An Unhallowed Grave (21 page)

It was after half past eight when Wesley arrived home. He parked the car sheepishly in the drive and let himself into the house.

Everything was quiet. Michael wasn't screaming and he couldn't smell his dinner burning in the oven. Maybe that was a good sign.

He could hear voices coming from the living room; women's voices. Intrigued, he pushed open the door. Pam was sitting talking to another, dark-haired, woman. They both turned round.

"Wesley, this is Anne. Anne, this is my husband, Wesley."

Anne smiled, looking him up and down. "Glad to meet you,

Wesley. I've heard a lot about you. Archaeologist turned policeman, I believe ... Tradmouth's answer to Indiana Jones."

Wesley laughed and assured Anne that there wasn't much call for Hollywood action antics in Tradmouth CID. He had taken an instant liking to Anne ... and the fact that Pam was unlikely to scold him for his lateness in front of her added to the favourable impression. The two hours spent with Neil going through dusty parchments in the muniment room of Stokeworthy Manor had left him feeling hungry. Emboldened by Anne's presence, he asked if there was anything to eat and was told that his dinner was in the microwave.

As Wesley ate his lasagne in the kitchen, he felt a glow of domestic satisfaction. The baby wasn't howling and his wife was being understanding and cheerful: things were looking up ... at least until Anne left. He joined the women in the living room with fresh confidence.

"I hear you're working in Stokeworthy at the moment, Wesley," said Anne, making conversation.

"Yes. We've had a couple of suspicious deaths there. We've had to set up an incident room in the village hall."

"The Manor was owned by the de Stoke family, wasn't it?"

Wesley looked up, surprised. "That's right. A friend of mine is in charge of a dig there."

"Pam was telling me," said Anne with a meaningful look at Pam.

"He's discovered all sorts of old documents about the de Stokes in the muniment room of the Manor."

Anne leaned forward. "I work part time in Tradmouth library, and a man came in a few weeks ago asking if we had any of the old court records of Stokeworthy Manor."

"Historian, was he?"

"No. He said he was doing some research into his family. Now what was his name? It was a double-barrelled name ... Stoke-something."

"Stoke-Brown? Charles Stoke-Brown?" suggested Wesley, suddenly interested.

"Yes. That's right. Charles Stoke-Brown."

Michael Peterson had slept through the night, an unprecedented achievement. Wesley awoke refreshed, but Pam, as she put the breakfast cereal into bowls, looked as tired as she normally did.

She hadn't been able to sleep, she explained, but Wesley didn't question her further. Something was bothering her, but whatever it was there was little he could do. He had two murders to investigate.

When he reached the incident room he found Gerry Heffernan pacing up and down like a frustrated animal. "They've got no record of her, Wcs. I rang the Home Office and they've no record of anyone called Pauline Brent being in any prison at any time, let alone being released from that particular women's open prison fifteen years back."

"Then she must have changed her name when she got out; started a new life."

"Do you think I haven't thought of that? I asked them to get me a list of all the women released from prison around that time. They said they'd get back to me," Heffernan growled, impatient to be fed the information. "They said it might take some time."

"Has it occurred to you that if she'd changed her name then it must have been quite well known? A notorious, well-reported murder case, perhaps?"

"Not some poor woman who hit her husband over the head with a rolling pin too hard when she caught him having it off with his secretary?"

"It was only a suggestion."

"You could have a point, though." Heffernan sighed. "We'll just have to wait, I suppose. How did you get on at the Manor last night? Did you see Mr. Thewlis?"

"No. We were strictly tradesman's entrance. We didn't go into the main house."

"Pity. I would have liked to have known how he reacted when a member of the local constabulary turned up unannounced. Did you find anything interesting?"

"There was too much stuff to take in all at once. There's bundles of documents ... piles of court records. And most of it's in Latin. I thought I'd leave Neil to it."

"Very wise. I've been thinking, Wcs. Do you fancy nipping up to Plymouth to have a word with this ex-wife of Stoke-Brown's? I'm not happy about this boyfriend of Pauline Brent's ... not happy at all."

