A Painted Doom (20 page)

‘Pete, good to see you. How are you keeping?’ Heffernan slapped the constable heartily on the back. ‘What have you got for
us, eh?’

‘The address book found in the glove box of that yellow Porsche, Gerry. Belongs to that pop star who was shot at Derenham,
so I’ve heard.’

‘That’s right. Let’s hope it throws some light on the subject.’

There was an awkward pause, as though the constable were weighing up his next question. ‘I hear you’ve pulled Paul Heygarth
in for this murder. Is that right?’

Wesley, who by now was fingering the address book, impatient to read its contents, looked up. There was something in the constable’s
voice that told him this was no casual enquiry.

‘Yeah.’

‘Deserves all he bloody gets if you ask me.’ The man touched Heffernan’s arm, a gesture of support, before saying goodbye
and wishing them luck with the case.

‘Know him, do you?’ Wesley asked casually once the constable had left.

‘Yeah. We trained together, me and Pete. Go back a long way. And his wife used to work at the hospital with … with Kathy.’

Something, a slight unsteadiness in Heffernan’s voice, told Wesley that further questions would be unwelcome. He turned his
attention to the book. ‘Right, then, let’s see who figured in Jonny Shellmer’s life.’

As Wesley opened the small, leather-bound book, he saw that there was a distant look in his boss’s eyes.

Jill Hoxworthy had begun to sort through the contents of Lewis’s bedroom on Saturday night. But this Herculean task had progressed
slowly. By ten o’clock she had managed to clear the floor, placing clothes in the linen basket, books and CDs on the desk
and used tissues and other assorted rubbish in a bin-bag. She had even made the bed for the first time in weeks. But then,
exhausted and miserable, she had abandoned the room for the night and joined her husband downstairs, where they had sat in
a silent vigil, staring at moving images on a television screen which might just as well have been blank.

She hadn’t slept. Neither had Terry. They lay awake listening. Listening for any sound that might herald Lewis’s safe return.
The next morning Jill – who had not cried since her son’s disappearance – stood in Lewis’s half-tidied bedroom and burst into
tears.

She knew Terry was out working around the farm as usual and she was glad he wasn’t there to witness the collapse of her stoical
façade. She slumped down on the newly made bed and wept, only stopping when she heard Terry opening the back door. She didn’t
want him to find her like that. If she wasn’t strong, they would both go under.

She blew her nose on her damp handkerchief and stood up, taking a deep breath. She would finish tidying Lewis’s room; see
whether anything was missing or whether there was anything that gave a clue to his whereabouts. The police officers had suggested
it – Stella Tracey’s daughter, Rachel, and that nice young dark inspector. They had been so kind. Everyone had been kind.
But it didn’t help to find her Lewis.

She began with his desk, and when she had finished it looked presentable; books neatly stacked and Lewis’s beloved computer
sitting in pride of place in the centre.

The wardrobe was next. She opened it and looked down. Clothes had fallen off hangers and lay in the bottom mixed with worn-out
trainers and discarded school bags. Boxes of toys, untouched for years, lay stacked behind. They should have gone to a jumble
sale, thought Jill, trying to be practical. Or been put in the loft for grandchildren. This last thought brought the tears
back again. She saw the interior of the wardrobe mistily through the water welling up in her eyes. But there was work to be
done. She told herself sternly to pull herself together.

She began to pull the clothes out, piling them onto the bed. Lewis had most likely grown out of half of them … or would have
rejected them as too unfashionable. The bottom of the wardrobe was quickly dealt with and all good shoes that were outgrown
were placed in bags to donate to a charity shop. Jill found the tidying therapeutic, and by the time she reached the wardrobe
shelves she was feeling a little calmer.

She pulled twisted jumpers and heaped sweatshirts from the shelves, folding them tidily before replacing them. Then, right
at the back of the third shelf down, her hand brushed against something that felt like a metal box. She reached into the dark
recess and pulled it out, her heart beating a little faster.

She stared at the box for a few moments. It looked old, rusty and solid with flakes of black paint. She opened it
carefully and saw that there was a layer of snowy-white tissue paper inside. Jill peeled it away.

