Cursed Inheritance (3 page)

discussing it.

When they reached the hospital they followed the signs

to the mortuary. Once they had passed through the plastic . swing doors a faint odour of decay masked by a heavy dose

of air freshener hit their nostrils. Wesley felt slightlyˇ

nauseous. It was the same every time.

Heffernan, however, charged ahead along the polished

corridors towards Colin’ s office where they were greeted

like long-lost friends and provided with Earl Grey tea and

biscuits made on the Prince of Wales’s own estates from

organic ingredients. Nothing but the best would do for

Colin Bowman.

Colin always liked to chat - probably, Wesley thought,

because his own patients were hardly in a position to be

talkative - and he asked about Pam and the children before

moving on to the subject of the forthcoming wedding of

Wesley’s sister, Maritia, and her move to Devon where she

had applied to work as a locum GP. It was only when the

subject of Maritia’s plans had been exhausted and Colin had

made extensive enquiries about the progress of Gerry’s two

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children at universities up north, that he led the way to the stark white room where the body of the man from the river lay in a refrigerated drawer, awaiting Colin’ s undivided attention the following morning. They viewed the body briefly before Colin pointed out a set of plastic bags containing the man’s clothes.

‘Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid, gentlemen. Nothing you can’t buy in any high street in the land. Ralph Lauren sweatshirt, Levi jeans, Nike trainers, Marks and Spencer’s underwear. No bespoke suit made by a little tailor in Savile Row with a detailed list of all his customers, I’m sorry to say.’

‘Pity,’ said Wesley. A spot of individuality would have been too much to hope for in these days of globalisation.

‘But 1 did find this in the back pocket of his jeans.’ Colin produced a small bag containing what looked like a scrap of paper. He passed it to Wesley, who stared at the thing and handed it to Heffeman.

There was a small, satisfied smile on Colin’s lips, as though he had a secret he was longing to tell. ‘I know what it is, of course,’ he said.

‘Well, don’t
eep us in suspense.’ Heffeman passed the bag back to Wesley.

‘It’s a book of matches. 1 recognised it at once because 1 was there on Saturday for the local pathologists’ annual dinner: very jolly affair. 1 picked one up myself.’ He delved into his pocket and produced a glossy book of matches with a familiar name printed on the front.

‘The Tradmouth Castle Hotel,’ said Wesley, handing the bag to Heffeman. ‘He might have called in there for a drink. ‘

‘Don’t be such a pessimist, Wes. At least it gives us somewhere to start until we hear from missing persons.’

As they took their leave of Colin Bowman, Wesley glanced at the drawer containing the mystery man and shivered. He would be there when the man’s body was cut open the next day. And there was no way he could avoid it.

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DC Steve Carstairs drove too fast along the narrow, high-hedged country lanes. Rachel Tracey sat beside him, gripping her seat. Steve suspected that she was there to make sure he didn’t miss anything vital or cause offence to the natives - and he seethed with resentment. He was quite capable of dealing with a simple theft on his own.

Rachel hadn’t said a word since they set off and it was Steve who broke the silence.

‘Still going out with that Dave? The Aussie?’

‘No.’

‘But I thought that’s why you were looking for a flat.’

‘Well, you thought wrong. Dave’s gone back to Australia. You can transmit it on the office grapevine if you like. In fact, I wish you would. I’m sick of all the questions and innu-endoes.’ She folded her arms. That was all she had to say.

But Steve wouldn’t let the subject drop. ‘We were all hoping for wedding bells.’

‘You’ve just missed the entrance.’

Steve slammed on the brakes and they were both flung forward. Rachel put her head in her hands as he backed the car rapidly back to a large gateway and a prominent sign bearing the words ‘Potwoolstan Hall Therapy and Healing Centre’ beneath a logo; a stylised version of a naked female figure reaching for what looked like a beach ball. Or perhaps it was the moon. It was a difficult entrance to miss, Rachel thought. But somehow Steve had managed it.

He sped up the winding drive, ignoring Rachel’s suggestion that he slow down. If he was showing off, he’d picked the wrong woman, she thought as she tightened her grip on her seat.

‘Well, this is it,’ said Steve as the car came to a halt with a satisfying crunch of gravel beneath the tyres. ‘Scene of the massacre. You’d think they’d have changed the name, wouldn’t you?’

