Cursed Inheritance (24 page)

‘How did you arrange the meeting? Presumably you didn’t know what he looked like?’

‘He described himself and said he’d be carrying a copy of the Guardian.’

Wesley smiled. ‘Very cloak-and-dagger. Did he say what he wanted to talk about?’

There was a slight, almost imperceptible, hesitation. ‘He said he wanted to talk about the killings at Potwoolstan

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Hall. 1 told him 1 couldn’t help him but … ‘

‘What is it, Richard? Who are these people?’ The voice was female, surprisingly deep while Gibbons’s had been high.

Wesley turned round. An old woman was standing in the doorway. She was small, under five feet tall, with curly grey hair and the face of a malevolent monkey. Her body was rotund and she reminded Wesley of a barrel in the loose brown dress and cardigan that stretched across her chubby frame.

She glowered at Wesley. ‘I don’t want any of your sort in my house. Get out. Go on. Get out. ‘

Gibbons at least had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘You can’t say that, Mother. They’re policemen. They’ve come to see me. Go back upstairs.’

‘He’s never no policeman.’ She pointed at Wesley like some wicked fairy issuing a curse. ‘He’s a bloody … ‘

Gibbons cut her off. ‘He’s a policeman. Now go upstairs,’ he said, giving Wesley an awkward sideways glance as he hustled his mother out of the door and up the stairs.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said when he returned. ‘She’s a bit senile these days and … ‘

‘I understand,’ said Wesley coolly. He encountered racism from time to time but the directness of the old woman’s hatred had shaken him a little. He glanced at Gerry Heffernan, who was standing there with his mouth hanging open, unsure how to react to the situation.

Wesley took a deep breath. He was there to do a job and it was time he got on with it. ‘I understand you were undergardener at Potwoolstan Hall at the time the Harford family were killed.’

Perhaps it was the embarrassment Gibbons obviously felt about his mother’s behaviour that suddenly rendered him more cooperative.

He leaned forward eagerly. ‘Yeah. That’s right.’

‘According to your statement you were working in the

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grounds when you heard Arbel Harford scream. You ran into the house and found her there in a state of shock. And then you saw the bodies.’

‘Yeah. It was horrible. Like something out of a film.’

‘And where had you been the previous night, when the murders took place?’

‘1 was out at the cinema with a mate till ten thirty then I went straight home. The police checked it out at the time.’

‘Do you remember a girl called Brenda Vamey who cleaned at the Hall?’

A shadow of panic passed over Gibbons’s greasy face for a split second, then disappeared. ‘There was someone called Brenda - used to clean. Didn’t know her very well.’

‘Any idea where we might find her now?’

He shook his head. He was lying. And he wasn’t very good at it.

‘What about the other gardener, Victor Bleasdale?’

‘He left just before it happened. Went up north.’

‘Do you know where he is now?’

‘No idea.’

They questioned Gibbons for another five minutes but he didn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know. But at least he had told them that Evans had arranged to meet someone on the Saturday night, the night of his death. And that somebody had been worth breaking his appointment with Gibbons for. But then, Wesley thought, most people would be.

He looked at his watch. Lunchtime. Kirsty Evans was meeting him at the police station. And he planned to take her for a pub lunch. But it wasn’t something he was particularly looking forward to.

Pam Peterson didn’t recognise the woman who was walking so close to her husband, glancing at him from time to time with what looked like affection. Pam could tell from the woman’s body language, from the way she kept touching his sleeve, that this was no professional encounter … at

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least on her part. And they were making for the Tradmouth Arms. A lunchtime tryst. If Pam hadn’t been encumbered by Amelia’s pushchair, she would have followed them.

The woman was blonde and she wore a short skirt under a leather coat that must have cost a fortune. Pam had never seen her before and she suspected that maybe she was someone he worked with, someone new that Wesley hadn’t seen fit to mention to her. She experienced the first feelings of raw jealousy she’d had in years and felt decidedly dowdy - the mother of two young children, harassed and permanently tired with dark rings beneath her eyes.

