Wesley Peterson: The Blood Pit Part 28

CHAPTER 13.

From the report of John Tregonwell, King's Commissioner, November 1535 'The monks spend much time at the seyney house in Stow Barton which is a goodly house and the rule is there relaxed, encouraging much worldliness amongst the brothers. The brothers there delight much in playing at dice and cards and therein spend much money. It was confessed and proved that there was a frequence of women coming to this Stow Barton and I heard of one event so terrible that the brothers and the servants would not speak of it. But I may yet discover the truth.'

Brother Francis sat in the chair opposite Father Joseph, head bowed in silent prayer.

'What was it you did, my son?'

'Something terrible.' The answer came out in a whisper.

'Tell me.' Father Joseph leaned forward, his sad brown eyes full of concern.

Brother Francis slowly rolled back the left sleeve of his habit. There was a faint scar just above the wrist. Father Joseph looked at him, shocked. 'You tried to take your own life? Is that what you're trying to tell me?'

Brother Francis bowed his head. 'I was sixteen. Little more than a child. There was this other boy. He ...'

'What did he do, my son?'

'He chose us. It was like a madness. I can't explain.'

'Go on,' Father Joseph prompted gently.

'He cut us. We had to drink each other's blood. It was a ritual he thought up to prove our loyalty to the group.'

Father Peter smiled. 'Becoming blood brothers? It's not unknown in certain tribes, I believe. A rite of pa.s.sage. Is that all you have to tell me?'

There was a long silence. But Father Joseph was a patient man and he knew there was more to come.

'One day it all went too far and the bleeding wouldn't stop. We ran away. Something terrible happened and we did nothing. We ran away.'

Father Joseph could see there were tears in the brother's eyes. He touched him gently on the shoulder, a gesture of rea.s.surance. 'What was this terrible thing that happened, my son?'

A tear trickled down Brother Francis's face and glistened on his chin.

Trish Walton watched as Steve Carstairs preened himself in the small mirror he kept in his desk drawer, well away from Gerry Heffernan's gaze. If the boss had seen him, he wouldn't have heard the end of it.

'Going somewhere nice this lunchtime?' Trish said, trying to make the question sound innocent.

'No.' Steve sounded defensive. He looked at his watch. It was coming up to one o'clock. 'Just to the sandwich shop meeting my dad.'

'Your dad gives you a discount, does he?'

'Something like that,' he replied quickly. He didn't mention that the real attraction at Burton's b.u.t.ties was Joanne. But Trish could see right through him.

'How is she, then?'

'Who?'

'Joanne. The one who works with your dad in the b.u.t.ty shop.'

'She's fine. And for your information the shop job's just temporary. She's after a career in marketing.'

'Selling sandwiches, you mean?' she said with a grin.

Steve turned away. He wasn't having his ex-girlfriend belittling his latest. But there was always the possibility that Trish was a bit jealous and he found this thought rather gratifying.

He hurried out of the office. 'Enjoy yourself,' Trish called to his disappearing back. But he ignored her. Or perhaps he was just too preoccupied to hear.

'Trish, have you got those statements from Simon Tench's colleagues?' Trish looked round. Wesley Peterson was coming towards her, a frown of concentration on his face. 'I'd like to speak to them again and his widow. Can you see to that first thing this afternoon, please? And Chester police are going to e-mail a photograph but they're having problems with their computers. See if it's come in, will you? When it does I want Rachel to take it over to Barty Carter's as soon as possible.'

Trish smiled sweetly. More work. As Wesley walked away, she checked the computer. Chester's e-mail was coming in and she clicked on the attachment. A smiling group of young people suddenly appeared on the screen, probably in a pub on a night out. Trish stared for a while. Then she rushed after Wesley, a worried look on her face.

'The picture's come in.' She took a deep breath. 'I recognise one of the people on it. But it can't be. It doesn't make sense.'

Wesley looked her in the eye. 'Well, aren't you going to let us into the secret? Who is it?'

Wesley had been hoping to get home at a reasonable time but with Trish's revelation, everything had changed.

Gerry Heffernan had sent Rachel along to Barty Carter's smallholding with a copy of the photograph. Carter had told Rachel that he'd seen someone he recognised from his schooldays in Tradmouth. According to Rachel, he'd been quite certain but Wesley, who had never been very good with faces, had his doubts. However, if Carter confirmed that the face on the photograph belonged to the person from his distant past, everything might begin to make sense. Or not as the case may be.

Steve was still out and Wesley was just about to try his mobile number when the phone on his desk rang. It was Neil again. 'Look, Neil, can it keep till later? All h.e.l.l's broken loose here and ...'

'Wes, I need to see you ... it's about that skeleton in the woods.'

