Wesley Peterson: The Blood Pit Part 3

'That's none of your b.l.o.o.d.y business,' she hissed after a long silence.

'I'm sorry, Mrs Marrick, but in a murder enquiry we have to ask intrusive questions,' said Wesley smoothly, trying to rescue the situation. 'It would help us to catch Charlie's killer if you'd answer them as honestly as you can. We're not here to judge, just to find out the truth.' He felt quite pleased with this little speech but one look at Annette's face told him that it hadn't had the desired effect. She turned her head away and drummed on the table impatiently with her fingers.

Both men sensed that they weren't going to get anywhere with the Widow Marrick. It would be wise to leave it for now ... and maybe have a word with Petronella on her own. But that would have to wait: time was marching on and Charlie Marrick's postmortem was booked for two o'clock that afternoon.

It was Heffernan who stood up first, telling the two women he'd want to talk to them again, making the simple statement sound more like a threat than a promise.

'What do you think?' Wesley asked as they climbed into the car.

'That Annette's hiding something,' Heffernan stated bluntly. 'Probably the fact that she killed him. Most murders are domestic.'

Wesley didn't reply. He was keeping an open mind. It was almost midday and they decided to call in at the police station to see whether the team had come up with anything useful in their absence.

Wesley started the engine. 'Mind if we call at Neil's dig on the way back? He came round last night.' He paused. 'He's had a strange letter.'

Gerry Heffernan suddenly looked interested. 'How do you mean, strange?'

'Anonymous ... about monks.'

'Monks?'

'That's what Neil said.'

'There are some strange people about,' was the DCI's verdict.

'And blood. It mentions bleeding. I'm thinking of Charles Marrick.'

'Why should the killer write to Neil?'

'I don't know. Unless that TV appearance he made's brought some lunatic out of the woodwork.'

'Have you told him about Marrick?'

Wesley shook his head. 'He's jumpy enough already,' he said as they turned on to the road leading to Neil's dig.

After a few hundred yards, Wesley spotted an open farm gate and a group of mud-splashed cars parked just inside the entrance to a field. He slowed down to a crawl and saw a trio of green awnings in the near distance flapping lazily in the gentle breeze . This, coupled with the handwritten sign hanging on the gatepost saying 'Welcome to the DCAU Training Excavation', told Wesley he'd come to the right place.

'Where is he?' Heffernan asked impatiently as he got out of the car, testing the ground to satisfy himself that the earth was solid beneath his feet.

Wesley could see Neil talking to a group of earnest-faced young people who seemed to be hanging on his every word. He must have said something amusing because they laughed dutifully before returning to their trenches and starting work again, sc.r.a.ping at the earth with the dedicated concentration of the learner.

When Neil saw the two policemen he waved them over and led them to a tumbledown farm building with a corrugated iron roof at the far end of the field. 'It's a cow shed,' he explained when he saw Gerry Heffernan's puzzled frown. 'It's got a tap and there's even electricity in the form of one bare light bulb so we're using it as a site office. The farmer provides us with flasks of boiling water for the tea and at least we can wash the finds. I've worked in worse places.'

Gerry Heffernan tried to look impressed but failed miserably.

'Have you brought the letter?' Wesley asked, suddenly impatient.

Neil opened the bottom drawer of the rusty filing cabinet in the corner and took out a crumpled envelope. Wesley read the note inside without comment.

'I'm scared I'll do something terrible. I'm scared the bleeding won't stop.'

He pa.s.sed the note to Gerry who read it in silence and gave it back. Wesley could tell he was thinking the same as he was. Charlie Marrick had bled to death and the author of the note had hinted that he might do something terrible. Had he planned to kill Charlie Marrick and felt an urge to confess all to Neil Watson for some inexplicable reason? The idea, Wesley thought to himself, was quite preposterous. But stranger things had happened.

'Mind if I keep this?' he asked.

'Help yourself,' Neil replied. 'I'm glad to get the thing off my hands. Want to have a quick tour of the site?' he asked as Wesley put the envelope carefully into a plastic evidence bag.

It would have been bad manners, Wesley reasoned, to refuse Neil's invitation. Gerry Heffernan said nothing as he followed Neil and Wesley outside, glad of a break from investigating Charlie Marrick's murder ... just as Wesley was.

As Neil led them from trench to trench, the diggers who were mostly young apart from a few middle-aged enthusiasts glanced up but quickly looked down again. Two men in suits meant officialdom probably some bureaucrats from the Council checking on Health and Safety.

Wesley looked at what had been uncovered; substantial stone walls and a section of tiled floor which he recognised as medieval. Here, in the middle of nowhere, someone had gone to considerable trouble to build a high status building and his first thought was that it might have been the manor house attached to some abandoned and long-forgotten village.