"I've been thinking the same myself. A friend of Pam's who works in Tradmouth library told me that Stoke-Brown came in asking questions about the Manor. He claimed to be related to the family that used to own it, the de Stokes. It's probably got nothing to do with the investigation but..."

Gerry Heffernan scratched his head. "I don't care if he claims to have a great-aunt who fought at the Battle of Hastings, if someone lies to us about his whereabouts in the course of a murder investigation then I want to know why." He looked at his watch. "Get on to Stoke-Brown's ex-wife's local nick, will you. Tell them we're on our way."

Wesley made no reply. He looked at the telephone. He would ring Pam later with the unwelcome news that it was going to be yet another long day. "What about D'estry?" he said, sorting through his mind for unfinished tasks.

"He'll wait. We can have a word later."

Heffernan disappeared from view behind his partition as Rachel Tracey, looking offensively alert, marched into the incident room. She wore a crisp navy blue suit and her fair hair hung loose around her shoulders. Wesley looked up and smiled. She rewarded him with a wink. "Message for the inspector," she whispered as she passed by. "Mrs. Green wants to see him."

Wesley raised his eyebrows and nodded.

A telephone rang on a nearby desk and was answered by WPC Trish Walton. "Sarge," she called over to Wesley. "It's Steve. He says to get down to the creek right away. He thinks he's found the murder weapon."

"He ...?" mumbled Heffernan emerging from his den. "Him and half a dozen SO COs more like. Whereabouts on the creek?"

"At the end of the path leading from the Manor grounds, he said."

"Okay. Come on, Wcs. Let's get down there and see what he's come up with."

"Aren't you going to see Mrs. Green, sir?"

Wesley could have sworn he saw the inspector blush. "Er, it'll have to wait, Wcs. I'll pop along later." He fixed his eyes ahead, inviting no more questions.

As they walked down the public footpath that forked off the Manor drive, Heffernan began to relax. "So what have we got, Wcs? Pauline Brent was a murderer. But who did she murder and why? We'll have to wait for the bureaucrats to come up with the answer to that one."

"Perhaps there's someone still alive a relative of her victim, maybe who doesn't think she paid for what she did."

"The bring-back-hanging lobby?"

"That'd fit with the fact that she was hanged, wouldn't it?"

"But who?"

"Her lover's alibi's dodgy ... I'd say he's our main man at the moment. D'estry could be in the frame but he says he was with Monica, and unless we get a witness who saw him we can't prove otherwise. I'd be interested to know what he was up to on Saturday night when Lee disappeared."

"Are we still assuming it's a man?"

"I think so. A woman wouldn't have had the strength to haul her up into that tree ... unless she was very athletic. Any other suspects? Philip Thewlis?"

"Again, it's a matter of finding a link. He seemed quite happy for us to talk to Gemma and his wife, so we've no reason to suspect he's lying, have we?" Wesley shook his head. The inspector had a point. "And let's not forget Lee Telford," Heffernan continued. "If my theory is right, the murderer was out and about at around ten o'clock on Saturday looking for the only witness with a view to getting rid of him. And according to Squirrel's friend, Earth, the killer was a man wearing a coat with the hood up ... on a warm night," he added significantly. "And Lee trusted him ... followed him. A weatherproof coat... we're looking for someone who owns a boat. That just about covers most of the weekenders round this area."

"Or he goes sailing on someone else's ... or he just buys expensive sportswear because it looks good. I bet most owners of training shoes don't take regular exercise," Wesley said philosophically.

"I can see Julian D'estry coming into that category, can't you?"

"Mmm." Wesley walked on for a few minutes, deep in thought. After a while he spoke. "I don't think this is a revenge killing. He's not righting a wrong ... he's willing to kill an innocent witness himself to cover his tracks. He's not consumed with a righteous passion for justice ... he's clever, ruthless."

"D'estry again. He's an arrogant sod ... shouldn't think he's well endowed in the conscience department."

"That's if Lee was killed by the same man," Wesley mused. "He was into drugs, remember. If he got on the wrong side of a dealer But then, according to Gaz, he got his drugs in Morbay. And he's small fry, so I can't see the dealer coming all this way ..."

"Fair enough, Wcs. You're probably right. I wish these civil servants'd hurry themselves up. I can't wait to hear what Pauline was supposed to have done. I would have guessed at something domestic myself... killing an abusive boyfriend or father."

