A Painted Doom (30 page)

‘It’s not a good picture, is it? I recognise Jonny, of course, but I’ve no idea who the others are.’

‘Did Jonny ever tell you his brother and sister’s names, love?’ asked Heffernan, helping himself to another scone.

Liz thought hard. ‘After Jonny and I split up I was clearing out a drawer and I found an old Christmas card stuck at the back:
it said “to Jonny with love from Dad” and a woman’s name and … I think the next name was Angela and there was a boy’s name
…’ She shook her head. ‘It was something short but I can’t think what. I only remembered Angela because it was the same as
my best friend’s.’

‘Did you keep the card?’

‘No. I’m sorry. I’ve not been much help, have I.’

Wesley stood up, triumphant. ‘On the contrary, Mrs Carty, you’ve been very helpful. By the way, we’d like a word with your
son. Could you let us have his address.’

She smiled. ‘You’ll have to get the Mounties to do the job for you. He’s in Canada. He works as an accountant in Edmonton,
Alberta. I’m afraid I haven’t seen him for a year – or my two grandchildren. I’ve let him know about his father, of course,
and he says he’s coming over as soon as he can.’

‘So Jonny was a grandfather?’ said Wesley gently.

Liz nodded. ‘Doesn’t really fit with the rock-star image, does it? But he was delighted when he found out.’ She looked Wesley
in the eye. ‘I hope you get whoever did this to Jonny.’

‘We’ll do our best, Mrs Carty,’ he said, shaking her hand.

They left Liz alone. Wesley suspected that she would mourn Jonny Shellmer, that grief would creep up on her unexpectedly in
quiet moments when she least expected it. He had been part of her life, dimly and in the background. And now he was gone for
ever.

He walked faster to keep up with Gerry Heffernan, who
looked as though he knew where he was going. He was making for the park. Wesley felt mildly irritated. It was 2.15 and he
had no desire to find himself in some strange hotel for the night. He wanted to get going, to get home to a hot bath. And
he was worried about Pam. He didn’t want to leave her on her own for too long.

But at least he knew the probable identity of Jonny Shellmer’s long-lost half-sister. If it was Angela Simms, it explained
a lot.

It was a long walk to the lake. It is always sad to return to the scene of childhood memories, for nothing is ever the same.
Wesley watched as his boss stood at the railings of the lake and stared across to the boarded-up boathouse, long out of use
owing to vandalism and municipal cutbacks.

‘They’ve knocked the old Odeon down and all,’ was Heffernan’s only comment. Wesley stood by his side and bowed his head in
a few seconds of silent remembrance for Gerry Heffernan’s lost youth.

After a while the chief inspector spoke. ‘Me and Kathy came here when I brought her up to meet my folks.’

Heffernan had never mentioned his parents before, or any brothers and sisters come to that. Wesley was curious.

‘Are your parents still alive?’

‘No. Both dead. I’ve got a brother who lives in Leeds and a few aunties and cousins dotted about around here. We send each
other Christmas cards. It was Kathy who kept up with all the relatives, but after she died …’

‘How did Kathy die?’

As soon as the words were out, Wesley regretted them. He had no right to pry, to pick at old wounds. He had never enquired
about Kathy’s death before for that reason. At first he had supposed it was cancer or some other dread disease – then he had
picked up hints that she had been killed in some sort of car accident, but he had been reluctant to ask anybody about the
details.

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered quickly. ‘Forget I asked.’ He
thrust his hands in his pockets and turned away. It was time they headed for home.

But Gerry Heffernan stood there, still staring at the abandoned boathouse across the murky lake. ‘It’s okay, Wes. It’s about
time you knew anyway. Kathy was murdered.’

Wesley’s mouth dropped open. He hadn’t expected this.

‘When I say murdered, I don’t mean it was treated as murder by our lot. But some bastard murdered her all the same – ran her
down and left her to die.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Wesley whispered the words and realised how trite and inadequate they sounded. ‘Did they get who did it?’