Neil, of course, had done his homework and had consulted local doc.u.ments and ancient maps. The site, he explained, had belonged to the Cistercian Abbey of Veland a few miles to the west until Henry VIII had cast his avaricious eyes over the nation's monasteries and closed the abbey down, stripping the place of its wealth and its roof of its lead. The abbey itself had been bought by a wealthy landowner and converted into a handsome country pile while the mysterious cl.u.s.ter of buildings at Stow Barton had decayed and crumbled so that now only a few walls and tumbled stones were left above ground.

Neil's guess was that it had been a monastic farm, a grange. Or perhaps a luxury retreat for the abbot, an escape from the day-to-day ch.o.r.e of running the abbey the equivalent of a Russian dacha for high-up officials of the old Communist Party. The old maps he'd seen referred to it as the site of a manor house. But, like Wesley with his murder enquiry, he wasn't leaping to any hasty conclusions.

Wesley looked at his watch: they had been there half an hour and it was time they moved on. As they trudged across the rutted ground to the car, Gerry Heffernan commented that Neil's discoveries looked interesting and he wouldn't mind having a go at this digging lark himself. This left Wesley speechless as he drove back to Tradmouth for Charlie Marrick's postmortem. Gerry had always seemed to find the fact that Wesley had spent three years at university learning how to dig things up mildly amusing. Perhaps Neil's new tactic of reaching out to the public was having the desired effect in the most unexpected places.

On their way back to the police station, they bought a couple of sandwiches from Burton's b.u.t.ties, the shop where Steve Carstairs's father worked. Wesley found himself looking out for Steve's father, intrigued to see the man who had produced such a son, but he was nowhere to be seen. When they reached the CID office they found it was almost deserted as most of the team were out pursuing enquiries. But this was how Gerry Heffernan liked it sitting like a lord in his castle while his va.s.sals were out hunting down information to bring back and lay at his feet.

Taking advantage of the rare oasis of peace, they made themselves comfortable in the DCI's cluttered office, eating their sandwiches from the packet and washing down their impromptu lunch with two plastic cups filled with a boiling liquid from the machine in the corridor that was alleged to be tea.

Wesley took Neil's letter from his pocket. 'Worth sending this to Forensic, do you think?'

He pushed it across the desk and Heffernan studied it carefully.

'Bit crumpled,' he said after a few moments.

'Neil said he chucked it in the bin then thought better of it.'

'The envelope's postmarked Neston so it must be a local nutter. But there's no actual threat is there? He's just saying he's scared he might do something. When did Neil receive it?'

'A couple of days ago. It was certainly posted before Charlie Marrick was murdered if that's what you're thinking.'

Heffernan read the note through again and shook his head. 'Neil gets this and Marrick's found bled to death. Is it a coincidence or not? Whoever wrote this says he's going to do something terrible ... maybe he did.'

'I'll get it sent to Forensic,' said Wesley, taking the letter from his boss. 'Interesting that the writer's showing off his historical knowledge to Neil ... almost as if he's trying to make himself feel important.'

'Perhaps that's what it's all about some poor inadequate wanting to feel significant.'

Wesley smiled. 'You could be right.' He paused. 'Perhaps that's why he killed Marrick to make himself feel powerful. The ultimate power.'

'After a job as a psychological profiler, are we?' the chief inspector said with a sigh, looking at his watch. 'Ready for the PM? If we're lucky we might get a cup of Colin's Earl Grey ... which is a darned sight better than this muck.' He tapped the empty plastic cup before picking it up and flinging it contemptuously into the waste bin.

Tradmouth Hospital was within walking distance of the police station and Wesley was glad of the exercise. It was another fine day the sixth in succession and the river was teeming with yachts, their sails raised to take advantage of the breeze. Gerry Heffernan gazed at the scene longingly: Charles Marrick's murder meant that it would probably be a while before he had the chance to take the Rosie May out to sea again.

When the two men arrived at the hospital mortuary, they pushed open the swinging clear plastic doors and made for Colin's office. He was expecting them.

As usual they were greeted with offers of tea and biscuits and polite enquiries about their health and that of their respective families. To someone who didn't know Colin well, it might seem as though he was touting for business, like an undertaker instinctively noting a new acquaintance's height and build. But the two policemen had known the pathologist long enough to know that the enquiries were made out of genuine concern. Colin seemed particularly interested in Sam Heffernan's new job. It turned out that he knew the senior partner at the Cornvale Veterinary Clinic quite well Heffernan had observed more than once that the professional men of Tradmouth had their own version of the Mafia.