There, lying in the bottom of the box, cold, hard and grey, was a small handgun. Jill dropped the box and screamed.

Right reverend and worshipful mother,

I write this with a heavy heart for my father was injured in battle a sennight since. He lies with the good brothers of Tewkesbury
Abbey, who have him now in their care and prayers, and the brother infirmarer of the Abbey assures me of his swift recovery.

Our army hastened to the town of Tewkesbury, where King Edward and his army came upon us on the fourth day of May. My mind
is filled still with the horrors of the battlefield, and I dream nightly of the screams of dying men and the cruelties I witnessed.
Prince Edward, son of our sovereign lord King Henry VI, was most piteously slain, as was the Earl of Devon, the Duke of Somerset
and divers knights, squires and gentlemen. It was a most grievous defeat for the noble house of Lancaster.

If God spares my father we shall return to Derenham when he is fit to travel on the rough and dangerous roads. Convey my affectionate
greetings to my sister Elizabeth and tell her how I long to see her sweet face once more. My father is most worried concerning
my stepbrother, John’s, behaviour, and I pray, dear mother, that he does not bring more trouble on our house at this time.

My father speaks of making gifts to the church in
thanks for our deliverance from the perils of battle. But we will speak of this on our return to Derenham.

Written in haste at Tewkesbury this eleventh day of May
1471 by candlelight. By your loving son, Edmund

At ten o’clock on Sunday morning Gerry Heffernan flicked through the pages of Jonny Shellmer’s address book. There were a
lot of entries, many in the London area, and to his surprise he saw Angela Simms’s address and phone number written in bold
black ink, which made the theory that she was an obsessed fan seem unlikely: if Jonny had her details in his private address
book, the interest couldn’t have been one sided.

Most of the addresses could be checked out by his team. But there was one he wanted to keep to himself. The name Liz, followed
by an address in the Allerton district of Liverpool. Shellmer’s ex-wife’s name was Liz. And Allerton was his own territory,
where he had been born and brought up. He knew the road – near Calderstones Park. Nice. Liz Shellmer – or whatever her surname
was now – had done well for herself.

He smiled as he contemplated a quick trip up North. He might have time to drop in on his son, Sam, who was up at Liverpool
University studying to become a vet. And he’d take Wesley up with him, show him the sights, take him for a trip on a Mersey
ferry. It’d be a treat for him, a change of scene. And of course it was vitally important that they speak to Jonny Shellmer’s
ex-wife. That went without saying.

As Heffernan was formulating his plans, Wesley strolled into the office and sat down.

‘I thought you’d like to know they’re bringing Alec Treadly in for questioning.’ Wesley looked solemn. Their discoveries about
Treadly’s past had opened a new dimension on the case, an evil dimension that the average police officer would rather never
encounter. Wesley hoped that their assumptions were wrong.

‘Check his movements over the past few days and all. If he’s farted I want to know about it. Any news of Angela Simms?’

‘Still unconscious. But I reckon she was lucky. If that woman hadn’t gone into the shop when she did and disturbed the attacker,
he might have been able to finish the job and we’d be looking at murder. I’ve arranged for an officer to stay at the hospital
and let us know if she comes round or … We’ve not been able to track down any next of kin yet.’

‘Better keep trying. There must be someone who cares about the poor woman. Do you think it was a robbery that went wrong?’

‘It looks that way.’ Wesley hesitated. ‘Or perhaps that’s what we were meant to think.’

‘Who knows, Wes. Anything from Forensics yet?’ Heffernan looked at his watch.

‘They didn’t find any prints on that stone angel, if that’s what you mean.’ It would have been too much to hope that the robber
had been obliging enough to leave a clear set of prints.

Heffernan shifted in his seat. He’d have to be off to church soon – the choir couldn’t function without him.

Wesley was about to leave the office when Heffernan called him back. ‘We’re off up North … probably Tuesday. Tell your Pam
it’s likely that we’ll have to stay over. We’re paying a call on a lady called Liz – Shellmer’s ex-wife. Her address is in
Shellmer’s book.’

‘Have you notified Merseyside?’

