Wesley Peterson: The Blood Pit Part 5

Wesley stood up and reached for his jacket. His sister, Maritia, and her husband of almost a year, Mark, were eating with them that evening and Pam would be wondering what was keeping him. He thought of the hotel booking he'd made for their wedding anniversary on Sat.u.r.day night and smiled to himself before looking through the list he had made of tomorrow's tasks. But as he made for the door, he knew there was something he was missing ... if only he had time to think what it was.

Neil Watson was working late. The amateur diggers had knocked off at five, some keen to go, some reluctant, and now he was left with a couple of colleagues to clear up and make a quick a.s.sessment of that day's finds. Neil sat in the cow shed c.u.m site office, surrounded by black plastic buckets, trowels, mattocks and kneeling mats, staring at the stack of trays containing finds to be processed and washed.

There had been one particularly interesting artefact a small, thin piece of corroded metal, not much larger than a pen, encased in rust and earth. Neil had sent it off to be x-rayed, hoping that it might confirm his suspicions about the use of the site. A picture of Stow Barton's past was starting to form in his mind, hazy and incomplete. But perhaps the letter was sending his thoughts in the wrong direction completely. He had to keep an open mind and follow the available evidence.

The papers in front of him were smeared with mud it was hard to keep the stuff out and Neil searched through them, looking for the list of diggers. When he eventually found it, he stared at the names, wondering if one of them could be his mysterious letter writer.

There were two professional archaeologists apart from himself Diane Lowe and Barbara Smith. Then there were ten students working on the site, all of whom seemed to fit the profile of the species more interested in drink, food and s.e.x than tormenting the project supervisor with tales of monks and blood. There were two retired people Muriel and Norman who were taking part out of genuine interest and somehow didn't seem the anonymous letter type. Muriel was a retired nurse and Norman had been a history teacher at some public school near Littlebury on the coast beyond Millicombe nice professional people. Then there was a middle-aged housewife who was intending to study archaeology as a mature student. And there was Lenny.

Lenny was what Neil's mother would have described as a free spirit. He'd been everywhere. Done everything. Travelled in South America, joined a New Age commune in Neston, worked in a variety of jobs and had even had a book published. In Neil's opinion, Lenny thought he knew it all and came out with some absolute c.r.a.p with the certainty of holy writ. According to Lenny, Neil had got the site all wrong. It was on a ley line and the fact the building they were excavating was on a raised mound meant that it was a burial mound an ancient ritual site, possibly linked with druid sacrifice.

As the man was paying for the privilege of taking part in the dig, Neil had used all the tact he could muster to point out that the raised ground was a geological feature rather than a burial mound. But, in the face of the man's determination, he didn't bother to correct him a second time. Lenny also hadn't liked the idea of the site being monastic his preference being a hefty dose of pre-Christian mysticism.

His thoughts were interrupted by a rustling sound, the movement of someone wearing a cagoule against the unpredictable Devon summer. 'Neil. Can I have a word?'

He looked up and saw his second-in-command on the project, Diane Lowe, looking at him expectantly. She was small with curly dark hair and Neil had noticed that she was pretty.

He pushed his list to one side and stood up. 'Yeah, of course. What is it?'

'Barbara's gone home. She's not feeling well.'

Barbara was the other qualified archaeologist on the team, a quiet woman, introspective and intense, who didn't talk much to the paying volunteers. He was afraid he'd made a mistake taking her on without an interview but he was new to this game. Dealing with the public was an unknown country ... to be explored carefully and full of pitfalls and snares for the unwary.

'Right,' Neil said. 'Everything cleared up out there?'

'Yes.' Diane hesitated for a moment. Neil could tell by the look on her face that she had something out of the ordinary to report. 'Could you have a look at something in trench three? I'd like your opinion.'

Neil followed her out into the open air. It was starting to drizzle, a fine, soft mist, but he didn't bother about going back for something waterproof. Trench three was on the edge of the site. The sort of place a midden would be found filled with discarded rubbish. Archaeologists can discover an awful lot through examining the rubbish of previous generations and Neil had located the trench carefully. So far it had yielded a good harvest in the form of animal bones, oyster sh.e.l.ls and broken medieval pottery. Today it had been extended and Diane led him to this new area.

'What do you make of that?' She pointed to a circle of rough stones, about two feet across. 'I thought it was some sort of well at first but the deposits inside seem all wrong.' The earth inside the circle was a deep reddish brown, almost black, contrasting with the rich pink earth in the rest of the trench.

