Cursed Inheritance (8 page)

. She had seen a face from the past, from the time shrouded in the mist of blood. If she went to Potwoolstan

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Hall she might remember who he was. But in the meantime she wouldn’t say anything to Barry. He would only worry.

When Wesley Peterson reached the semi-derelict office building - an aberration in grey concrete and grubby glass, constructed in architecture’s darkest years - he studied the facade and felt mildly depressed. These were hardly ideal surroundings for a creative soul, for any soul, come to that. But maybe it hadn’t bothered Patrick Evans.

‘The rent’s cheap,’ said Kirsty Evans by way of explanation, as if she had read his mind.

She pushed the door open and walked up the litter-strewn concrete stairs. There was a lift but it bore an ‘out of order’ notice scrawled in black felt tip pen and the area around it smelled strongly of urine. To Wesley’s surprise most of the battered sapele doors bore the names of grand-sounding companies: Jetalife International Leisure PLC, Merchantalia Bond Promotions Ltd, P. J. Worthrope Holidays Ltd. The names sounded respectable enough but the signs were made of paper and stuck on the doors with Blu-tack. The signs were temporary. And Wesley suspected that, once they’d extracted money-from unsuspecting clients, the companies were too. This was a fly-by-nigllt sort of place, with few facilities and a short shelf-life. But it had obviously suited Patrick Evans.

Evans’s office was on the second floor, a hard climb up the cold stairs. The only indication that they were in the right place was a small piece of paper bearing the words ‘Patrick Evans - if it’s not important, piss off,’ sellotaped to the centre of the door.

Wesley’s eyes were drawn to the whiteness of the paper first, then he noticed that the wood around the lock was splintered. Either Patrick Evans hadˇ forgotten his key recently or somebody had broken in. He caught Kirsiy’s eye. ‘Did Patrick do this or … ?’;;;’;’;:; ..

‘It’s been like that since he startedreridi’tg it. He said he was going to get it fixed but … ‘

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Wesley unlocked the door with Kirsty’s key and stepped inside. It was a shabby little room with dirty magnolia walls and grey carpet tiles dotted with dark stains and cigarette burns. Mildew covered the bottom of the vertical blinds that hung limply at the dusty window and there was a nasty patch of mould where the wall met the ceiling just above the window frame. A battered metal filing cabinet stood in the corner. There were papers and files strewn all over the cheap teak-effect desk. Patrick Evans hadn’t been a tidy man.

Wesley turned to Kirsty and noticed that there were tears in her eyes. He knew he had to get her out of there. He should take her back to her flat, away from the memories. He ushered her out and shut the door carefully behind him. They walked back to the flat in silence as Wesley could think of nothing to say. He would have to leave her on her own: he had no choice. Back in Devon there was usually a neighbour, a friend or a relative who could be called upon in times of crisis but Kirsty said there was nobody. She didn’t know the neighbours; her friends were at work; and her family came from Worcestershire. She was quite alone. But she assured Wesley that she could cope. And she didn’t mind if he took anything from the office that he thought might be of use. He promised he would return in an hour or so to make arrangements for her journey to Devon the next day. But there was something he had to see to first.

He wasn’t . looking forward to dealing with the local station again, especially the spiky DC who, frankly, scared the life out of him. So he was relieved when he found Pete Jarrod had returned from investigating his latest shooting. As Pete’ s teenage gunman had just been caught in a raid on a nearby council flat and was now safely locked up in the cells, he’ was in a remarkably good mood and provided the tea that Wesleyhad been craving for the past couple of hours. Aftert~,ˇ….utes exchanging news, Wesley felt he

” …. \1\-,. could.get dowlr’~business. He requested help to pack Pattick Ľvans’spapers into boxes so that he could take

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them back to Devon to go through at his leisure.

A young constable was sent to help with the packing and after half an hour two cardboard boxes containing Patrick Evans’s papers were carried through the streets and loaded into the boot of Wesley’s car.

Wesley looked at his watch, wondering how long it would take to get to his parents’ house. It was five o’clock already but his mother wouldn’t be home until her surgery finished at half past six. And his father’s full list of patients at the hospital usually ensured he wasn’t home until seven these days. He sat in his car contemplating his next move and feeling guilty; guilty that he couldn’t do more for Kirsty Evans; guilty that he couldn’t spend more time with his parents. And even more guilty that he couldn’t be there for Pam.

