A Painted Doom (12 page)

She hesitated for a moment. ‘Paul Heygarth. Of Heygarth and Proudfoot.’

Heffernan stared at his glass for a few moments. Nicola thought he’d turned rather pale. ‘Is anything the matter?’ she asked,
concerned. She knew that middle-aged men of a certain weight with stressful jobs were prone to no end of ills, and she hoped
there wouldn’t be another emergency to deal with: she’d had enough excitement for one week.

‘No, love. I’m fine.’ To Nicola’s relief the colour was returning to his cheeks. He took a long drink which emptied the glass.
‘Go on, then. Tell us exactly what happened.’

As Nicola Tarnley told her story, Gerry Heffernan listened carefully.

Right worshipful husband,

I send this by a servant of Master Paltrow who has heard news that you are with the Earl’s party at Exeter.

Touching on your son John’s marriage, I fear his behaviour of late hath discouraged the family of the young lady of Exeter.
There is, however, a widow of Tradmouth who was wife to one More, a merchant there, and worth seven hundred pounds. I have
spoken with her at a pretty leisure and, blessed be God, she is willing to consider the match.

John is in sore need of a wife’s steadying hand. There is talk that friends of his did come to the church of Saint John in
the parish of Neston and assaulted the priest there who was preparing for Mass and took the offerings and carried them away.
I am uneasy that our daughter, Elizabeth, spends much time in John’s presence and I seek most urgently a suitable husband
for her but have found none as yet. If our son, Edmund, were here I think John would not behave so.

I pray, dear husband, that God grant victory to Queen Margaret and that He grant you a safe homecoming. Your most loving wife,
Marjory

Written at Derenham this twenty-sixth day of April 1471

Heffernan had walked Nicola home. It was the least he felt he could do in the circumstances. He had taken her to the police
station, where she had made a full statement, and now he felt wide awake and impatient to act on what she had told him. But
Heygarth could wait till the morning. They would pull him in first thing.

When he’d seen Nicola to the front door of her small terraced house on a steep narrow street just outside the town centre,
he realised that he wasn’t far from Wesley’s house. He looked at his watch, wondering whether it was too late for a quick
visit to inform his colleague of this latest development. It was twenty to eleven, and when he reached the house the downstairs
lights were on. He decided to risk it.

To his relief Wesley and Pam were still up. Although Pam had dark rings beneath her eyes and looked exhausted by her day in
the classroom, she still went through the motions of hospitality, offering a beer which Wesley fetched obediently from the
kitchen.

It wasn’t long before she disappeared upstairs, leaving the two men alone. Wesley sat back in the armchair and looked at his
visitor expectantly. Heffernan had never before turned up at this time of night on a social call. But if it was police business,
why hadn’t he come straight to the point?

After a few moments Heffernan spoke. ‘I think we’ve found our murderer.’

Wesley sat forward. This was sudden. ‘Who is it?’

‘A man called Paul Heygarth – he’s the estate agent selling the Old Vicarage. I’ve just been down at the station taking a
statement from the accomplice who helped him move the body out of the place. I’m having him brought in first thing in the
morning.’

‘This accomplice, is he trustworthy?’

‘It’s a she. And I’d say she was trustworthy. She’s in the church choir,’ he added, as though this rendered her incapable
of even the smallest misdemeanour.

‘And she’s said he actually killed Shellmer?’

‘As good as.’

‘Well, did she?’

‘He shifted the body and got rid of the evidence. You wouldn’t do that unless you had something to hide.’

Wesley wasn’t going to argue. Gerry Heffernan obviously accepted that the case was solved, that this Paul Heygarth had shot
Shellmer for some reason and then moved the body to cover his tracks. It was probably safe to assume that his deductions were
correct. And besides, Wesley was too tired to pick any holes in the theory now. All he wanted was a good night’s sleep: they
had a busy day ahead of them tying up the case.

Heffernan knew better than to overstay his welcome. The streets of Tradmouth were silent as he made his way back to his lonely
whitewashed house at the end of Baynard’s Quay.

He stared straight ahead as he walked down the steep narrow streets that led to the waterfront, thinking that Justice sometimes
wielded her avenging sword when you least expected it.

