The Armada Boy (16 page)

'Yes. The colonel came up to the
vicarage to see me when they arrived and I spoke to quite a number of the
others after the service. I'd hoped to see some of them in church on Sunday but...'

'I don't suppose they thought of
it... the church being out of action last time they were here.'

'That's true. Inspector. They did
rather a lot of damage to the south transept, so I'm told. That's when the tomb
was discovered, of course.'

'What tomb?' Wesley leaned forward,
interested.

That of a Spanish sailor, I believe
... from the Armada. It had been covered by some heavy item of furniture - I'm
not sure what - and when everything was moved for the repairs it came to light,
as it were. It's covered again now with a hymn-book cupboard
but...'

'I thought all the Spaniards were
buried up at the chapel,' said Wesley, puzzled. 'Didn't the locals object to
sharing a churchyard with them?'

'That's what I'd always thought. I
haven't seen the tomb myself but one of my churchwardens mentioned it the other
day. His father was churchwarden just after the war ... a hereditary office,
obviously.' The vicar smiled. 'If you're interested in finding out more I'd ask
June Mallindale ... she's the authority on local history round here.'

'Don't encourage my sergeant. Vicar.
I've got my work cut out keeping him out of that chapel as it is.'

Wesley, slightly embarrassed,
changed the subject. 'You must know the people round here pretty well, Vicar.
Is there anyone you think we should have a word with?' He tried to phrase the question
tactfully. He could hardly ask the vicar bluntly if any of his flock were in
the habit of committing brutal murders.

'Alas, Sergeant, I don't know all
the people of Bereton as well as I'd like. I've only been here two years and
not all my parishioners
 
are regular
attenders.'

'Is there anyone you can think of
who might be able to help us?'

'I don't know what you mean exactly.
Sergeant. But if I were you, I'd start with the beggars who've been hanging
round the village for the past few days. Not that I'm saying they had anything
to do with it, of course, but they're out and about... they
might have seen something.' The Reverend Simon Bradshaw was hedging his bets.

'Have you met them yourself?'

'I did make a point of talking to
one of them ... he had a shaved head' I'm afraid all I got for my pains was a
mouthful of foul language.'

'Never mind. Vicar. You're not the
only one.' said Heffernan.

'And of course the chantry is a
haven for courting couples. It may be that someone who was up there ... er,
courting ... saw something.'

Heffernan nodded. In the house-to-house
enquiries they had tended to speak to the householder rather than any teenage
children with the rampant hormones necessary for uncomfortable courting on the
cold ground of a ruined building.

The vicar looked at his watch and
was about to bid them farewell when Wesley remembered something that had been
troubling
 
him. 'Do you know a young man
called Wayne Restorick?'

The vicar looked wary. 'What about him?'

'I just wondered if you could tell me anything about him.'

The vicar, gossip being against the principles of his calling, chose his words
carefully.' You must ask the young people of the village. That's all I can
suggest. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a funeral in half an hour.'
The vicar left.

'Nice one, Wesley,' said Heffernan,
shaking his head. 'Now all we've got to do is round up the spotty youths of
Bereton. Will you do it or shall I?'

Rachel put the phone down. Things
were moving. Nobody at the station, she knew, actually enjoyed going down into
the bowels of the building and sifting through acres of dusty files, but she
had managed to charm Bob Naseby into sending some new recruit
down there. Bob made the excuse that he couldn't go down there himself and get
his uniform dusty: he was the face of Tradmouth police station; the person the
public encountered first in their time of trouble. Appearances must be kept up.

It would probably be some time
before the file was located so she decided to have another word with Mrs Sweeting
... find out what she could. She told Steve she was going out and that she wouldn't
be long. He was too busy staring at WPC Walton's
black-stockinged legs to take much notice.

Mrs Sweeting's cottage near the
church was the type that could be seen on many a picture postcard proclaiming
the attractions of beautiful Devon. It was thatched and pink: the rose bushes
in the tiny front garden, budding now, would give a fine show in the summer
months.

Mrs Sweeting was glad of the
company. Her arthritis prevented her getting out as much as she used to, she
explained. Rachel knew that the ceremonies had to be observed: the tea, the
biscuits, the chat about the weather and natters of local concern. It was fully
twenty minutes before she managed to steer the conversation round to the
past... the war.

'It was very interesting what you
were telling me the other day, Mrs Sweeting, about the Americans and the war
... the dances.'

'Oh yes. my luvver, those Yanks ...
we'd never seen nothing like 'em before. We were staying with our aunt in
Tradmouth when we were evacuated from here ... threw us all out of the village
they did, and bombed the hell out of the place. We'd go to the dances the Yanks
held on a Saturday night ... spent all Saturday gelling ready we did. We put
gravy browning on our legs... we must have smelled like the Sunday roast. No
wonder the Yanks kept giving us stockings. Very generous they were.'

'But your friend got attacked.'

Mrs Sweeting looked confused. 'My
friend?'