Neil squatted down and studied it for a few moments. 'Haven't a clue. Too small for a filled in well and it doesn't really look like burning or a post hole, does it?'

'It's on the edge of the site near the midden. Could it be some kind of pit they used to dispose of waste from some industrial process or ...' Diane suggested nervously, as though she wasn't sure of herself.

'Got a trowel?'

Diane produced one from the pocket of her cagoule. It was a large, kangaroo-style pocket which held a mult.i.tude of items. Neil took the trowel and traced around the edge of the circle. Then he started to sc.r.a.pe away the soil very carefully. But after a while he stopped. 'It seems to go down a fair way. I think you should record it first thing and then you and Barbara can dig further down tomorrow. Get Muriel and Norman to help.'

'Lenny was working in this trench.'

'Not Lenny,' Neil said quickly. 'Put him in trench one.'

Diane raised her eyebrows. 'You're the boss.'

Neil didn't feel like making explanations he wasn't really sure why he'd made the decision to exclude Lenny from this new find himself. Until now he'd hardly dared to acknowledge his suspicion that Lenny might be the author of his strange letter. It was just his style. Dramatic. Self-important.

And if the pit was what Neil suspected it was, he didn't want Lenny anywhere near it.

Without further discussion he helped Diane cover the open trenches with plastic sheeting to keep the rain out before climbing into his Mini and heading back home.

Wesley woke up early. Five thirty. It wasn't often he surfaced before the children but today the sound of the milkman clattering the bottles by the front door disturbed him and he lay there thinking, his mind too active to return to sleep.

The previous evening, Maritia and Mark had called round for a meal a lasagne Pam had made during the school holidays and stored in the freezer for just such an occasion. But Wesley hadn't been able to give the family reunion his undivided attention. He had the murder of Charles Marrick on his mind, waking and sleeping. He'd even dreamed about it seeing the dead man grinning at him, blood gushing like a fountain from his throat.

At six thirty Wesley climbed out of bed and went downstairs to make a pot of tea and some toast. By the time he was creeping upstairs with the tray, the children had started to wake, Michael emerging from his bedroom in his Bob the Builder pyjamas wiping the sleep from his eyes.

All peace gone, they had breakfast as best they could and Wesley left the house just before eight, kissing Pam, who was still half asleep. He'd promised Gerry Heffernan he'd call in on the way to work to go through what they had so far away from the pressure of the incident room. It would help to retrace their steps. To see whether there was anything they were missing.

It was raining so he zipped up the Berghaus coat he wore over his suit. The sky was steel grey and the rain looked set in for the day, but here on the coast you could never really tell for sure. Weather here changed like the expressions on a child's face. From sadness to joy. From rain to bright sunshine.

The wet pavements glistened as he made his way downhill to the centre of the town. He could see the river ahead of him. Some intrepid sailors were already out on the water and the ferries were scuttling to and fro from one bank to the other. Queenswear rose up on the opposite bank, a town of pastel-painted toy houses clinging to the steep hill. The sight of it and the view over Tradmouth's crazy scrum of rooftops lifted his spirits. But he knew that even here there was evil. Evil that could pierce a man's throat and leave him to bleed to death, helpless and alone.

He took the short cut to Gerry's house on Baynard's Quay, down narrow flights of steps between the huddled shops and houses. As he pa.s.sed the Tradmouth Arms an impudent sea gull landed near his feet. He ignored the creature and made straight for Gerry's front door, the salty scent of seaweed in his nostrils. The quay was quiet at this time of day. If the weather cleared up later on, it would be filled with tourists drinking al fresco outside the Tradmouth Arms from plastic gla.s.ses.

The door of Number One Baynard's Quay, a cottage that leaned against its more impressive neighbours like a sleepy child, was opened by Sam Heffernan who greeted him with a wide grin.

'Wes. Good to see you. How are you doing?' The young man, having spent the last few years at Liverpool University, had acquired a faint Liverpool accent like his father's. He was tall with dark hair, newly shorn for his entry into the world of full-time employment. He stood aside to let Wesley in.

'How's the job going?' Wesley asked.

'Great.' Sam looked at his watch. 'I've got to be out in ten minutes. Lucky I've not got far to commute.'

'The Cornvale Veterinary Clinic on the Neston road, isn't it?'

'That's right. I'm off to an equestrian centre with one of my new colleagues today. In fact he was on telly the other night. Did you see him? Simon Tench his name is. Him and his wife were in this property programme ... looking for a cottage to renovate.'