When the Earl Grey had been drunk and appreciated, Colin led the way to the postmortem room. Heffernan walked by the pathologist's side, chatting but Wesley hung back. No matter how many times he entered this place of death, he never became hardened to what he knew he was about to witness. Heffernan knew how he felt but said nothing. For which Wesley was eternally grateful. Some bosses would have used it as a cue for snide remarks and teasing ... like his former guvnor at the Met had done.

Charles Marrick was lying on the stainless steel table in the centre of the white-tiled room. There was a time when Pam had hankered after a kitchen in the same materials but when Wesley had told her what it brought to mind, she had opted for something more homely.

Marrick looked strangely peaceful, considering how he had met his end. The flesh was pallid as wax but the livid wounds on his neck provided a shocking dash of colour.

'Well nourished male in his early thirties,' Colin announced as he made his preliminary examination of the body. 'Good muscle tone he kept himself fit. No sign of injury apart from two wounds in the neck which appear to have pierced the artery causing major blood loss undoubtedly leading to death.' He looked up at the two policemen. 'In my opinion the wounds were made by some sort of sharp, narrow blade. Stabbing rather than slashing.'

'Not a vampire then,' said Gerry Heffernan with a grin.

Colin chuckled. 'Can't rule anything out at this stage, Gerry, but I'll opt for a thin sharp knife.'

Wesley looked away as Colin made the initial incision into the chest, keeping up a chatty commentary into the microphone which dangled above the corpse it saved making notes in an awkward situation.

As Colin worked, Wesley studied the tiled floor, glancing up occasionally to ask an intelligent question. He avoided the sight of the internal organs being taken from the body and weighed and the stomach contents being emptied into a bowl and examined, although he caught a strong whiff of garlic and whisky mingling with the scent of air freshener and formaldehyde, which rather put paid to Gerry's vampire theory.

The stomach contents, Colin told him, indicated that the dead man had eaten a hearty lunch a couple of hours before death. Some sort of game ... quail perhaps, Colin guessed he was a man who enjoyed the good things of life accompanied by a some sort of fancy potato dish with garlic. He had drunk a small amount of red wine and he had washed the whole thing down with coffee and a quant.i.ty of whisky.

Colin Bowman believed in doing a thorough job and it was half an hour before he delivered his final verdict. 'The cause of death was loss of blood through those neck wounds. But he didn't put up a fight, which I find a little puzzling. The angle of the wounds suggests that his attacker was facing him so I'm surprised he didn't raise his hands to defend himself.' He picked up the corpse's right arm and examined it closely, shaking his head. 'No defensive wounds. And there's no sign that he was restrained in any way no rope or tape marks anywhere on the body.' He looked at Heffernan. 'You sure we're not talking suicide here, Gerry?'

The DCI shook his head. 'No note and no sign of the weapon.'

Colin nodded. 'Mmm. Come to think of it, the angle of the wound's wrong for suicide. I can see from the mark where his watch has been that he wore it on his left wrist which suggests he was right handed. If that's the case, he'd most likely have swept a knife across his throat from the left to sever the artery.' He demonstrated with his hand.

Colin studied the corpse for a few moments then he suddenly took a magnifying gla.s.s off the trolley by his side. After making a close examination of the left arm, he looked up. 'There are some scars on the arm only faint. Probably old cuts or deep scratches.' He put the magnifying gla.s.s down. 'They could even date back to childhood so I think we can forget about them. I'll send the stomach contents off for a toxicology report. Taking a blood sample's a wee bit difficult as he's not got much left in him but I'll do my best. And if you want to come back to my office for another cup of tea, I'll make a sketch of the type of knife the killer used.'

'Thanks, Colin,' said Heffernan. He lingered by the table for a while, staring at the corpse of Charles Marrick as though he was expecting him to sit up and tell all. Wesley hung back, focusing his eyes on the microphone ... on anything but the remains of the victim, the reason why they were there.

Colin nodded to his a.s.sistant to indicate that he had finished and began to make for the door, Wesley and Heffernan following in his wake. Then he suddenly turned to face them. 'Do you know, gentlemen, I'd say this was the very opposite of a frenzied attack. I'd say that whoever killed Charles Marrick took a great deal of care to puncture the neck in exactly the right place. It's a neat job ... there's no tearing around the wounds. Straight in and out.' He looked at Wesley for a reaction.

'He might have been incapable of defending himself ... drink or drugs maybe.'

'It's possible. The tox report'll tell us that.'

Wesley thought for a moment. 'Or it could be that the victim knew his killer and co-operated in his own death.'

Colin sighed. 'Your guess is as good as mine, Wesley. But I'd say that was a distinct possibility.'

Sam Heffernan folded his new overalls carefully and placed them in the boot of Simon Tench's Land Rover along with his unworn wellingtons and his shiny new medical bag.

