbed over the years by living in an atmosphere of male scholarship. It would do Belsinger good, Rachel thought, to go co-ed. Or better still, to be absorbed into the state sector. But that, she knew, would never happen.

She could sense these men weren't comfortable in the presence of a woman in authority. She had pa.s.sed younger teachers in the corridor, of course the new generation. But the men she was interviewing were as extinct as the dinosaurs, hanging on to their posts by their fingertips until retirement loomed. Which surely couldn't be far off for any of them.

They answered all the questions she put to them politely, of course. Yes, they had known the boys in question but not well apart from Marrick who'd been a notorious troublemaker. If anybody had known them well, it would have been their housemaster, Mr Dean. He'd have been aware of everything that went on. That was his job.

The four men seemed to be speaking from the same script, almost as if they'd concocted their story between them beforehand. When they had gone, Paul pointed out that there might be nothing sinister about the similarity of their statements it might just be the truth. But this wasn't what Rachel wanted to hear. These men were hiding something. Closing ranks.