'Him and a thousand second-home owners,' Wesley said with a hint of bitterness. 'Pam was watching it she likes that sort of thing. She said something about it being local but I wasn't taking much notice.'

Sam grinned again. 'I wouldn't normally have watched it but Simon told me it was on so I felt obliged. I'm the new boy so I've got to ingratiate myself.'

'Too right,' Wesley said with a laugh as Sam slipped his jacket on.

He looked around. Gerry Heffernan's house was normally as neat and tidy as his desk at the police station was chaotic. Even though Gerry always claimed this was a hangover from his days in the Merchant Navy, Wesley had always wondered how a man could behave so differently at home and at work. But today there were unwashed dishes on the coffee table and yesterday's newspapers scattered on the floor. Even the piano was graced with an empty pizza box. Gerry's children were home. And they didn't share his tendency to keep things shipshape.

Gerry himself appeared from the kitchen. 'Sit down, Wes, if you can find somewhere,' he added pointedly, looking at his son who was making a speedy getaway.

Wesley pushed a cardigan obviously Rosie's to one side and sat himself down on the sofa.

'What are we going to do about Steve Carstairs?' Heffernan asked unexpectedly as soon as Sam had gone.

'I know what I'd like to do,' said Wesley. He wasn't normally a vindictive man but sometimes Steve had pushed his tolerance to the limit.

Gerry sat down heavily in an armchair opposite Wesley with a loud creak of leather. 'Even if he's cleared of this accusation, I'm going to recommend he's returned to uniform. It's not that he's bad at his job but ...'

Wesley said nothing. It was the DCI's decision. 'Do you think he beat up Carl Pinney?' he asked after a few moments.

'Pinney was certainly punched in the face when he resisted arrest but the doctor says the head injuries he got in the cell could be consistent with a fall. But whether Steve did or he didn't, we'll have an internal investigation on our hands. And the one thing I don't want is for it to b.u.g.g.e.r up this murder enquiry.'

'Think Pinney could have killed Charlie Marrick?'

'There's no evidence that he did ... except his knife was the same as the murder weapon. But if Forensic come up with a match ...'

Wesley nodded. It was a long shot but they had to make sure. 'What about our celebrity chef?'

'He's got the motive. But he's also got an alibi. There's Marrick's widow of course. She hardly seems heartbroken. And I get the impression her daughter didn't have much time for her stepfather there's something odd there.'

'She says she was in Bath when it happened. On her own, so no alibi.'

'She could have driven down and killed him, started back then turned round when she got her mother's phone call. She's certainly not out of the frame ... if we can come up with a motive.'

'And if Pinney's knife isn't the murder weapon. I can't see her going to Morbay specially and wasting valuable time dumping it on the Winterham Estate, can you?'

Gerry Heffernan scratched his head. 'Probably not. Mind you, it'd be a good way of throwing us off the scent. Has your mate Neil had any more funny letters?'

'Not that I know of.'

'You think there could be a connection with Marrick's murder ... the mention of blood and all that?'

Wesley said he had no idea but he thought it unlikely. Neil had been on TV and had probably attracted the attention of someone who was disturbed. The most unsettling thing, in Wesley's opinion, was that whoever it was had Neil's home address. But anyone determined enough could find it out from the electoral register.

They walked to the police station in amicable silence and when they arrived Heffernan gave his customary morning briefing. One wall of the incident room was taken up with photographs of the victim, alive and dead. One of the photographs showed Charles Marrick in a bar with friends, good looking, smooth and prosperous, the life and soul of the party. In the other he was posed against the ruins of Machu Picchu with a smug expression on his face, arrogant as any conquistador of old.

In contrast, the police pictures of Marrick's corpse, taken from various angles, showed the sh.e.l.l of the man. No self-satisfied smile. No life at all that had drained from him with his blood. Wesley stood there during the briefing, staring at the images. He wanted to know more about Marrick. He wanted to know what had driven someone to plunge a knife into his neck and leave him there to die. And he wanted to know why he hadn't put up a fight.

He was lost in his own thoughts when he heard the DCI mention Steve Carstairs's name. A formal complaint had been made, he said, and if anyone knew anything about the incident they were to come forward. But n.o.body made a move. Rather the whole team looked mildly embarra.s.sed and shuffled their collective feet. Only Trish Walton looked as though she wanted to leap to Steve's defence. But she had no information to offer so she kept silent.