Rachel said nothing as she climbed out of the passenger seat. She wanted to get this over with. The front door stood wide open so she walked in. The Hall looked old from the

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outside; mellow Beer stone with mullioned windows and boastful decorative gables. The height of chic in the sixteenth century.

From what she’d heard over the years, Rachel half imagined the interior to look like the set of a horror ft1m; all black and blood-red with fraying tapestries and cobwebs. But the reality came as a disappointment. The large, square hall had a newly decorated, slightly institutional look. The floor was pale wood and the smooth walls were painted a calming light green. Instead of dark ancestral portraits, a selection of modem watercolours hung on the walls, the kind usually found in local amateur art exhibitions.

Rachel stood for a few moments looking around, wondering what it had looked like when the Harford family had lived - and died - there. Probably nothing like this. ‘

Ahead of them was a magnificent oak staircase, deeply carved and black with age; the one feature of the entrance hall that hadn’t fallen victim to modernisation. A tall man was walking slowly down to greet them. His hair was frosted at the temples and he wore a short, spotless white jacket of the kind favoured by dentists. He had a wide mouth and his eyes, focused on Rachel, were a pale, pierc-ing blue. Rachel instinctively smoothed her hair and straightened her back as the man approached with an outstretched hand.

‘Welcome,’ the man said, taking Rachel’s hand in both of his and holding it for a few seconds. He turned to Steve but the handshake he received was considerably briefer.

‘Mr and Mrs Jackson, I presume. Welcome to Potwoolstan Hall,’ the man continued, his voice silky smooth.

Steve made a noise which sounded like a snort and Rachel shot him a hostile look.

Rachel produced her warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Tracey and this is Detective Constable Carstairs, Tradmouth CID. I believed someone here reported a theft, Mr … er … ‘

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The man took a step back and Rachel noticed a flash of alarm in the bright blue eyes. ‘I’m so sorry. 1 was expecting new guests. Elsham. Ieremy Elsham. I’m the facilitator. ‘

Steve thrust his hands into the pocket of his leather jacket. ‘Does that mean you’re in charge?’

Elsham gave a patronising half-smile. ‘I suppose 1 am. But here we prefer the concept of my being a facilitator rather than a dictator. The Beings take responsibility for their own healing and … ‘

‘Beings?’ Rachel sounded puzzled.

‘I suppose some less enlightened establishments might call them patients. Those who come to us for healing. We like to refer to them as Beings - each one unique and individual.’

Rachel pressed her lips together disapprovingly. She was a woman who preferred to call a guest a guest and an owner an owner. ‘So what exactly has been stolen?’

Ieremy Elsham looked uneasy. ‘Mrs Ieffries, one of our Beings, claims that somebody has taken two hundred and fifty pounds and a valuable diamond ring from her handbag. She left it in her room during breakfast.’

‘We’ll need to speak to Mrs Ieffries. And if we could have a list of all your guests. And your staff too, of course. ‘

‘Oh, I’m sure nobody here … Perhaps the thief came in from outside. We don’t lock doors here and … ‘

He fell silent when a woman appeared, fashionably thin and wearing a crisp white uniform. She was a platinum blonde with the manufactured beauty of one familiar with the cosmetic surgeon’s knife. Steve stared at her chest admiringly, and Rachel gave him a sharp nudge with her elbow.

‘This is my wife, Pandora. Darling, these people are police officers. They want to see Mrs Ieffries.’

Rachel tried not to show her surprise. Pandora appeared to be much younger than her husband. She wondered if

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there was a first wife somewhere discarded in favour of this newer and racier model. But when she looked more closely at Pandora’ neck, she realised that first impressions might have deceived her: the neck belonged to a woman who wouldn’t see forty again.

Pandora consulted the clipboard she was carrying. ‘Mrs Jeffries is in meditation at the moment. But the session finishes in five minutes. Then she’s booked in for another regression. ‘ Pandora’s collagen-enhanced lips turned upwards in a cross between a smile and a snarl.

Steve edged closer to Pandora. ‘What’s this regression?’

It was Jeremy Elsham who answered. ‘We regress our Beings to their childhood, and sometimes beyond that to their former lives. It helps them to resolve issues of their inner being and … ‘

‘Perhaps we could have a word with you in your office until she’s free,’ Rachel interrupted. She wasn’t going to be sidetracked by what she considered to be hocus-pocus.

