A Painted Doom (5 page)

Yesterday Lewis had won his spurs. And when he returned to school on Monday they wouldn’t laugh at him – they wouldn’t dare.
He wouldn’t feel invisible any more.

He wondered how his father had got on with the man from the planning department. Had they seen what he had seen in the old
barn? He shuddered. Surely they would take the thing away and burn it. Unless it wasn’t there: unless those terrible horrors
had crawled into his mind when he had swallowed those pills Yossa had dared him to take. Unless he was going mad.

He wouldn’t watch any longer. The thought of what the police might be doing in the meadow was making him jumpy, and he had
to see if there was an answer to the e-mail he had sent earlier. Surely somebody would be interested in what he had to sell.

He sat on his computer chair and wheeled himself over to the flickering screen. There were three e-mails: one from Yossa ordering
him to do his school history project for him; one from Mary-Jo, the American girl to whom he had written that he was twenty-one,
ran his own software business and drove a Porsche; and another which said simply that he should bring the merchandise to a
boat moored at Tradmouth. Lewis stared at this last one for a while, wondering what to do.

He looked at the window, at the grey sky laden with early spring showers. It looked like rain: hardly the weather to cycle
all the way into Tradmouth. Unless he took the ferry from Derenham. That would probably be best: he would take the ferry to
Tradmouth tomorrow morning, taking an example of the merchandise with him to whet his customer’s appetite.

As he began to type a reply to the e-mail, he heard a thunderous knocking on the farmhouse front door. He sat very still and
listened as the door was opened, and when he heard the word ‘police’ he froze, contemplating flight.

But he would keep his head. Lie low. There was no reason the police should suspect him. No reason at all.

Right worshipful husband,

There is much talk in Tradmouth that Queen Margaret will reach these shores presently. She is assured of a loyal following
here and the townsfolk await her arrival. It may be that the Queen will honour us by dining at our house, therefore I will
have need of a new gown and jewels for I durst not for shame go with an old gown among the Queen’s ladies.

I had words with your son, John, a day since concerning his misdeeds. It is said that on Lady Day even last he did come upon
a servant of the Earl’s and did rob him of some money and did smite him with a sword. It seems, husband, that your son has
fallen in with certain wild fellows who, in drink, do much mischief. Good husband, he is in sore need of a father’s chastisement
for he pays no heed to my requests. And Elizabeth spends much time in his company which worries me greatly. I await news of
the young woman of Exeter I told you of but I fear her kin have learned of John’s ill reputation.

I send this by a servant of Master Hollers who travels in the service of his master, and I pray God in His mercy to defend
you from all danger for I never heard tell of so much robbery and manslaughter in this county as is now. Your loving wife
Marjory

Written at Derenham this ninth day of April 1471

Gerry Heffernan was a man with a mission.

He sat in the passenger seat as Wesley drove the unmarked police car through the back lanes to Tradmouth. The high hedges
of the damp green lanes glistened with recent raindrops, and Wesley drove slowly. The lanes were narrow, one car wide with
the occasional passing place. Wesley sometimes had nightmares where he was hurtling too fast down these Devon lanes – shady
green Cresta runs where the fields either side were hidden behind towering hedgerows, and slow-moving farm vehicles or idiots
in sports cars might lurk around every blind bend. Not for the nervous or the learner driver. The locals – like Rachel Tracey
– didn’t seem bothered by these fearful thoroughfares. But Wesley still navigated them with extreme caution.

Heffernan tapped his foot impatiently. Although he never drove on dry land – saving his navigational skills for the water
– he wasn’t slow to offer a few words of advice now and again.

‘Hurry up, Wes. Put your foot down.’

‘Where are we going exactly?’

‘The
Tradmouth Echo
offices in Market Street. I want to track down that picture of Jonny Shellmer and talk to whoever did the story – they ask
a lot of questions, these journalists.’ He grinned. ‘Almost as bad as us lot. Someone must know what Jonny Shellmer was doing
down here.’

They drove in amicable silence towards the town. Wesley was relieved to reach the main road, and changed gear to slow the
car on the steep incline down to the town and the harbour. They passed the imposing bulk of the Naval College on their left
and drove along the waterfront until they arrived in the ancient heart of Tradmouth with its narrow streets and overhanging
shops and houses. The damp pavements glistened and a thin mist rolled in off the river.