As she made her way back home, pushing Amelia’s pushchair up the steep, narrow streets that led upwards away from the river, she paused from time to time to catch her breath, and she began to think of Neil. Before he left for the States he had started saying things, paying her clumsy compliments. With Wesley so wrapped up in other things, she had rather liked the thought of being a desirable woman again, even though she had known Neil for years and had learned long ago not to take him too seriously.

When she opened the front door she manoeuvred the pushchair up the front step before switching off the bleep-ing burglar alarm.

Amelia was fast asleep so Pam left her in her pushchair and made her way to the computer in the corner of the living room. She just had time to check her emails before she had to fetch Michael from nursery. She was pleased to find that there was another one from Neil. She printed it out and sat down to read it, still wearing her coat.

‘Hi Pam and Wes.’ He was still putting her name first, she thought with satisfaction. ‘Things going well here., We’ve almost finished excavating the palisades of the original fort and everyone seems very excited about it. Remember those two skeletons I mentioned with musket balls in their heads? They’re trying to extract DNA at the moment to see if they’re related. There must be a story there somewhere but it’s all a bit of a mystery at the

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moment and precious little !o go on. Even Wes would be stumped by this one.

‘I’ve seen a lot of Max. We’re getting on quite well and at least it gets me away from Chuck’s perpetual baseball commentary. He says he wants to donate some old family papers dating back to the early settlers to the museum at Old Annetown. I said I’d help him sort through them. He wants to ‘Visit England and it’d be good if he could see Gran again. I must be turning sentimental in myoId age. He wants to see Potwoolstan Hall when he comes over - the ancestral home. You wouldn’t be able to email me some pictures of the place, would you? Max’d be thrilled if you could. Must finish now. I’ve got to be at the dig in half an hour. Neil.’

Pam sighed. She was missing Neil. And her husband was lunching with an attractive blonde.

Kirsty Evans took a sip of her vodka and orange before placing the notebook on the table.

‘Where did you find it?’ Wesley asked.

‘His editor had it.’

‘I’ve been trying to contact her. ‘

‘She’s been away at a book fair. Only just got back. She rang me yesterday just after I’d spoken to you. Paddy went to see her the day before he left for Devon. She thinks he must have left it on her desk by mistake and it became hidden under a rather large manuscript. It was only when she got round to reading the manuscript that she found it. ‘

Wesley stared at the dull green school exercise book, hardly liking to touch it. Kirsty took a piece of paper out of her pocket and set it down beside the notebook.

‘This is the list of names I read out to you. Most of them are mentioned in the notebook too. Brenda Varney, for instance. There’s a section about her going to prison for theft and it says that she’s used other names.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. Patrick Evans had done a lot better than the police.

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‘And Paddy went up to North Yorkshire to find Victor Bleasdale, the gardener. He says in the notebook that he hit a dead end. He even checked the records in case he’d died but he found nothing. He wonders if Bleasdale changed his identity. ‘

Wesley said nothing. Gardeners don’t usually go round swapping identities like international criminals. But there were always exceptions. “

‘Pauline Black gets a mention. Her father died at the Harfords’ brewery and Pauline blamed Jack Harford for his accident. She was working at a hotel in Morbay at the time of the murders and she had an alibi. Said she was at her aunt’s house but I don’t know if anybody checked it out at the time.’

Wesley didn’t comment on the police’s implied incompetence. ‘Where is she now? Any idea?’

‘Paddy’s notes say she married someone from Somerset - Glastonbury. But he doesn’t say if he managed to trace her.’

‘She could be anywhere.’

‘There’s a Jocasta Childs mentioned as well; no address apart from the name Trecowan: there’s a village in Cornwall called Trecowan; or it might be the name of a house or even the name she uses now.’ She smiled. ‘The only note against her name is “checking Greg”. Can’t think what that means.’ Kirsty drained her glass. ‘Can I have another?’

He took the empty glass from her reluctantly. She’d had three already. ‘Where are you staying?’

She looked into his eyes. ‘Are you married, Inspector Peterson?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shame,’ she said softly as he walked over to the bar.