He returned to Kirsty’s apartment and let her talk about Patrick. He’d started off his working life as a journalist and moved on to freelance investigative work. In between assignments he had written a couple of books about real-life Victorian murder cases and found he’d enjoyed the excitement of making fresh discoveries in dusty archives. Then he had begun work on books about more recent cases; cases she’d never wanted him to share with her. Somehow, when he left an hour later, he felt that he knew the dead man better. And he was aware that he’d performed a service for Kirsty as well. He’d given her somebody to talk to.

Wesley left Kirsty’s apartment just after six o’clock and prepared himself for a long battle with the London traffic as he drove slowly through the littered streets towards Dulwich. .

Normally, Gerry Heffernan jumped at every chance to get out and about, to put distance between himself and his boss, Chief Superintendent Nutter - whose idea of a fun afternoon was a budget strategy meeting followed byˇ an appraisal of the latest Home Office equal opportunities initiative - but today he was stuck in his office, dealing with the investigation into Patrick Evans’ s murder. The

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routine of going through statements from the hotel staff - all of whom had seen nothing, heard nothing and knew nothing - depressed Gerry Heffernan. He had pushed his paperwork to one side and had gone into the main CID office in search of something constructive to do.

He looked round the office, searching for Wesley, until he remembered that he’d gone off on his jaunt to London … or ‘the Smoke’ as Steve Carstairs insisted on calling it, usually referring to it with loving reverence, as if the capital of England was some sort of eldorado.

He passed Steve Carstairs’ s desk just as he was finishing a phone call. ‘Anything new on that theft at Potwoolstan Hall?’ he asked.

Steve shook his head. ‘Nothing. I think our best bet is to wait for the thief to flog the jewellery. Mind you, none of it’s turned up yet, which means that whoever’s nicked it probably knows better than to risk selling it to reputable jewellers. I think we should be looking at local fences. Or jewellers who aren’t so reputable, if you know what I mean. I’ll get on to it, shall I?’

Heffernan nodded. It was as good a strategy as any.

‘And I nearly forgot, sir. There’s just been a call. A kid’s been picked up for twocking by the Neston Traffic lads. He was carrying sorqe interesting ID.’

The chief inspector looked at Steve, exasperated. Why couldn’t he be more specific?

‘What do you mean exactly?’

Steve took a deep breath. ‘This kid nicked a car.’

‘I know twocking means taking without the owner’s consent, Stephen. What’s this about ID?’ .

‘He had a driving licence and credit card in his pocket. Name of Patrick Evans.’ ..

Heffernan rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘And did he say how they came to be in his pocket?’

‘Said he found them.’

‘Where?’ Heffernan didn’t think for one minute that Steve would have thought to ask.

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‘Er, not sure, sir. I told the lads at Neston you’d be in touch.’

‘I hope the kid in question’s still at Neston nick.’

Steve nodded wearily. ‘I think so, sir.’

‘OK. You can drive me over.’ Gerry Heffernan’s navi-gational skills were kept for the river. He was an experienced sailor but he’d never learned to drive on dry land. Wesley’s insistence that it was never too late to learn was always greeted with a dismissive grunt.

Fortunately, they found the young culprit at Neston police station when they arrived. His name was Leigh Bolt; a small, shaven-headed creature with the face of a malevolent pixie. Leigh didn’t look as if he had seen more than fifteen birthdays but his immature years didn’t stop him from loudly demanding his rights and the services of his brief. The chubby, middle-aged PC given the thankless task of looking after him, wore a patient, long-suffering expression that Gerry Heffernan had only seen before on the faces of painted martyrs in church. Heffernan reckoned a good clip round the ear would do Leigh Bolt no harm whatso-ever. But he wasn’t going to risk legal action and his career by administering it.

The newly decorated interview room still smelled of paint and Leigh lounged on a_ brand-new chair, his feet, encased in pristine white trainers, up on the table. Heffernan was in the habit of putting his feet up on his desk so he felt a hypocrite for telling the boy off. But he did it all the same and an affronted Leigh obeyed.