The two uniformed officers whose task it was to give Paul Heygarth his early-morning call at 7 am arrived quietly at the luxury
apartment (two beds, one en suite, with stunning views of Tradmouth harbour), where he’d lived since his wife had decided
she’d had enough of his philandering with female colleagues and grateful house buyers, and had left him to set up home with
her hairdresser.

The policemen rang the doorbell and spoke into the Entryphone, careful not to give too much away. A minute later Heygarth
appeared wearing a thick towelling dressing gown, pristine white with no tea or coffee stains. PC Paul Johnson observed this
fact and reckoned that it said a lot about Heygarth’s lifestyle.

It was too cold for doorstep conversations in what Johnson assumed was night attire, so he suggested they talk
inside. Heygarth shot him a resentful look but acquiesced, leading the way up the wide, sweeping staircase to his first-floor
apartment. It was then that Johnson, unable to think of anything more original at that hour of the morning, uttered the time-honoured
lines about accompanying him to the station. Heygarth made no comment. He went off into the master bedroom to get dressed
and came with them without complaint. Almost as though he’d been expecting it.

Half an hour later, when Johnson was leading him down the corridor to the interview room, Heygarth stopped suddenly. ‘Who’s
in charge of this case?’ he asked. He hadn’t shown any sign of nerves before, but Johnson noticed that his shoulders had tensed
and that he had begun to chew at a fingernail.

‘Chief Inspector Heffernan’s in charge of the investigation. If you’d just go into the interview room, sir.’

But Paul Heygarth swung round. ‘I’m not going anywhere until my solicitor arrives.’

‘He’s on his way, sir.’

Somehow this didn’t make Paul Heygarth feel any better.

Wesley Peterson yawned.

‘Keeping you awake, are we?’

Wesley didn’t answer but carried on walking down the corridor towards the station foyer. Heffernan seemed to be in a strange
mood; not his usual self.

‘What did you make of Heygarth?’ Wesley asked, watching his boss’s expression, which was giving nothing away.

‘He did all right. All that rubbish about just happening to find the body lying there and moving it so that he could sell
the house quickly ’cause he needed the commission. Load of bloody crap. Does he think we came in on the last ferry boat?’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. Heffernan rarely swore in the conventional sense.

‘So we hold him for further questioning?’

‘Too right we do. We’ll apply for an extension if necessary, but we’ll have him.’

‘It’s always possible that he’s telling the truth. He seems like a bit of a shark, businesswise, and I reckon that he would
bend the rules a bit if he was desperate for cash. He said he was having financial difficulties. His ex-wife’s trying to take
him for every penny he’s got and …’

Heffernan stopped and looked his companion in the eye. ‘Wesley Peterson. The voice of bloody reason. Look, Wes, you don’t
go around shifting murdered corpses unless you’re trying to cover your tracks and throw us off the scent. If Nicola Tarnley
hadn’t grassed on him we’d never have known he was involved. She admitted they’d been having what is known nowadays as a relationship,
in other words a bit of how’s your father behind the filing cabinet: he was probably cocky enough to think he could trust
her to keep quiet.’

‘But he was wrong.’

‘They had some sort of row and she decided to come clean. And he’s admitted that he knew Jonny Shellmer. He’d shown him around
the Old Vicarage a few times, including the day he was killed.’

‘So he’d met him professionally. What’s the motive?’

‘How should I know? Perhaps he let him down over the house sale. Perhaps he’d known him before and there was some bad blood
between them. He’ll tell us eventually if we keep the pressure up.’

‘And what about the gun?’

‘Anyone can get hold of a gun these days if they know which pub to go to and who to ask.’

Wesley sighed. Heffernan was worrying at this case like a terrier. He’d obviously decided Paul Heygarth was guilty, but Wesley
preferred to keep an open mind at this stage.

As they reached the foyer, Heffernan pushed open the swing-doors with a dramatic flourish. Rachel Tracey was standing by the
reception desk with a middle-aged woman. They both turned to look at the newcomers.

Rachel spoke first. ‘Sir, this is Mrs Jill Hoxworthy. She’s come to report that her son, Lewis, has gone missing.
From Hoxworthy’s farm … Derenham …’ The words ‘next door to the murder scene’ were left unsaid.

