Cursed Inheritance (15 page)

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then. But shooting them all dead? Perhaps the accusations, the lack of trust had hurt that much.

It seemed that on the fateful night, between nine o’clock and ten o’clock, Martha had taken Edward Harford’s shotgun and a rifle from their locked cabinet and loaded them. She must have come across Catriona’s fiance, Nigel Armley, first in the hall, where she emptied both barrels of the shotgun into his face. Then she threw the shotgun down by his body and shot Jack and Catriona Harford with the rifle as they emerged from the drawing room to investigate the noise, before climbing the stairs to the master bedroom where she killed their parents, Edward and Mary, who had just come out onto the landing. She had aimed for her victims’ heads and Wesley flicked through the gruesome photographs of the crime scene quickly, his stomach lurching at the sight of the bleeding corpses, especially that of Nigel Armley, whose face had been shot away.

After her shooting spree, Martha Wallace had taken the rifle, sat down at the kitchen table amidst food she had been preparing for the party the following evening and shot herself in the neck. When the crime was discovered the next day, Martha Wallace’s seven-year-old daughter was discovered kneeling at her mother’s feet, rocking to and fro, stuck dumb with terror. According to the file the unfortunate child had been taken to stay with relatives, too traumatised to be questioned.

It had seemed like an open and shut case. The radio that might have masked the sound of the shots in the kitchen was switched off, which also pointed to Martha’s guilt. If she had heard shots, surely she would have left the kitchen to investigate. But as Wesley closed the file, certain things worried him. Even if Martha Wallace had resented the Harfords enough to murder them, would she have done it with her young daughter in the house? And she had been preparing food for the following day. Why start making party snacks that were never going to be eaten? And, if it came to that, why not just add a little something to the Harfords’ dinner and poison them?

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As far as Wesley could see, the police had accepted the easier explanation. But there were things about the case that didn’t add up and he wondered if Patrick Evans had reached the same conclusion. Patrick’s file on Potwoolstan Hall was missing and somebody had killed him in the grounds of the Hall. Everything pointed to a connection. And if there was one, then the whole case would have to be looked at again.

Wesley glanced towards Gerry Heffernan’s office. The boss was inside, bent over his paperwork, frowning. He would be glad of a bit of distraction from the monthly crime figures.

It had been a long day but Steve Carstairs managed to escape from the CID office just after six, saying that he had things to follow up. It was well known that Steve had a string of tame informants, or snouts as he preferred to call them, in many of the less salubrious pubs in the Tradmouth and Morbay area, so Wesley Peterson hadn’t asked too many questions. But then Peterson seemed to have something on his mind, something to do with the Potwoolstan Hall files he had asked for. Peterson was a bloody graduate, always playing Sherlock Holmes and showing off his superior knowledge. And he was black so he got all the promotion going. Steve Carstairs didn’t have a high opinion of black people - or graduates, come to that - and he regarded Wesley Peterson’s calm ordered manner as some sort of personal affront. There were times when he contemplated transferring to the Met. Perhaps he would one day. But he had a nice motor and a decent flat in Morbay. And Serena Jones had invited him to her place so his luck might be in.

He stood in the hallway of his flat and examined his appearance in the mirror. He was pleased with what he saw; pleased with the slim body honed by regular trips to the gym. He ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair, styled at the best unisex salon in Morbay, and took his soft leather jacket from the coat stand. It had cost a week’s wages but it had been worth it. He turned heads, particularly female ones.

Steve made his final inspection and concluded that

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Serena Jones wouldn’t be able to resist him. He tossed his car keys up in the air and caught them before picking up the bottle of wine he’d bought from the off licence on his way home. It wouldn’t do to keep the lady waiting.

He drove to Neston and parked in a vacant space marked ‘residents only’. The building was by the river, once an old warehouse but now converted beyond recognition into lUxury apartments with wrought-iron balconies. A nice place. Serena had never actually told him what her job was, but if she could afford a place like this it must be a good one.

He caressed the bonnet of his car absentmindedly before touching the pocket that contained a newly bought packet of condoms. Serena Jones was a fortunate lady.