Once the briefing was over and everyone was a.s.signed their tasks, Rachel Tracey marched up to Wesley, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with untold news. She perched on the edge of his desk and leaned towards him. He could smell her perfume, light and floral. She smiled, showing a set of perfect white teeth.

'Good news,' she began.

'What is? Steve's suspension?' He couldn't resist saying it.

She ignored the remark. 'Some fingerprints were found in Charles Marrick's bedroom. They don't match the wife, the stepdaughter or the cleaner. I'm having them matched against the database.'

'Good. Let's hope it's the breakthrough we need.'

'And everyone at Fabrice Colbert's restaurant was interviewed yesterday. When we had a close look at the statements we found some inconsistencies.'

Wesley sat up, taking notice. 'What do you mean?'

'The wine waiter ...'

'Sommelier. He's called the sommelier at Le Pet.i.t Poisson.'

'The wine waiter,' she began again defiantly, 'said he was with Colbert all afternoon. He said they visited a wine merchant's in Neston Varney's Vintages.'

'And?'

'It didn't tie in with a statement from one of the young chefs. He said he was looking for Colbert that afternoon because there'd been a phone call for him. He said he asked the sommelier where he was and he said he'd just been to Neston with him but they'd split up because Colbert had to go somewhere and he'd be back in half an hour.'

'So they told the truth about the Neston trip but after they'd been to Varney's they split up?'

'That's about it. He's the only one who mentioned the discrepancy. Mind you, it was his day off and he was interviewed at home. n.o.body had time to get to him and tell him the authorised version.'

Wesley thought for a few moments. 'Are you sure he's not mistaken? Are you sure he hasn't got the day wrong or ...'

'It's always a possibility. But if you want my opinion, I think we should get Fabrice Colbert in here fast.'

'With any luck he might give the cooks in the station canteen some tips.'

'I'm being serious, Wesley.' She pressed her lips together.

'So am I,' he replied, feeling defiantly flippant sometimes Rachel's serious nature affected him that way. 'I'll tell the boss. I'm sure he'll be up for another trip to Le Pet.i.t Poisson. If we time it right, maybe we'll get a free lunch. If there is such a thing.' He grinned at her and she shook her head.

'You've met Colbert. Do you think he could have done it?' she asked.

'Have you seen his programme on the TV? All that shouting and swearing.'

Rachel nodded.

'Pam always said it was an act ... that n.o.body could behave like that at work and survive. But she's wrong. That's exactly what he's like. His staff are terrified of him. Gerry Heffernan at his very worst is a p.u.s.s.y cat compared to Colbert.'

'So he killed Charles Marrick in a fit of rage?

'You know me, Rach. I never jump to conclusions.'

As she walked away, Wesley stared at the picture of Colbert that had just been pinned on the notice board to join their gallery of suspects. Most murders were simple. And this one probably wouldn't be any different.

Annette Marrick stared at the lounge door. It had been closed since the police Forensic team had left and she wasn't quite sure whether she was allowed in there. But, on the other hand, it was her house. They couldn't tell her what to do in her own house.

They had taken fingerprints left everywhere covered in a mess of grey powder, even the bedrooms. And she was afraid. If she'd thought, if she'd kept a clear head, she could have wiped everything before the police arrived. The horror of Charlie's death had driven all practicalities from her mind. But from now on she'd be far more careful.

She felt a sudden urge to enter the room, to break that invisible seal that had formed on the bland white door and to see the scene of Charlie's death once more. The room would have to be stripped, of course, and the sooner the better. All trace of him would have to be removed. All trace of the man who was a cheat, a bully and a brute.

She walked to the door and placed her right hand on the handle. This was it. Courage.

'What are you doing?'

Annette swung round. Petronella was standing there, her eyes full of contempt.

'Do the police know that you wanted to get rid of him like you got rid of me?' she said in a heavy whisper. She walked up to Annette and put her face close to hers. 'That's what you do isn't it, Mummy?' The word was almost spat with hatred. 'You get rid of people who are inconvenient.'

Annette stood, stunned, for a few seconds before rushing up the stairs and slamming the bedroom door behind her.

But if she'd turned she would have seen the tears streaming down Petronella's face.

Gerry Heffernan was unavailable. He had to see Chief Superintendent Nutter about the Steve Carstairs situation. Carl Pinney had gone home to nurse his wounds and his solicitor was talking about prosecution and compensation. Gerry rather suspected that Carl Pinney was more concerned with obtaining the latter than the former.