Wesley parked by the police station and, by unspoken agreement, the two men walked the short distance to their
destination, a large building in the middle of the main street that had once served as the town’s main gentlemen’s outfitters
but whose modern plate-glass window now proclaimed it to be the offices of the Tradmouth Echo Group of Companies. Impressive
– if you were impressed by that sort of thing.

But not much impressed Gerry Heffernan. Without ceremony he barged the glass door open. A thin young girl with a blond ponytail
was sitting at a pale wooden desk in the reception area. She looked the newcomers up and down suspiciously, as if fearing
a sudden robbery or attack. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked with a nervous squeak.

Gerry Heffernan muttered their names and flashed his warrant card. The girl still looked nervous, but in a different way.

‘Is Ray Davenport about, love?’

The once large shop had been partitioned off into offices when the
Echo
took over the building. The girl pressed the intercom button and passed on the information that the police wanted a word
– a phrase guaranteed to strike fear into a fair proportion of the population. After that she turned her back on them and
pretended to do some filing. Something told Wesley that the girl didn’t like the forces of law and order much, and he wondered
fleetingly why.

It wasn’t long before a door burst open and a voice boomed out, ‘Gerry. Good to see you.’

Wesley swung round. A middle-aged man with receding hair and the face of an innocent weasel was bearing down on them.

‘Hello, Ray.’ Gerry Heffernan drew himself up to his full height. ‘Wesley, I don’t think you’ve met Ray Davenport of the
Tradmouth Echo
.’ He grinned. ‘How are you, Ray? Long time no see.’

‘I’m fine, Gerry. Apart from the ulcer, of course, but these things are sent to try us, eh? Aren’t you going to introduce
your colleague?’ he asked, looking at Wesley greedily, sensing a human interest story.

‘This is DI Peterson. He’s been with us about eighteen months now, but your paths haven’t crossed.’

‘Pleased to meet you, DI Peterson. I have heard of you, of course – word gets round. Actually I’ve been meaning to get in
touch: I was wondering if you’d be interested in helping with a little piece I was planning about the difficulties faced by
ethnic minorities in the …’

‘Sorry, Mr Davenport, but I think I’m going to be rather tied up with …’

‘Unlike some, we’ve got work to do,’ Heffernan interrupted bluntly.

‘Haven’t we all, Gerry. Now what can I do for you?’

‘There was a piece in the
Echo
last week. An ageing rock star donated money to some village hall project. There was the usual photo of him handing over
a cheque and shaking hands with some local bigwig. Remember it?’

‘’Course I remember. I went over to Derenham and did the story myself. It was Jonny Shellmer of Rock Boat. I used to be a
bit of a fan in my younger days. Things have been busy over in Derenham recently. We’ve run a couple of features on the homes
of local celebrities – we did Jeremy Sedley’s house last week … you know, the actor. And we’re due to do a piece on Jack Cromer’s
place – you know, the TV interviewer?’

Heffernan nodded. He’d heard of Jack Cromer all right. His TV show was watched by millions.

‘And we’re planning to do a piece about these archaeologists who are digging something up over there – the punters like a
bit of local history from time to time.’

‘Have you got a copy of Jonny Shellmer’s photo handy?’

‘Why?’ The journalist’s nose twitched. Something was going on. Something he wanted to know about.

‘Can I just see the photo?’ Gerry Heffernan knew full well that if it had been in the
Tradmouth Echo
at any time over the past thirty years, Ray Davenport would know exactly where to lay his hands on it.

Ray led the two policemen down a hessian-lined corridor
into the spacious but cluttered back office which was his personal domain. Somehow Wesley had expected a newspaper office
to be more lively. But then a local weekly paper wouldn’t be run with the same frantic urgency as a national daily. He watched
as Ray Davenport opened the top drawer of a metal filing cabinet, rooted in a file and drew out a glossy black-and-white photograph.

‘Here are you. “Rock star makes a hit in Derenham.” He gave a cheque for ten thousand pounds to the village hall appeal.’

‘Very generous of him,’ said Wesley. ‘But why?’