Wesley tried to keep the impatience he felt out of his voice. There were times when Neil let his imagination run away with him. 'Can it keep, Neil? I'm just in the middle of ... I could send someone from uniform round to take a statement. Is that okay?'

'No,' Neil said quickly. 'I don't want some plod coming round with a notebook and a blunt pencil. I need to talk to you.'

Wesley hesitated for a moment. If Neil was willing to wait, his information couldn't be that urgent. 'Sorry. I'll call you as soon as I can. Okay?'

'She's not turned up for work.'

'Who hasn't?' Wesley asked, puzzled by Neil's sudden change of subject.

'Diane.'

'Have you called her?'

'Not yet but ...'

'Why don't you call her if you're worried? Look, Neil, I really have to go. I'll talk to you later.'

At that moment Gerry Heffernan came stomping out of his office. 'Where's Steve? Try and raise him on his mobile, will you someone?'

'I've already tried. There's no answer,' said Wesley.

'Keep trying.'

The phone on Wesley's desk rang again. This time it was Rachel. Barty Carter had confirmed that the person in the Chester photograph was the same person he saw in Tradmouth. The face from the past from Belsinger School. Gerry Heffernan gathered what troops were there and stood in front of the notice board with its gruesome photographs of the Spider's victims.

But just as he was about to begin his briefing, Wesley's phone began to ring again. He answered it and signalled to Gerry Heffernan. This was something important.

Heffernan was standing beside him, waiting for the call to end. 'Well?' he said as soon as the receiver was put down.

'That was Father Joseph. Brother Francis has disappeared. He's not told anyone where he's gone.'

'A disappearing monk,' said Gerry Heffernan, rolling his eyes to heaven. 'That's all we flaming well need.'

Brother Francis had taken the call. He had told the brother with him that it was someone from St Giles' calling about the arrangements for the next open day for the homeless. But he had lied a sin that would have to be atoned for like all the rest. He could hardly have told the truth. That it was his past his very own Nemesis come to settle the score at last.

He knew it was wrong to take the abbey's old Fiat that was used by any brother who needed it to travel on the Lord's business. This was nothing to do with doing good or helping the community. This was Francis's business and his alone.

He crept into the courtyard where the trio of aging cars was kept, serviced and cared for by Brother James who'd been a mechanic in his former, worldly life. The keys to the Fiat were in the ignition the brothers worked on trust and Francis looked round to make sure n.o.body was watching before he started the engine. He didn't want to have to explain what he was doing or where he was going. He had to face this alone.

The meeting was to take place not far from where it happened. Appropriate really that things should turn full circle. That he should make his final atonement in that place where his life had been cursed for ever.

He was a cautious driver who always stuck to the speed limit and he'd calculated that it would take him half an hour to get there. He took the A roads until he saw the sign to Littlebury and, when he turned off, the lanes became narrow and winding, single track in places with tall hedgerows towering either side. He prayed as he drove, for protection, for forgiveness.

It had begun to rain, a light drizzle which cast a fine veil over the green, rolling countryside and, as he pa.s.sed the gates of Belsinger School, his heart sank. It had been an awful place. Cruel. Brutal. Charlie Marrick had just been the personification of that cruelty. The bully whose activities had been tolerated by the powers that be. Until it had all gone too far.

He turned the car into the narrow and overgrown lane little more than a track that led to the place. To his own private h.e.l.l.

As he parked the Fiat he saw another car pulled up on the verge by the path leading to Belsinger's patch of woodland. Nemesis was there already. Waiting for him.

There was no reply from Steve's phone and when Paul Johnson called round at his flat he found that there was n.o.body in.

However, Gerry Heffernan didn't seem particularly worried. It was just like Steve to go AWOL when he was needed.

It seemed that a car belonging to Shenton Abbey was missing, presumably taken by Brother Francis, and all patrols had been alerted to be on the look-out for the small red Fiat. Wesley had a foreboding that Francis was in danger. And he felt helpless.

Heffernan's mobile phone began to ring and, when he answered it, Wesley watched as his face turned an unhealthy shade of red.

'Where the h.e.l.l have you been? We've had everyone out looking for you.' He turned to Wesley. 'It's Steve. b.l.o.o.d.y idiot says he's only just heard I was after him.' He barked into the phone again. 'Get back to the station now.'

'Well?' said Wesley when the call was ended.

'Steve says he's been to the supermarket. He doesn't half sail close to the wind that one.'

'What about ... ?'

Gerry Heffernan shook his head. 'It'll wait.'

Wesley hurried from the room. There were things to do. He just hoped they wouldn't be too late.

At five o'clock Neil and his helpers packed up. People had been asking where Diane was all day and Neil had used the tried and trusted story that she was ill. n.o.body questioned illness apart from Lenny. When he had asked what was wrong with Diane, Neil had mouthed the words 'women's troubles' and Lenny had fallen uncharacteristically silent.