When Serena opened the door of her apartment to him, he stepped inside without waiting to be invited and handed her the bottle of wine before making himself at home on his hostess’s low black leather sofa.

‘How about opening the wine?’ Steve suggested.

‘Aren’t you driving?’

It wasn’t the answer he’d expected. Perhaps he’d misread the situation. But he wasn’t one to giveˇ up that easily. ‘That’s up to you,’ he said softly, with more than a hint of suggestion in his voic.e.

Serena Jones slumped down on the chair opposite and pulled down the hem of her short skirt. ‘I suppose you were expecting to stay the night.’

For once Steve was lost for words. He opened and closed his mouth but no sound came out.

‘Let’s get one thing straight, Steve. I invited you here because I wanted to talk to you as a policeman. Not because I want to take up where we left off. OK?’

Steve sighed. ‘If that’s how you want it.’

There was a lengthy silence andˇ Steve found. himself longing for.the glass of wine he’d expected, if only to relax him and give him something to do with his hands now that other options had been closed to him. He stood up and went to the kitchen, returning with a corkscrew and two glasses.

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He poured the wine out and handed a glass to Serena.

‘I never told you what I do for a living, did I?’ she said, playing with the stem of her glass.

‘Why? Is it something illegal?’

‘Not exactly. I’m a journalist on the Neston Echo but I’ve been working on a story I thought might interest the nationals. That’s why I was at Potwoolstan Hall. I was undercover.’

‘Undercover? For the Neston Echo?’ Steve found it impossible to keep the sarcasm from his voice. The Neston Echo usually confined itself to dog shows, petty crime and town councillors’ speeding offences. Somehow he had never thought of its reporters going undercover.

‘I’m doing a series of articles on alternative healing and I wanted to see if Jeremy Elsham was a fraud.’

‘And is he?’

‘I’m not sure. But I was a bit concerned about this regression business … ‘

‘Regression? ‘

‘He hypnotises people and takes them back to their childhood, recovers memories. It could be dangerous stuff in the wrong hands, playing with people’s minds.’

Steve took a sip of wine. This all sounded like rubbish to him. -

Serena leaned forward. ‘I asked you here because I wanted your advice. I booked into the Hall because I wanted to see the setup for myself.’

‘Did you let him hypnotise you?’

She snorted. ‘Come on, Steve, I’m not stupid. I was there under false pretences and I wasn’t going to risk giving myself away. Not that I think anyone’d be able to put me under, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I just went to the spiritual healing and meditation workshops. And when Elsham was conduct-ing one of his regression sessions and his wife was out, I had a quick look through the filing cabinets in his office. ‘

Steve looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t think you should be telling me this. We have to have a warrant to do that sort of thing.’

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‘You could say I was being a public-spirited citizen. Trying to point you in the right direction.’

‘Did you fmd anything?’

She leaned forward, pulling her top down to display more cleavage. ‘I wondered if you’d do me a favour. In the public interest of course.’

Steve stiffened. He thought the invitation had been too good to be true. ‘What?’

‘It wouldn’t be hard for you to look Jeremy Elsham up on the Police National Computer, would it? If I can say that he’s had convictions for this and that…’

Steve edged away. Even he knew when he was being used. ‘I don’t know.’

‘It can’t do any harm, Steve. And nobody’ll know where I got the information. If Elsham’s a fraud, the public should be warned.’

‘We’ve already checked out the names of everyone at the Hall. Unless he’s using an alias, Elsham hasn’t got a record.’

She looked disappointed but still managed a smile. ‘There, that wasn’t too difficult, was it? There was a lot of police activity in the Hall’s grounds.’

‘They think that’s where that Patrick Evans was killed.’

‘What else can you tell me?’ She looked at him as though he were the most fascinating man in the world.

He swallowed hard. ‘Nothing much. The press have had a statement.’

‘I hear the widow’s been staying at the Marina Hotel. Any chance she’ll talk to me?’

He took another drink. ‘Doubt it. Any ideas about who pinched that old girl’s ring and cash? My boss seemed to think there might be something dodgy about that bloke Charles Dodgson but there’s nobody of that name and description with a record.’