'You told me last time I was here
... she was attacked by one of the Americans.'

'Oh dear, yes... it wasn't my
friend. It was my sister's friend.'

'What was her name?'

'I don't know ... I don't know who
it was. Things like that weren't talked of in those days. You just heard a
whisper ... just a hint and a few raised eyebrows. All I know is that I
overheard that someone had been ... you know .. .'

'Was it reported to the police?'

'I really don't know.'

'Do you know what became of the
girl?'

Mrs Sweeting shook her head. 'My
sister might know.'

'Could we ask her, do you think?'

'I could mention it in my next
letter.'

'Letter? Where does your sister
live?'

'Australia,' said Mrs Sweeting with
pride. She went out there to live with her son eight years ago. I've got some
photographs here. I'll just get them.'

Rachel sat back, resigned to spending
the next half-hour gazing at images of Sydney sunshine.

' Do you want the good news or the
bad news?"

Everyone stopped what they were
doing - sorting statements, tapping away on computer keyboards - and looked at
the inspector as he stood in the middle of the room, shirtsleeves rolled up, to
address them.

'The bad news is forensic's just
been on. The stains on the car seat were blood.'

One of the young WPCs looked away,
unable to contemplate another violent death ... or more overtime. The phone on Heffernan's
desk rang. He picked it up. The rest of the room waited in expectation.

He put the phone down. 'More bad
news. There was another holiday cottage done over last night. That makes two in
one night. Looks like they're after a Queen's Award for Industry. I told Stan Jenkins
I couldn't spare anyone from here at the moment so he's
sending some of his lot over.'

'People are getting their places
ready for the summer - bringing new tellies and videos down, that sort of
thing.' said Wesley thoughtfully.

'Trouble is. Wes, you're not the
only one to realise that. Our villains have as well, which shows they're
putting some thought into their work. I don't like it when the criminal fraternity
start using their brains.'

'So what was the good news, sir?'

Heffernan, sidetracked for a moment,
looked round at the expectant faces. 'Oh yeah ... the blood's a different group
to Sally Johnson's. We checked with her husband. She's O. The blood in the car
isn't hers. The question is,' he said quietly, 'whose is it?'

Wesley took the file of statements
from Steve Carstairs.

'No sign of any woman walking a dog,
Sarge. Maybe she wasn't from the village.'

'All the farms and cottages
roundabout have been checked, haven't they?'

'Yes, Sarge. There's nothing. Looks
like Mrs Johnson wasn't telling us the truth.'

Wesley contemplated the implications
of Steve's last remark as he walked outside to his car. He looked at his watch.
It confirmed what his stomach was telling him: it was time to eat. But Pam
wouldn't be expecting him on the dot, not during an inquiry like this. There
was time to pay a quick visit to the chantry to see how Neil's work was
progressing.

The site of the chapel had been
fenced off from public view; a requirement of the Home Office when an
excavation involved human remains. Wesley found his way in without too much trouble.
Neil was glad to see him, surrounded as he was by a group of first-year
archaeology students indulging in a bit of work experience
 
and needing supervision. Matt and Jane were
still diving. Neil had been assigned to dry land.

'I believe we're sharing an office.'

Wesley looked at Neil, puzzled.

We've been given a room in the village
hall. They're installing the computer today. We needed somewhere near the dig
... we were having to shift all the finds to Tradmouth every night. I asked the
vicar if there was anywhere in the village we could work from.
If you don't ask. you don't get.'

This was good news. Wesley could keep
an eye on the progress of the dig without absenting himself from the incident
room too obviously.

'How's it going?' He surveyed the
chapel. A small digger had been brought in to remove the top layer of a large
trench in what would have been the nave. The students, of assorted sexes and eight
in number, burrowed with small trowels in a marked-off
area, their faces earnest with concentration.

'The geophysics indicate some
disturbance in the area where we've started digging. We're hoping those are the
graves: there's no record of any other burials in the chapel. And we've located
what look like the foundations of various outbuildings... trouble is, we're
going to have to clear a lot of vegetation away from the outside of the chapel
before we can start digging.' He grinned.

'Students have their uses. I'm issuing them with scythes tomorrow and they can
make a start. Dr Parsons is coming down to have a look.'

Wesley remembered his old tutor - a
lady of eccentric ways and equally eccentric grey hair which she wore in a
half-demolished
 
bun. 'I'll try and get
up here to see her. It's been a long time.'

'How's Pam?' Neil asked, a hint of
anxiety in his voice. He had gone out with Pam in their university days until
she had met Wesley. He was still fond of her, still concerned.

'She's fine. She's had no trouble
with being pregnant at all. I suppose she's been lucky. We deserve a bit of
luck after all the time it took.' Wesley and Pam had attended an infertility
clinic until nature had decided to buck up her ideas and take her course.
The mention of his wife had awakened Wesley's conscience. She would be
delighted if, for one evening at least, he arrived home at a reasonable time
and enjoyed his supper straight from the cooker rather than heated up in the
microwave.