‘Oh, aye. They’re breaking the bad news, but I still want to talk to her. I want chapter and verse on Jonny Shellmer – who
his friends were, what kind of man he was, whether he had any strange tastes or interests. Sherry Smyth’s not known him that
long and I get the feeling we’re only getting the sanitised version. And I want a word with this Hal Lancaster character and
all, but he’s not back home yet. I spoke to his housekeeper again and she says he’s gone off sailing. He’s got a boat called
the
Henry of Lancaster
.
How’s that for modesty? Calling your boat after yourself.’

Wesley smiled. ‘Sounds like something out of the Wars of the Roses to me. Henry of Lancaster – Henry VI, maybe … a few chicken legs short of a banquet and married to Margaret of Anjou, the original domineering wife. Or Henry Tudor –
Henry VII.’

Heffernan was starting to look bored. ‘Like I’ve always said, Wes, you’re a mine of useless information. Don’t know where
you get it all from.’

Wesley smiled. ‘You should brush up on your history, Gerry. It’s amazing what you can pick up.’

Before Heffernan could think of a witty reply, the door opened and Trish Walton hovered on the threshold of the office, a
piece of paper clutched in her hand.

‘There’s been a call from Mrs Hoxworthy, sir.’

Wesley and Heffernan exchanged looks, each hoping that the call had been to say that Lewis had turned up safe and sound.

‘She was tidying the missing boy’s room and she’s found something, sir. It’s a gun. She says she found it in a box in the
wardrobe.’

Having delivered her message, Trish made a swift exit, leaving the two men staring after her, open mouthed.

‘I think we’d better get over there,’ said Wesley after a few moments, picking up his jacket from the back of the chair. The
choir would have to survive that morning without Gerry Heffernan’s contribution.

To Neil Watson Sunday was just like any other day. And as archaeology was his passion as well as his livelihood, he was happy
to work at it seven days a week. The novelty of the enterprise had lured a few of the volunteers to share in his labours.
But others were off doing Sunday things; playing sport, visiting relatives or washing the car.

Neil squatted in one of the damp trenches uncovering what looked like the base of an oven in what had once been the manor
house kitchen. When he heard the clinking of
china, he looked up and saw Maggie Flowers holding a wooden tray filled with brightly coloured mugs.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t help out today, Mr Watson,’ she began apologetically. ‘But we’ve got people coming over for Sunday dinner.’

‘That’s okay,’ Neil replied, eyeing the steaming mugs.

‘I thought you might be in need of some refreshment.’

Neil took the largest mug gratefully. ‘Thanks. But you don’t have to go to the trouble, you know. Most of us have brought
our own.’

He saw disappointment on Maggie’s face and guessed that she was the type of person who liked to have her finger in any available
pie. He watched as she made for the other trench, where his colleagues were awaiting the arrival of the tea with undisguised
enthusiasm.

As he rested his mug on a soil ledge at the side of the trench, he heard a female voice coming from somewhere above him.

‘Hello, Neil.’

A dark-haired woman in her late twenties was standing at the edge of the trench. He stared at her for a few seconds before
he spoke. ‘Hello, Anne. Long time no see. What brings you here?’

It was almost a year since they’d last met at Wesley and Pam’s house. Neil had thought her attractive then and, standing there,
his eyes level with her shapely legs, he had no reason to revise his opinion. She was a friend of Pam’s, a widow with two
young children whose husband had died in a car crash: he remembered that much but little else.

‘I’m meeting my sister at the Red Bull. They do good Sunday lunches. Pam rang me and mentioned you were looking for an edition
of the Merrivale letters and I just came to tell you I’ve tracked a copy down. You’re not the only person who’s been after
it. I had a phone call last week asking if we had a copy.’ She toyed with a small book she was holding. It had been rebound
recently in brown – a dull sparrow of a book.

‘I’ve had a look at the letters – they seem quite interesting. There are only eleven of them so they shouldn’t take you long
to read.’ She smiled shyly and handed him the book. ‘What are you digging up here, then?’ she asked, looking around.

‘A house which might have belonged to the Merrivale family. That’s why I’ve been trying to get hold of the letters.’ He paused.
‘Have you heard about that big painting that was found in a barn over on the other side of the village? The experts say it’s
a medieval Doom.’

Anne nodded. ‘Pam mentioned something about it.’