A Painted Doom (11 page)

This changed things. He went into the hall and called up the stairs to Rachel. She came running down, her footsteps silent
on the stair carpet’s thick red pile.

‘There’s been a break-in. Someone’s smashed a pane in the back door and the place has been unlocked. Has anything been disturbed
upstairs?’

‘Not that I can see. Everything’s shipshape, as the boss would say. But that doesn’t mean that nothing’s been taken. They
might just be very tidy thieves.’

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘There’s something I want to have a look at. Come with me and tell me what you think.’

Rachel followed him into the drawing room, pleased that her opinion was appreciated. There were some in the job who didn’t
think that a young policewoman had any opinions worth listening to at all.

Wesley stood by the huge sofa and pointed at the rug. ‘Remind you of anything?’

While Rachel was thinking, Wesley walked over to the door, and squatted down to examine what he had assumed to be a coffee
stain on the wall. The cream paint had rubbed off slightly, revealing a former coat of greyish white beneath. Someone had
scrubbed this area. And coffee didn’t leave a stain quite that shade of pale rusty brown. There had been a bloodstain here,
a large one. Scrubbing had removed most of it, but there was still a telltale watery brown mark.

Rachel walked over to join him. ‘It could be blood,’ she said. ‘And the rug. Pure wool, predominantly red – just like in the
forensic report.’

Wesley said nothing. He was looking intently at the wall. Just beside the stain a large bookcase stood on the strip of polished
parquet flooring which edged the room. He looked at the other side of the bookcase and, about three feet away, saw a slight
indentation in the wood where the thing had once stood.

‘I thought this bookcase looked wrong. It’s too close to the door. It should be more to the centre of the wall.’

‘Perfectionist,’ Rachel murmured with the ghost of a grin.

‘I reckon it’s been moved. Can you give us a hand to move it back?’

Fortunately the bookcase only housed one row of books, mostly lavish coffee-table editions. The other shelves were taken up
with knick-knacks and souvenirs of foreign travel. It wasn’t too heavy to move.

They stood back and looked. The bookcase had concealed more stains, washed-out rusty patches that hadn’t been removed as effectively
as the others. And Wesley could see a small hole in the plaster at around head height. He moved closer to examine it.

‘It’s a bullet hole. And it looks like the bullet’s still embedded in the wall.’

Rachel stayed silent for a few moments. Then she spoke quietly. ‘This is where it happened, isn’t it? The break-in.

The bullet. The carpet fibres. This is where Jonny Shellmer was shot. But who moved him?’

‘His murderer presumably.’ Wesley took his mobile phone from his pocket. ‘I’ll ring the boss and get forensics round. Will
you let the estate agents know we’ll be sealing the place off? We don’t want any eager house buyers coming to view and trampling
all over the evidence, do we?’

Rachel tried the number of Heygarth and Proudfoot but there was no reply. ‘Looks like they’ve gone home,’ she said, putting
her phone back in her jacket pocket. ‘We’ll have to inform them first thing in the morning. What about the owners?’

‘Abroad, apparently. Went to live in the south of France back in January.’

‘Well, that lets them out, then.’

‘Do you know what my first guvnor at the Met told me when I was an innocent DC?’

‘No,’ said Rachel. ‘What did he tell you?’

‘Never jump to conclusions.’ He paused, watching Rachel’s face. ‘And by the way, the guvnor was a she.’

For the first time in six months Wesley heard Rachel Tracey laugh.

Lewis Hoxworthy did his best not to make a sound as he climbed the farmhouse stairs. It was all arranged. The man would make
his way upstream to meet him. All Lewis had to do was show him the rest of what he had to offer.

He reached his bedroom and listened. He could hear his mother downstairs, clattering pans in the kitchen. Dinner would soon
be ready, but Lewis had more important things to do than eat, even though hunger was starting to gnaw at his stomach. If everything
went well he could go out to eat anywhere he liked. McDonald’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Burger King. The whole world of fast
food would be his oyster. He could take Yossa and his mates – that would impress them.