'Ready?' Simon asked, unlocking the car door.

Sam nodded.

'Should be a straightforward calving. Nothing to worry about,' Simon said rea.s.suringly as Sam climbed into the pa.s.senger seat wondering how long it would be before he shed the mantle of 'new boy'.

He liked Simon, the junior partner at the Cornvale Veterinary Surgery. Simon didn't make him feel foolish when he made a mistake like some would.

'Have the police been in touch again about that break-in?' Sam asked, making conversation as Simon turned the key in the ignition.

'No. Maybe you should have to have a word with your dad. No use having friends in high places if you don't make use of them.'

Sam didn't answer, unsure whether to take the comment seriously. His dad had enough on his plate at the moment without being troubled by kids smashing a window and pinching drugs from a vet's surgery.

As Simon swung the Land Rover left on to the main road, Sam noticed a figure step back into the shadow of the tall laurels by the surgery gate as they pa.s.sed. He had a strong sense that there was something malevolent about the person, whoever he or she was, but he told himself he was imagining things. Perhaps it was the monk-like hood that shrouded the figure's head on such a fine day that gave him the creeps.

Or perhaps it was the uneasy feeling that the figure had no face.

CHAPTER 3.

I have dreams about monks bad dreams. And in those dreams they're swimming through rivers of blood. Hot blood, flowing through the pa.s.sages and cloisters of their abbey, sweeping into their great church and carrying away the costly ornaments and the painted statues of their saints.

On the TV you said that you wanted to know more about the history of the abbey and I will find out all I can for you. I know that Veland Abbey was a Cistercian foundation built in the late thirteenth century. The Cistercians or white monks usually built their establishments in isolated locations and sustained themselves by working the land. Some of the houses eventually became very wealthy and I wonder if the devil wormed his way into the hearts of the monks of Veland through the sin of avarice. You see I know the end of Brother William's story but I don't yet know how the terrible events began. The worm in the bud that grew into mortal sin and resulted in death.

It must be so good to be like you, Neil, and know that there's a point to it all.

I will write again soon.

Wesley and Heffernan were silent as they left the hospital, taking in the implications of what Colin Bowman had told them. From what they had learned from his widow, Charles Marrick had hardly been the sort to lie back meekly and allow someone to kill him. It didn't make sense.

Le Pet.i.t Poisson was their next port of call. They hadn't warned Fabrice Colbert of their impending visit. Gerry Heffernan always liked to take his witnesses unawares ... before they had time to perfect their story. The restaurant was within walking distance of the hospital so it made sense to make the journey on foot. Besides, Gerry Heffernan claimed that he was in need of the exercise Joyce, his lady friend, had begun to drop hints about his weight.

Le Pet.i.t Poisson was a turreted folly of a building perched above Battlefleet Creek, half a mile up the steep street leading to Tradmouth Castle. Wesley had heard that the restaurant's view over the river was spectacular not that, on a policeman's salary, he had ever sampled its delights himself.

'Wonder if garlic spuds are on the menu,' Heffernan mused as they approached the gleaming gla.s.s door.

The place reeked of quality. There was no ostentation here, nothing flashy about the discreet Michelin stars displayed above the sparkling white menus housed in a gla.s.s case beside the entrance. Wesley began to read the beautifully printed bill of fare. It sounded good. And the figures by each dish told him at a glance that the price matched the food. Top quality.

'Can't stand the snooty waiters you get in these places,' Heffernan mumbled, shifting from foot to foot like a Victorian tradesman who'd just realised he'd rung the front door bell of the big house instead of going round the back to the servants' entrance.

Wesley rang the bell again and this time a young man appeared, dressed in sleek black with hair to match. He mouthed 'Sorry, we're closed' without looking very sorry at all and he was about to disappear back into the bowels of the building when Wesley held up his warrant card. There followed a frantic unlocking of the door and when it opened the young man stood there, looking nervous.

'We'd like to speak to Monsieur Colbert if we may,' Wesley said politely. There was no point in alienating potential witnesses unnecessarily.

There was no mistaking it, the young man's expression changed from nervous to terrified. 'Chef's busy,' he said, almost in a whisper. 'He doesn't like to be disturbed.'

Wesley gave the young waiter he was certain he was a waiter a sympathetic smile. He'd worked for a chief inspector like that when he'd first started in CID in the Met. 'I'm afraid we have to talk to him. It's important.'

The young waiter looked dubious. Chef wouldn't be best pleased about being disturbed for some trivial police matter like a speeding ticket and Chef found it almost impossible to stick to the speed limit in his Porsche. 'I'll tell him you're here,' he said, preparing to scuttle away.