Neil had put a brave face on it all day but as the day wore on and Diane still wasn't answering her phone, his anxiety had increased to the point where he could think of little else and he almost forgot that Wesley hadn't called him as he'd promised. He was quite relieved when it was time for all the equipment to be put away so that the diggers could go home. He helped the students lock everything away in the site office and put tarpaulins over the trenches because rain was forecast that night. Then, when everyone had gone, he drove off, after locking the gate to the excavation field carefully behind him.

He was aware that he was driving too fast down the country lanes but he needed to rea.s.sure himself that Diane was okay. When he reached the A road he put his foot down and the old yellow Mini protested with a judder. It seemed an age before he arrived at Diane's flat but the drive had only taken half an hour.

As he emerged from the car, he had a feeling that things weren't right. Diane's curtains were closed for a start. He opened the wooden gate and the hinges creaked, breaking the expectant silence, and when he pressed her doorbell he could hear it ringing in the distance but there was no sign of movement; no twitch of a curtain or faint rumble of footsteps on the bare floorboards.

Neil stood for a while, wondering whether he should try Wesley's number again and ask for his advice but then Wesley had made it quite clear that his mind was on other things. Neil was on his own.

Except in matters archaeological, Neil Watson often found it hard to trust his own judgement. And as he stood there, shifting from foot to foot at Diane's front door, he was torn between driving back to Exeter and taking some decisive action. He struggled with the conflicting options for a while before pressing one of the other doorbells. Maybe one of Diane's neighbours would know where she was.

There was no answer from the first but the second bell produced a tired-looking young Chinese woman who listened politely to his concerns and let him into the hallway. She was a nurse, she explained, and she'd been on night duty so she'd been asleep most of the day. She hadn't seen Diane but, she admitted, it wasn't like her to leave her curtains like that. By the time they'd stood there in the hall for a few minutes wondering what to do, the young woman, who introduced herself as Eliza, looked as worried as Neil felt.

The landlord, Eliza said, had a key. But, failing that, she added shyly, a credit card sometimes worked she'd resorted to that solution several times when she'd forgotten her own key. Neil took the hint and, with the help of Eliza who proved to be far more experienced at breaking and entering than he was, they managed to open the door to Diane's flat without much trouble.

Eliza's hearing must have been more acute than Neil's because he was still looking around, trying to get his bearings while she was making a bee-line for the bathroom. He was about to follow her when he heard a low moan. Then he broke into a run.

'Don't come in,' Eliza called as he hovered in the bathroom doorway. 'Just ring for an ambulance. Quick.' He knew it was Diane in there but he asked no questions. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and made the call. Then he phoned Wesley. He'd need to know about this.

Eliza was talking, mumbling rea.s.suring words and she worked on Diane's p.r.o.ne body with quiet efficiency. Then he heard a groan.

Diane was alive. Just.

Brother Francis knelt on the earth, oblivious to the scent of wet vegetation and the damp that penetrated the thick cloth of his habit. Tears trickled down his cheek and he cursed himself again for his weakness.

'I'm so sorry,' he sobbed.'

The figure started to walk round the kneeling monk, slowly, like a scientist studying a particularly interesting specimen.

Francis knew it was no use arguing that he, along with Chris Grisham and Simon Tench had been innocents in those far-off days. Boys caught up in wild games. Hypnotised by the will and whims of a much stronger personality ... the personality of Charles Marrick who had been as persuasive in those days as Satan himself. Francis said nothing in his defence and he bowed his head in the heavy, threatening silence. The birds seemed to stop singing:nature held its breath as though death was near. The death Francis was expecting and which he knew he deserved.

Their eyes met in a split second of sympathy. Then the knife began to descend, slowly, almost ceremoniously. But its journey was suddenly interrupted by the ringing of a mobile phone.

CHAPTER 14.

From the journal of Abbot Thomas Standing 15 November 1535 I write as an unworldly man yet the world and all its evils are ever around us. John Tregonwell left soon after the hour of Terce for his native Cornwall. I fear he desires to put an end to our house at Veland and has reported much to his masters. And yet he knows nothing of the matter concerning Brother William. If he did, I fear the lad would be hanged as a common criminal and that I cannot allow for I know he was driven to his crime.

Another call from Neil. Wesley felt a little guilty as he answered the phone. It was the third time Neil had tried to get hold of him which suggested that he had something important to say. However, because of the new developments in the Spider case, he hadn't had a chance to call him back.

'She's been taken to hospital,' Neil said as soon as he answered the phone. 'She tried to kill herself.'

'Who?' Sometimes Neil tried his patience.