He checked his e-mails. Nothing, not even from Yossa. He pressed a few keys on his computer and switched the machine off before
rummaging in his wardrobe, searching for the packet concealed at the back where his mother wouldn’t dream of looking. Apart
from brief visits to deposit clean clothes and complain about the mess, she rarely ventured in here these days. The room was
Lewis’s domain, his kingdom. He just hoped that nobody had interfered with the merchandise – or with the other thing.

As his fingers touched the packet, he smiled. He had been reasonably sure that it was safe there but he hadn’t been certain.
He remembered hearing how the mum of one of his classmates had found a mucky magazine hidden under his mattress: mothers had
a nasty habit of stumbling across the best-kept secrets.

He stuffed the packet into the inside pocket of his coat. It would be safe and dry there: his customer had made it quite plain
that he didn’t want damaged goods. He shut the bedroom door behind him and made for the stairs.

‘Lewis, is that you?’

Lewis froze. She had heard him. Another thing to remember about mothers was that they had sharp ears.

‘Lewis?’

‘What is it, Mum? I’m just on my way round to Yossa’s.’

‘But your dinner’s nearly ready.’

He could visualise the hurt indignation on his mother’s face. Why did she always have to fuss about food? ‘I’ll get something
at Yossa’s.’

But …’

‘I have to go. He’s expecting me.’

Before she could emerge from the kitchen he flew down the stairs and out of the front door, hoping he wouldn’t meet his father
on the way in. Terry Hoxworthy had seemed quiet, preoccupied, since the discovery of the body in the field. Lewis thought
that the event had probably upset him. But to Lewis it was something else to boast to
Yossa and his mates about; something to earn their acceptance: a murder on the premises.

The coast was clear. He ran out of the farm drive and down the lane, speeding up as he passed the old barn. There were cars
outside which probably belonged to those museum people who’d been hanging about. His dad had said that they had come about
the sick painting he’d seen. He shuddered, trying to banish its gruesome images from his head.

Lewis felt his chest tightening, but he didn’t slow down until he was well past the barn. Since he’d seen that thing he didn’t
want to go near the place. His father had said that various experts reckoned it was medieval and might be worth a bit. But
Lewis thought it was sick. Any art gallery was welcome to it. The sooner someone took it away the better.

He had to stop for breath, taking his blue-and-grey inhaler from his pocket and pressing it to his lips. His asthma didn’t
usually bother him, but the damp air and the exertion, coupled with nervousness about his forthcoming meeting, had made his
airways tighten uncomfortably. The inhaler worked like magic, and soon he was walking on briskly down the path that led down
to the river.

The relentless drizzle had stopped, and Lewis gazed across the wide grey waters. There were boats moored here and there bobbing
on the tide. He stood on the long wooden jetty which protruded into the river from Derenham’s picturesque quayside, studying
the names of the yachts moored along its length. He saw that the
Henry of Lancaster
was tied up right at the end, brighter and more gleaming than her fellows.

As Lewis walked along the jetty, the wooden planking seemed hollow and unsteady beneath his feet. But he felt in his inside
pocket again and breathed deeply, trying to stop his heart from thumping and his hands from shaking. There was no turning
back now. It was time to make the delivery.

*

Wesley’s discoveries at Derenham’s Old Vicarage had made Gerry Heffernan ten minutes late for choir practice. He’d rushed
back to his silent home, shovelled down a hastily prepared meal of beans on toast, and dashed out again to St Margaret’s church,
where he took his place in the richly carved oak choirstalls and sang out, his rich baritone voice providing a booming bass
beneath the tenors’ and sopranos’ flights of musical fancy.

Gloria in excelsis Deo. Et in terra pax, hominibus bonae voluntatis.

Thomas Tallis’s great Gloria echoed around the ancient church, the soaring harmonies of sixteenth-century praise drifting
to the lofty roof with its great carved beams. When it was over, in those few seconds of charged silence which followed the
final chord, Gerry Heffernan felt a tingle of satisfaction. It had been good – each note spot on.

The rehearsal continued for another half-hour or so as they went over the medieval carol they were to sing as they processed
down the aisle. Learning all this Latin for the coming history evening to be held in aid of Derenham’s new village hall was
making Gerry’s head spin. At his Liverpool grammar school, he had dropped Latin at the very first opportunity, and now he
couldn’t remember even the basics. And at work he usually left the intellectual stuff to Wesley, who seemed to like that sort
of thing.