Elsham glanced at his wife and led them into a spacious room off the main hall. The words ‘Strictly Private’ were printed in gothic letters on the door. Perhaps a small hint that behind every facilitator lurks a dictator, Rachel thought as she recalled a phrase from a book about a farm she’d been forced to read at school: ‘All animals are equal but some are more equal than others.’ Being a farmer’s daughter she’d found this concept quite interesting.

Elsham’s huge office was furnished with an’ expensive simplicity which would have done a top executive proud. There was a thick beige carpet on the floor and the soft leather seats were modem in’ design. At one end of the room, a black leather sofa and two armchairs were grouped around a sleek beech-wood coffee table. Elsham hadn’t stinted himself: but then, having sneaked a surreptitious glance at the price list on the desk, Rachel concluded that he probably didn’t need to. Potwoolstlpl Hall was no char-itable institution.

The only thing that looked out of place in the room was

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a gloomy painting hanging on the wall behind the desk. Two young men in Jacobean costume - doublets and wide ruffs - stiffly posed against a dark background with faint lettering and a coat of arms barely visible between them. It was obviously as ancient as the Hall itself but it didn’t seem to fit in with the image Elsham wanted to project.

Elsham sat behind the desk, leaning back, relaxed, as if to demonstrate that a visit from the police didn’t bother him in the least. He answered their questions clearly and succinctly, the perfect witness. But Rachel somehow couldn’t rid herself of the suspicion that it was all an elab-orate act, a performance.

The first Elsham had heard of the theft was when an agitated Mrs Geraldine Jeffries burst into his office just after breakfast to report that her money and a valuable ring were missing from her room. The staff had undertaken a discreet search but nothing had been found. The other Beings hadn’t been questioned of course: he was hoping it wouldn’t be necessary. People came to Potwoolstan Hall to find spiritual peace and healing and the last thing they needed was to be interrogated by the police. When Rachel said they might have no choice in the matter, Elsham didn’t look happy.

Geraldine Jeffries’s arrival was announced by the clank-ing of heavy gold jewellery. Mrs Jeffries, a lady of a certain age, had dyed her hair jet black and her tanned flesh - the product of too many holidays on the Cote d’ Azur with follow-up sessions in her local sunbed parlour - was the texture of leather. With her large, even teeth and her long nose, she reminded Rachel of a crocodile.

And like a crocodile she snapped, first at Elsham for allowing such a thing to happen in his establishment in the first place and then at the two police officers for not having arrived as soon as she called to haul the thief off to the cells. Rachel made soothing noises and suggested that they examine the scene of the crime, mentioning that the police had been investigating a spate of similar thefts in the area.

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Mrs Ieffries, satisfied that someone was willing to do something constructive at last, led-‘The way.

As they walked up the stairs, Rachel found herself wondering where exactly the massacre of the Harford family had taken place. Then she put the thought out of her mind. It was ghoulish. On a par with people who visit the scenes of major accidents. She felt mildly ashamed of herself.

Mrs Ieffries’s room - a large and well-furnished chamber worthy of any five-star hotel - yielded no clues. The thief, if there was one, hadn’t conducted a disorganised search - he or she had merely dipped into an unattended handbag and extracted the valuables, as though he or she had known exactly where to find them.

The money and ring - containing a hefty diamond, valued at six thousand pounds for insurance purposes - had apparently disappeared during breakfast when the Beings had been in the dining room munching their morning muesli. Only three had been absent: a Mrs Carmody, who was confmed to a wheelchair as a result of a road accident; a Mr Dodgson, the Being in the next room to Mrs Ieffries who had missed breakfast because of a stomachache; and a Ms Iones, a young woman who claimed to have overslept.

As Mrs Carmody’s room was on the ground floor and her spinal injuries made it impossible for her to walk even a few feet, and certainly not up two flights of stairs, Rachel considered that she could probably be ruled out, although she might have witnessed something. She would speak to her along with Mr Dodgson and Ms Iones. And she would see any staff who had been on the premises as well, in spite of Elsham’s assurances that they were all entirely trustwor-thy and their whereabouts accounted for.