‘He’s intending to move to the village. Probably trying to curry favour with the natives.’ Davenport passed the photograph
to Gerry, who in turn passed it to Wesley with an almost imperceptible nod. It was the dead man all right. Even down to the
leather jacket. Gerry Heffernan’s misspent youth had had its advantages.

The photograph showed Jonny Shellmer smiling at the camera while presenting a cheque to a middle-aged woman who was named
in the caption beneath as Maggie Flowers, treasurer of Derenham’s village hall committee. She too was smiling gratefully at
the camera. Happy faces all round.

‘Where’s Shellmer living at the moment?’ asked Wesley. They might as well get all the information they could out of Ray Davenport
before the news broke and his opinions were coloured by thoughts of murder.

‘He’s rented a cottage in Whitely while he’s house-hunting. Why?’

‘And you actually interviewed him yourself?’ Davenport nodded.

‘What’s he like?’ asked Heffernan with an innocent grin. ‘I was a bit of a fan myself once upon a time.’

‘He seemed okay. Quite happy to chat – not like some of them. He’s been keeping busy in the music business since Rock Boat
broke up, but now he’s decided to move to the country for the quiet life. He’s thinking of buying somewhere
in Derenham. He said he was interested in a place called the Old Vicarage – he’d been to see it a few times and was considering
making an offer.’ Ray looked Gerry Heffernan in the eye. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Gerry, but a little bird tells me there’s
been a lot of police activity up near Derenham today. And here you are asking questions about Jonny Shellmer. Could the two
things be related, by any chance?’

Wesley decided to let his superior do the talking. ‘It’ll all come out soon, Ray, so I might as well tell you now. There’s
been a suspicious death.’

Ray Davenport became suddenly alert, like a dog that had smelt an obliging rabbit. The term ‘newshound’ now seemed strangely
appropriate as Wesley observed the journalist sniffing the air like a bloodhound on the scent.

‘I reckon you’ve found Jonny Shellmer dead. That’s why you want chapter and verse on him,’ said Davenport, wheedling.

‘We’ll make a statement to the press in due course. You know the form, Ray.’

‘Go on, Gerry. What’s the cause of death? Was it suicide? I can’t say he seemed depressed when I spoke to him.’

‘You know I can’t tell you that yet, Ray. Anyway, what makes you think Shellmer might be dead?’

Davenport touched the side of his long, narrow nose. ‘Come on, Gerry. You scratch my back, et cetera. Was it suicide? Rock
star’s lonely agony?’

‘Sorry, Ray, you’ll have to make do with the formal statements just like everyone else,’ said Heffernan. ‘But of course, if
you know anything else about Shellmer that we might be interested in, I could make sure you got anything juicy before the
opposition, if you see what I mean. Maybe something the nationals would be interested in,’ he added tantalisingly.

‘I get the picture, Gerry. But there’s nothing more I can tell you.’

‘Nothing he mentioned in passing while you were having this cosy chat? Something you might not have thought was important
at the time?’

Ray sighed. ‘I’ll see if I’ve still got the interview on tape.’

Gerry Heffernan slapped the reporter heartily on the back. ‘See, that wasn’t so difficult, was it? And for that DI Peterson
here might even consider helping you with your piece on ethnic minorities. Won’t you, Inspector? But now you can find that
little tape machine of yours and we’ll see if there’s anything juicy on it.’ He beamed at Wesley, who had the nagging feeling
he had been a pawn in one of the boss’s little games. He felt mildly annoyed, but he had no option but to nod in agreement.

‘There we are. Everyone’s happy,’ Heffernan said as he sat down in the only comfortable chair in the office. ‘Any chance of
a cup of tea, Ray? I’m spitting feathers ’ere.’

It was eight o’clock when Wesley Peterson headed home. Gerry Heffernan had kept him talking, making plans for the investigation
and indulging in his usual wild speculations about the case, as he always did before the full facts were known.

They had listened to Ray Davenport’s taped interview with Jonny Shellmer, which could hardly have been classed as ‘in depth’
– more a pleasant chat than an interrogation. There had been the usual questions about Rock Boat and Shellmer’s plans for
the future. Shellmer’s answers were measured, thoughtful; his muted Liverpool accent quiet. As Ray had said, Shellmer hadn’t
seemed depressed, and yet he sounded like a man with a lot on his mind.