When the rehearsal was over one of the more adventurous tenors suggested a visit to the Star for a well-deserved pint. Gerry
Heffernan, his mouth dry from singing and with only an empty house to return to, took him up on the offer, glad of the prospect
of some company. He was just donning the scruffy grey anorak which had served him well for several years when he heard a soft
voice behind him.

‘Er, Gerry, could I have a word?’

He swung round to see one of the sopranos standing there. Her slender body was encased in a neat grey jumper
and black trousers, not jeans. Even in her most casual moments Nicola Tarnley looked businesslike.

‘’Course you can, love. What can I do you for, eh?’ Nicola looked faintly embarrassed. What she had to tell him was no joke.
‘Can I speak to you in private? Can we go for a drink?’

Gerry could sense that the young woman was worried about something, and he was in no mood for exercising his non-existent
counselling skills. He glanced longingly at the party who’d shortly be heading for the Star, a cosy inn next to the church.
Perhaps he could join them later.

‘Okay, love. How about the Angel? That okay with you?’ He looked at his watch, hoping that they would get a seat given that
it was Friday night.

They slipped out of the church before the others, Gerry Heffernan feeling a little self-conscious. He wondered whether he
should attempt to make conversation, but every time he hit on a suitable subject he rejected it as inappropriate. Until he
knew what was bothering the girl it was probably best to keep his mouth shut in case he put his foot in it. Nicola walked
silently by his side through the dark, narrow streets until they were almost at the pub, then she suddenly spoke.

‘I’m sorry for dragging you away like this. I’m sure you’d rather be going to the Star with …’

Gerry made the appropriate noises of denial: a few small white lies never came amiss.

‘The thing is somebody told me you were a detective chief inspector and I wanted some advice.’

Gerry had suspected something like this. When he had met his wife Kathy he had been first officer aboard a cargo ship, twenty-five
years younger, considerably slimmer and quite a catch. But since Kathy’s death he knew that he had let himself go, and he
hadn’t the heart to do anything about it. Nowadays women confided in him because of his occupation, not because of his dashing
good looks and suave charm … more’s the pity, he thought to himself.

‘That’s okay, love,’ he said, trying to put her at ease. ‘All part of the job.’ He forced himself to sound enthusiastic, but
work was the last thing he wanted to think about right now.

They had reached the Angel on Tradmouth High Street, reputedly the oldest pub in town; black and white, higgledy-piggledy,
and renowned for the quality of its bar food. He led the way inside and saw that the place was full. The Angel attracted a
well-heeled clientèle; local professionals and officers from the naval college up the hill. Gerry Heffernan took in his surroundings
and felt very out of place.

Fortunately, a few seconds after they walked in, a well-dressed middle-aged couple vacated a seat near the window. When Heffernan
had bought the drinks – a pint of best bitter for him and a mineral water for his companion – he sat down beside Nicola and
looked her in the eye. ‘Right, love. Fire away. What’s bothering you?’

She took a sip of her mineral water but looked as though she needed something stronger. ‘The thing is, Gerry, I’ve got a confession
to make.’

He felt curiously relieved. An unpaid parking fine, an unreturned library book, forgetting to pay for some trivial item in
a supermarket. This one, he thought, was going to be easy. He’d make it back to the Star well before closing time.

‘Oh, aye. And what have you got to confess?’

He took a sip of his beer and there were a few seconds of awkward silence.

‘I helped to dispose of a body,’ she said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Heffernan sat forward, puzzled. ‘Say that again, love.’ Perhaps he’d heard wrong.

‘Someone was murdered and I helped to move the body.’ Gerry Heffernan took another drink, a few large gulps that left his
glass three-quarters empty.

‘I think you should tell me all about it,’ he heard himself
saying. ‘Just start at the beginning, eh?’

‘I had a phone call from my boss yesterday. He told me to meet him at the Old Vicarage in Derenham. Two of your officers asked
for the keys this afternoon. I don’t know whether they found …’

‘Yeah, they found something all right. The place has been sealed off.’ To Heffernan’s surprise, Nicola looked relieved. ‘What’s
your boss’s name, love?’