When Wesley returned to the office after seeing Kirsty back to the Marina Hotel, he felt uneasy. She had been quite drunk. Perhaps he should have been firmer with her. But

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she was an adult and she wasn’t breaking any law so he was hardly in a position to tell her what to do. She had wanted to meet him later - for dinner. He had pleaded a previous engagement, not mentioning that it was with his wife. But he felt for Kirsty Evans. There was an almost childlike vulnerability behind the confident, professional far;ade. The country bride had taken over from the big city girl. Perhaps we all return to our roots in times of crisis.

He had spotted Arbel Jameston at the hotel and out of courtesy he had said hello and asked whether she’d had any word from Gwen Madeley. But the answer was no. It was so unlike Gwen, she said, to go off like that and she felt she ought to stay in Devon until she had turned up safely. Anthony had agreed: she and Gwen were old friends after all.

Arbel had looked strained and he had hardly liked to ask her how seeing the Hall again had affected her. The sight of the bodies had disturbed hardened police officers so it would hardly have left an eighteen-year-old girl unscarred.

The more Wesley tried to concentrate on his present-day problems, the more the scene of crime photographs of the Hall kept returning to his mind. Those shocked, staring eyes; Nigel Armley’s missing face; Martha Wallace sprawled amongst the half-prepared party food, her throat ripped out by a bullet.

He wondered what had made Gwen Madeley paint those dreadful scenes. He had looked at the files and there was no mention of her having been there. She had painted something she wasn’t supposed to have seen. And she still hadn’t turned up. Perhaps it was time they put more effort into tracking her down.

He looked up and saw Rachel standing there. ‘How’s it going?’ she asked.

‘Kirsty Evans found her husband’s notebook. He’d made notes about some of the people on his “must see” list. I’ve already had a word with Richard Gibbons the undergardener. He said he arranged to meet Evans on the night

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he died but Evans put him off: said he had an important meeting with someone.’

‘His murderer?’

‘Possibly. There were a few more names as well. Emma Oldchester’s adoptive parents; the gardener, Victor Bleasdale - but he left the morning before the killings; Brenda Varney, the cleaner who pinched Mrs Harford’ s jewellery. There’s Owen and Dylan Madeley but no address for Dylan. There was also someone called Jocasta Childs but I’m not sure where she comes into it. And there was a woman called Pauline Black, daughter of a man who died at the Harfords’ brewery.’

‘So he was working on the assumption that Martha Wallace was innocent?’

‘Looks like it. And the fact that someone murdered him and searched his hotel room means that he was probably on the right track.’

As Rachel returned to her work, something nagged at Wesley, making him restless. He walked over to Steve’s desk and asked him if there was any word on Owen Madeley yet. All patrols had been asked to look out for her car but there’d been no reported sightings. In view of the fact that she was expecting Arbel to stay with her, Wesley was growing more worried. Nobody invites an old friend to stay then disappears into thin air. Steve, however, seemed quite unconcerned.

‘Did I mention the tapes?’ Steve said unexpectedly.

‘What tapes?’

‘When Elsham hypnotises people he makes tapes. One of the other guests told Serena. She had a look in his office but she couldn’t find them.’

‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’

‘Forgot.’

Wesley decided it was best to say nothing. To stay calm. ‘Emma Oldchester might have said something under hypnosis that Elsham hasn~t told us about. The DCI might want a word later,’ he added ominously. Heffernan would be

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livid. Perhaps it would be better not to tell him about Steve’s memory lapse. But why should he do Steve a favour?

Most days Neil called at Max’s house when he had finished

at the dig for the day. He usually stayed an hour or so

before returning to Chuck’s apartment. Somehow he felt it

was the right thing to do. The old man was on his own and

they had a lot of catching up to do. Max had ordered his

plane ticket to England but Neil hadn’t contacted his grandmother yet: things were complicated by the fact that her

daughter, Neil’s mother, as far as he knew had no idea of

her true parentage. Things like that out of the blue could

come as a shock. He would have to take things slowly.

But that day it wasn’t Max who was waiting for him on