Serena stood up and walked to the window, a secretive smile on her face. ‘Charles Dodgson’s no thief.’

‘How do you know?’ Her smug expression was starting

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to annoy him. He hated someone knowing something he didn’t.

‘I know because his name’s not Dodgson. It’s Anthony Jameston MP and he’s a rising star in the government, tipped for big things in the future. What he’s doing at a place like Potwoolstan Hall, I’ve no idea but he seems to know the art therapist up there rather well. Secret meetings in the woods. How corny can you get? If they want to screw each other why don’t they just get on with it?’

‘Don’t suppose you found out why he’s using a false name?’

Serena shrugged. ‘Probably doesn’t want his wife to know where he is.’ She smiled smugly, as though she knew a juicy secret.

‘I suppose it’ll be all over the papers tomorrow.’

She snorted. ‘It’s hardly the Neston Echo’s cup of tea. But 1 know some of the nationals are going to be interested. It might be my lucky day.’ She sat down on the sofa beside him and edged closer. He could smell her perfume, heavy and sensual. She put out her hand to touch the front of his shirt and her fingers lingered. ‘I’ve heard a whisper that Patrick Evans was an author who wrote books about true crimes. Any chance he was planning to write about those murders at the Hall?’

Steve didn’t answer but he sensed she could read his mind.

‘Why don’t you have another drink?’ she said.

‘I shouldn’t if I’m driving.’

‘Who said you’d be driving tonight? A woman’s entitled to change her mind, isn’t she?’

Steve refilled both their glasses before Serena had a chance to rethink her decision. It looked like his luck was in after all.

Serena came closer and kissed his ear softly. He could smell the warmth of her breath on his face as she whispered. ‘And you will keep me posted about the murder enquiry, won’t you?’

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Steve drained his glass. Everything came at a price.

Wesley arrived home at seven. The brown paper bag he carried contained a Chinese takeaway from the Golden Dragon. A peace offering.

Pam took the bag without a word and started to arrange the containers on the kitchen table. She didn’t speak. Wesley knew she was annoyed.

‘Is something the matter?’ He knewas soon as the words were out of his mouth that it was a silly question.

‘No.’ The plates landed noisily on the table, followed by the cutlery.

Wesley put his arm around her but she shrugged if off. ‘I’m back at school in a couple of weeks and I’ll have to cope with the kids as well as all the work I’ll have to bring home.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘You’re never here.’

‘I’m sorry,’ was all he could think of to say. It was useless to make promises he couldn’t keep, to say that he’d be home by five thirty every night and spend all his weekends being the model father. As much as he’d like to do these things, the criminal fraternity had other plans. ‘We’re in the middle of a murder enquiry. When things quieten down … ‘

‘But they never do, do they?’ There were tears in her eyes.

Wesley took her in his arms and held her. ‘We’d better eat up. It’s getting cold.’

They ate the meal in virtual silence but by the time they’d fInished, Pam looked a little calmer. There had been no noise from upstairs so, presumably, the children were fast asleep. If either of them awoke during the night, Wesley resolved to see to them, to do his bit. He would make more of an effort from now on. He cleared the dishes away and opened a bottle of wine, pouring a glass for Pam. She was instructed to go to the living room and sit down. By the time the dishwasher was on, Wesley was feeling quite virtuous, almost smug.

As he settled down beside her on the sofa she was looking more relaxed. Maybe she’d just had a bad day.

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‘Neil’s sent another email, , she said, retrieving a sheet of A4 paper from the coffee table, which she handed to Wesley. He poured himself a drink before he began to read.

‘Hi Pam and Wes,’ it began. ‘You should see the facilities they’ve got here. Conservation labs, archives. You name it, they’ve got it. There’s an amazing reconstruction of the settlement too and even a replica of the ship the settlers sailed over from Devon on. I’m also learning a lot about baseball but I won’t go into that. Do you remember I said I needed to trace someone for my grandmother? Well, I’ve found the address and I’m going to see him. Sorry to be so mysterious but I want to see how it goes first. Be in touch soon. All the best, Neil.’