‘I hear you’ve been nicking cars.’

Leigh began to study his fmgernails. ‘So?’

‘And I hear you’ve got a driving licence.’ The boy glanced at him impatiently then looked away. ‘Trouble is, it’s not yours, is it? And the man who owns it was found dead yesterday. In fact he was murdered. That makes you a suspect, doesn’t it, Leigh?’

This produced the reaction Heffernan expected. Leigh jumped up, knocking his chair over. ‘I never did nothing.

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I found it, that’s all. This wallet was just lying there and I picked it up. Honest.’

‘Where did you find it?’

‘In some woods near the river. We was messing about. I just saw it lying there.’

‘Have you still got the wallet?’

Leigh shook his head. ‘Took the money and the cards out, didn’t I? Chucked the wallet in the water.’

Heffernan stood up. ‘Show us where you found it.’

Leigh looked confused for a second then he stood up. ‘OK. Fine.’

Half an hour later Steve, following Leigh’s directions, turned the car into a gate Gerry Heffernan recognised from many years ago. He could hardly forget it. And the brash new sign told him that his memory served him well. This was the drive leading to Potwoolstan Hall.

‘What are we doing here? This can’t be the way.’ He looked at Leigh accusingly as though he was playing some sort of practical joke on him. One that wasn’t very funny.

‘Yeah, it is. We come here sometimes. Have a laugh. Nobody stops us.’

Heffernan could see the bulk of the Hall looming up on his left. It was an attractive building; built in Tudor times with stone gables and pretty mullioned windows. A manor house, not too big and not too small; cosy enough to be a home as well as a statement of wealth. But to Gerry Heffernan the sight of it conjured images of blood and violent death. There had been talk of witchcraft at the time of the massacre. Dead crows had been nailed to the kitchen door and the front door and over-imaginative journalists had dug up some old tale about murdered virgins and a curse.

But there had indeed been an atmosphere of evil in that house, so strong that it was almost palpable. And Geriy Heffernan wondered whether it still pervaded the place twenty years later.

When they’d passed the building, he was tempted to look back, to allow his eyes to be drawn to the scene of horror like

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a ghoulish spectator at a road traffic accident. But he kept his eyes focused forward. He had a job to do. He wondered whether Leigh knew about the grim events that had happened there before he was born. Perhaps he did. Perhaps that was the attraction: the vicarious thrill of being near the murder house.

They had reached the stretch of woodland behind the Hall that led down to the river, and when the track petered out into a clearing, Steve stopped the car.

Heffernan said nothing as Leigh led the way down the narrow track leading to the water’s edge. Oak trees with budding branches rose up on either side of their path; the stunted oaks fringing the River Trad that gave it its distinctive beauty. In the summer, when the foliage was dense, the Trad could almost be mistaken for some steamy tropical river - if it weren’t for the English climate.

On this particular section of bank a narrow strip of grass lay between the trees and the river. Gerry Heffernan noticed that somebody had had a fire there recently. He also spotted charred white twists of paper dotted around the ground. The lads had come here to smoke cannabis. Hardly unusual in the countryside.

‘Show me where you found the wallet. ‘

Leigh strolled over to the remains of an old lime kiln. ‘Just here.’ He pointed to the ground. Heffernan squatted down and studied the place. He could see dark stains on the grass that might have been blood and two narrow parallel lines of churned-up earth led down to the water’s edge; possibly marks made by the heels of a body that had been dragged over the soft ground.

‘And you threw the empty wallet into the river? Where?’

‘About there. ‘ Leigh pointed vaguely at the water.

Heffernan looked up at Leigh. ‘When was this?’

‘Sunday night. Look, I didn’t do nothing. I just found it. Honest.’ He stood there, his eyes wide and innocent. Heffernan believed him.

‘Come here to smoke a few joints, do you? Pop a few

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pills? Build a fire and have a jolly Boy Scouts’ picnic?’

Leigh gave Heffernan a sideways look and sniffed. ‘Something like that. ‘

‘I’ll need the names of the mates who were with you. They won’t be in any trouble. We just need your story confirmed, that’s all. You weren’t around here on Saturday night, I don’t suppose?’