‘Oh, they got him all right, ’cause a witness had taken the car number. Only he told the oldest story in the book. My car
was stolen, Officer. I wasn’t drinking. I’ve got a bloody great alibi. Bloody great alibi, my arse. He’d been drinking with
a work colleague at a pub in Neston. He said he’d come out and found his car missing … only it took him three hours to report
it. Then he claimed he spent the rest of the evening with some girl who had big tits and the IQ of a goldfish. She backed
up his story, and the car was found abandoned the next day. There was nothing we could do to prove he was driving.’

Heffernan clenched his fists with pent-up anger and Wesley touched his arm. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It was Paul Heygarth.’ Heffernan almost whispered the words.

Wesley nodded. He had always suspected that there was some history behind Heffernan’s dislike of the man. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t
put him away for you,’ he muttered, knowing that the words were inadequate.

‘I wanted to get him for something but I reckon he’s telling the truth about Jonny Shellmer.’

Wesley stared ahead of him, not meeting his boss’s eyes. ‘The murder charge would never have stuck. But we can charge him
for moving the body and Shellmer’s car.’

Wesley could think of nothing else to say. He leaned
against the railings and watched as a mother duck swam across the grey waters of the park lake with her brood of six fluffy
ducklings following behind.

After a short silence, Heffernan slapped him on the back. ‘Come on, Wes, let’s get going. If we go down to the Pier Head I’ll
take you on a ferry trip across the Mersey. Then I’ll give my Sam a ring and we can sample the exotic night life. We can book
in at one of those new hotels near the Albert Dock.’

Wesley forced a weak smile and prepared to bow to the inevitable. ‘I’ll place myself in your capable hands, then.’

Heffernan marched on slightly ahead of him, making for the park gates. Wesley knew that he had seen more of the true Heffernan
than anyone else had been permitted to see; he had glimpsed the pain behind the thick hide of jokes and bonhomie the man presented
to the world. He wasn’t looking forward to the evening, as he suspected that a cocktail of drink and home-town nostalgia might
encourage more maudlin thoughts and revelations. He wanted to get home, back to Pam and Michael.

As though in answer to his thoughts, his mobile phone rang in his coat pocket. After a brief conversation he turned to Gerry
Heffernan.

‘We’ll have to postpone the guided tour of Liverpool,’ he said, trying to hide his relief. ‘Hal Lancaster’s just arrived back
in Tradmouth and they’ve brought him in for questioning.’

Heffernan hesitated, his disappointment obvious. ‘I suppose we should get back. We’ll make it by this evening if you put your
foot down.’

Wesley Peterson normally drove within the confines of the law, but on the return journey from Liverpool to Tradmouth he found
himself exceeding the speed limit by at least twenty miles per hour.

To my dear and most beloved sister Lucy,

Good sister, I rejoice that my husband and my Edmund are home with us in Derenham at last. My husband is to endow a chapel
at the church of All Saints here in thanksgiving for his deliverance from the dangers of battle, and we shall make provision
for our tombs there and those of our children and cause Masses to be said there for our souls.

We rejoice also because my husband’s son, John, is to marry the widow More within the month. I pray that the wisdom of a sensible
wife will be the making of the lad.

I see a great change in Edmund since his return from battle. He speaks harshly and his manner is rougher and he doth awake
screaming in the night. How war doth change men. Yet he and Elizabeth are become close and when he was ill she spent much
time caring for him in his chamber.

I hear tales that King Henry has been slain in the Tower of London on the orders of the usurper who now calls himself King
Edward IV. If this is true it is grievous news, for King Henry was a simple and saintly man. Henry Tudor’s supporters gather
in France, yet I fear the cause of the House of Lancaster is lost.

I am, your loving sister

Marjory Merrivale

Written at Derenham this twentieth day of June 1471

Hal Lancaster was not a happy man. Just as he was mooring the
Henry of Lancaster
at a convenient berth on the River Trad, he received a visit from a DS Tracey and a DC Carstairs.

The young woman officer, DS Tracey, had explained politely that they wished to interview him concerning a serious matter.
But Lancaster reckoned that the other officer, DC Carstairs, had some sort of problem. Hal Lancaster wasn’t accustomed to
being treated like the lowest form of common criminal – money and a flash yacht usually spoke volumes.

He was cautioned and taken to Tradmouth police station, where he received a rubbery cheese sandwich and a cup of weak tea
in a plastic cup. He had been looking forward to a decent meal cooked by a well-known celebrity chef in the exclusive surroundings
of the Carved Cherub on the water-front, but he tried not to let his disappointment show.