Wesley looked at the woman sympathetically. She was in her forties and showed every sign of having been stunning in her youth.
She was still attractive, even in an old waxed jacket and worn jeans, but her face was drawn with worry. Her child was missing.
Every mother’s nightmare.

Rachel took Jill Hoxworthy’s arm gently. ‘Come on, I’ll take all the details and get you a nice cup of tea.’ Rachel was always
good in this sort of situation.

As she led the woman away to one of the interview rooms, Wesley walked up to the front desk where Bob Naseby greeted him with
a knowing grin.

‘How are things, Inspector? Has that mate of yours turned up any more skulls at Derenham, eh? It didn’t half give me a start
when the bloke came in here and produced it out of that carrier bag.’

‘Glad to see you’ve recovered from the shock, Bob.’

Bob Naseby leaned forward. ‘The season’s nearly upon us. Can we persuade you to join the team, then? You were good that time
you played.’ He winked at Wesley. He was a man who followed the game of cricket as the devout follow religious teachings.

‘Beginner’s luck.’

‘Nonsense. Your great-uncle played for the West Indies: it’s in the blood. You’re a natural. Can I put your name down? Nets
start this week.’

‘Sorry, Bob. I’m too busy with this case right now.’ Wesley turned to seek support from Gerry Heffernan, who was standing
behind him, lost in thought.

Wesley decided it was best to change the subject. ‘When did the Hoxworthy boy go missing?’

Bob leaned on the desk. ‘He went out yesterday teatime and didn’t come home. I told her it’s too early to report him missing.
She’s fussing about nothing if you ask me,’ he said confidentially. ‘She says it’s not the sort of thing he usually does,
but the lad’s fifteen. If I had a pound for every fifteen-
year-old lad that takes it into his head to take off for a day or two, I’d be able to retire and spend my remaining years
watching Test matches at Lord’s. He’ll turn up with his tail between his legs in the next few days, you mark my words.’

‘I hope you’re right, Bob.’

Somehow Wesley didn’t share Bob Naseby’s confidence. Teenagers did go missing, but they were usually the ones with a history
of running off. If it was out of character, then it was worrying. Before he became a father, Wesley might have shared Bob’s
casual attitude. But Michael’s arrival in the world had changed all that. If, in fourteen years’ time, young Michael Peterson
disappeared without a word, Wesley knew that he and Pam would be frantic with worry.

‘Come on, Wes. Rachel’s dealing with it. Let’s leave it in her capable hands, eh?’ Gerry Heffernan was anxious to be off,
to interview some potential witnesses who might have seen Paul Heygarth’s car at the scene of the murder.

Wesley turned and followed him out of the station. He was right. Rachel was quite capable of dealing with a missing-person
report. But the fact that Lewis Hoxworthy lived so close to the scene of Jonny Shellmer’s murder made him uneasy.

If there was some sort of link, he wanted to find it.

WPC Trish Walton had been posted outside Jonny Shellmer’s cottage, charged with the unenviable task of keeping away the curious
and the ghoulish. There might be a lot of press interest, the chief inspector had said. It would be as well to have a police
presence to make sure things didn’t get out of hand.

It hadn’t been too bad. The journalists who had turned up had gone away with only a photograph of the cottage and a ‘no comment’
from the neighbours for consolation. Two elderly ladies next door had plied Trish with regular mugs of tea, and a spot of
local gossip had provided a welcome diversion, if not much information about the dead man. Surprisingly for a small place
like Whitely, nobody seemed
to have much to say about him.

Trish shifted from foot to foot and tried to stifle a sneeze. Police presences couldn’t be seen to sneeze. As she fumbled
in her uniform pocket for a tissue, a car drew up outside the cottage, a bright red hatchback, sporty and practical. Trish
abandoned her search and drew herself up to her full height. The itch in her nose seemed to have vanished now that more important
things demanded her attention. If this was another reporter, she was ready.

The woman who emerged from the car had a toned, slender body and long blond hair, but telltale lines around her mouth and
beneath her eyes told Trish that she wasn’t as young as she first appeared. Trish noted the pair of long and shapely legs,
barely hidden by a small denim skirt, with envy. Why, she wondered, were some women given more than their fair share of assets?

As the woman opened the gate and walked towards her, Trish saw that she looked puzzled.