"I'm not even going to speculate, sir. Appearances can be deceptive," said Wesley thoughtfully.

They reached the creek. White-overalled scenes-of-crime officers were going about their work on the muddy sand, oblivious to the new arrivals. Steve Carstairs was standing watching them, his hands in the pockets of his Armani trousers. He looked pleased with himself. When he saw the inspector he straightened himself up and tried to look as though he was doing some work. He nodded coolly to Wesley.

"We've found what looks like the murder weapon, sir. Someone had tried to clean it up by dipping it in the water but it still had some blood and hair on it. I spotted it," he crowed. '1 remembered the shape of the thing that had made the head wound and put two and two together."

Steve's efforts at addition weren't often successful, but this time he had surpassed himself. Lying in a large plastic bag was an oar. When Wesley looked at it, Steve's reasoning became obvious. The killer had held it and taken a swing at Lee. The triangular section at the business end of the oar had met his head with full force. It would have taken little effort then to haul the unconscious boy into the water. By Heffernan's calculations the tide was high when Lee had taken his last walk: easy to dispose of a body in the creek when the currents would obligingly carry away the evidence. Had the murderer known this? he wondered.

"Who owns this rowing boat, Steve?" Heffernan asked.

"It belongs to the Manor, sir. But anyone can get to this part of the creek."

The inspector turned away, disgruntled.

Wesley caught Steve's resentful eye. He tried a smile. "Well done, Steve." He thought a little fence-mending wouldn't go amiss. Steve nodded curtly and began to study his feet.

"Pity the tide's been in and out a few times ... no footprints," said Heffernan, surveying the ground. It was a dull day but the grey sky was still bright. He shielded his eyes and looked out across the water. "Nice boat," he said, pointing to a small, sleek cabin cruiser anchored in the deep channel running down the middle of the creek. "Wonder who she belongs to."

"Has Philip Thewlis got a boat?" asked Wesley.

"Oh, aye. He's got a boat, all right ... a whacking great gin palace which I know for a fact is berthed in Tradmouth harbour -nowhere near the Rosie May, I'm glad to say. It's too big to get down here. That doesn't mean he doesn't have another one, though ... a little runabout."

"You think that could be his?"

"Well, he's got a rowing boat... why not a cabin cruiser on the creek? We could always ask."

"We could ..." Wesley said, tentative. Philip Thewlis, acquaintance of the Chief Constable, was hardly a man who would take kindly to too many unannounced visits. "Are you going to ring Mrs. Green, find out what she wants to talk about?"

Heffernan's expression changed. "I'll do it later, Wcs. No rush. Come on, let's go and see if your mate Neil's up at the Manor."

He nodded to Steve and marched off down the path. Wesley followed. Steve was more than capable of seeing to things at the creek. Besides, he had to stop his boss doing anything that might cause questions to be asked in places higher than Gerry Heffernan was used to.

Wesley led the way round to the muniment room but they found it locked. Neil would be at the dig. Then Heffernan said the words he was dreading. "We're in no hurry to get off to Plymouth, are we? Why don't we pay Mr. Thewlis a little visit while we're here?"

"Is that wise, sir?"

"Don't let yourself be intimidated by wealth and power, Wesley. My old mum always used to say that if you were scared of anyone the thing to do was to imagine them on the toilet."

"I'll bear that in mind, sir." Wesley tried his best not to laugh. Heffernan's words had conjured up all sorts of inappropriate mental images. He lifted the huge iron knocker on the Manor's great oak door and let it fall. He looked up and noticed the carved coat of arms above the door... the eagle and the ship. He had seen it in Stoke-Brown's studio: the arms of the de Stokes.

It was a full minute before the door was opened by Caroline Thewlis. She smiled, a practised smile to charm those of whom she was unsure. "Please come in. Inspector. My husband's not in. I'm afraid, but if I can help in any way ..."

"That's very good of you, madam, but we won't bother you. If you could just confirm that you own that rowing boat that's tied up on the bank at the end of the public footpath

"I believe we do," she said with tolerant amusement. "Why?"

' It's just that one of your oars was used as a murder weapon."