His protestations that the police had made some sort of mistake cut no ice. A couple of senior detectives were on their way
to talk to him about the murder of Jonny Shellmer and the disappearance of a boy called Lewis Hoxworthy. He expressed shock
at Jonny’s death – he had been out of touch with the news on his yacht and this was the first he’d heard of it – and explained
that the singer’s demise would hardly be good for his business interests.

Then Lancaster related how he’d met Lewis briefly when he’d bought some old manuscripts advertised over the Internet, but
he knew nothing of his disappearance. There was nothing more to tell them, but he’d do anything in his power to help nail
Jonny’s killer.

As Rachel had anticipated, Lancaster demanded the services of a solicitor, the most expensive he could find, all the way from
Exeter. She had taken the precaution of consulting the superintendent, just in case Wesley and Heffernan were held up, and
he was willing to authorise Lancaster’s detention once Rachel had convinced him that the man’s ocean-going yacht could sail
to anywhere in the world once
the suspect set foot outside the police station. Rachel Tracey could be very persuasive when she wanted to be.

It was 8.15 when Wesley swung the car into the station carpark. As they hadn’t stopped during their journey, he was hungry,
and so was his passenger who was making a considerable fuss about the empty state of his stomach. They used their rank to
send out for two Chinese takeaways from the Golden Dragon before they confronted Hal Lancaster and they were given the news
that Terry Hoxworthy had paid a visit to the unconscious Angela Simms in hospital. Interesting though this last snippet of
information was, they had no time to act on it now. Lancaster was awaiting them in Interview Room 2.

As they walked in, Rachel announced their arrival to the tape recorder. Then, at Heffernan’s signal, Rachel and Steve left
the room and Heffernan parked his expanding backside on the plastic chair. Wesley sat down beside him and studied Hal Lancaster.
He was a big man with bright blue eyes and a mane of grey hair tied back in a ponytail. He had an air of authority, that of
a man used to giving commands, not taking them. But then for several decades he had had the power to make or break fortunes
in the perilous pop music industry. When Hal Lancaster had spoken, hundreds of would-be stars had obeyed.

It was Lancaster who spoke first. His voice was deep and smooth with a pleasant American twang; an easy voice to listen to.
‘Your colleagues told me about Jonny and I can tell you it’s come as one hell of a shock. I’ve been away so I haven’t seen
the papers or TV. Hell, I was hoping to get Rock Boat back together for a tour but … Look, I’ll help in any way I can.’ He
shook his head and stared down at the table’s shabby laminate top as though he were fighting back tears.

Wesley glanced at his boss. Lancaster was playing the bereaved friend rather than the murder suspect. ‘Where were you on the
Wednesday afternoon Shellmer died?’

Lancaster told them and invited them to consult his
boat’s log. Then produced a credit card slip from his wallet which bore the name of an exclusive restaurant at his port of
call with the date and time in question clearly printed above it.

Gerry Heffernan tried to look unimpressed and started on another line of questioning. ‘You’ve admitted that you met Lewis
Hoxworthy on your floating gin palace.’

Lancaster nodded.

‘After that meeting he disappeared and was never seen again. What have you got to say about that?’

‘I collect old manuscripts, Chief Inspector. I saw an advert on the Internet; a private sale. I arranged to meet the seller,
and nobody could have been more surprised than I was when this young kid turned up – I was expecting a dealer or a fellow
collector.’

‘So what happened?’ asked Wesley.

‘I met him in Tradmouth first and he showed me a sample of what he had to sell. I was interested so I arranged to sail up
the river to a place called Derenham to complete the deal. He turned up, I examined the rest of the merchandise, handed over
the money – he wanted cash – and then I sailed to France where I’d arranged to meet a dealer who said he had a sixteenth century
book of hours I might be interested in.’

‘Did you buy it?’ asked Wesley. ‘No. It was a fake.’

‘But Lewis Hoxworthy’s letters weren’t?’

‘As far as I could tell they were the genuine article. He’d found them in a box in some old barn: thirteen letters, all in
remarkable condition, considering.’