The Armada Boy (2 page)

'That was a big mistake. Wes.'

'I hadn't the heart to tell him that
it's not in the genes. . .he was only my uncle by marriage. I didn't even make
the cricket team at school.'

Heffernan laughed wickedly. 'No escape
now. Once Bob gets your name down for that cricket team there's no trial by
jury, no plea-bargaining and no appeal.'

Bob Naseby was notorious for his
obsession with the game of cricket. Wives and girlfriends seethed as he took
their menfolk off to spend their off-duty hours on the cricket field in the
summer months.

'I'll just have to come clean ...
tell the truth.' said Wesley with finality.

'My mam used to say honesty is the
best policy. We should have that plastered up on every cell wall, don't you
think?'

They drove on for a while in
amicable silence. They were on the coastal road to Bereton which meandered
above sandy, tree-lined coves. The spring sunshine filtered through the
branches throwing golden sparks out on to the clear blue sea.

'This view, Wes,' said Heffernan. 'I
bet it's as good as anything you'd find in the Med.'

'You don't find anything like this
in the Met, sir.' Wesley, who transferred from the Metropolitan Police six
months back, smiled, enjoying his private joke.

The road to Bereton wound off to the
right, leaving the coastal road with its sweep of pebbled beach behind. The
wall-like Devon hedges obscured the view into the fields until, half a mile
inland, they came to a village of pastel-painted cottages, clustered round a
handsome medieval church and a squat thatched pub. A hand-painted sign showed
the way to a rival hostelry and another sign, ancient but more official,
pointed the way to the chantry.

'It's the chantry we want,' said
Wesley.

'What's a chantry when it's at
home?'

'It's a chapel ... usually built by
someone wealthy, so that prayers and Masses could be said for their souls when
they died. Priests were employed to staff them. They were quite the rage till old
Henry VIII put a stop to them.'

'You seem to know a lot about it.'

'I'm a mine of useless information,
sir.'

'That's what comes of an expensive
education.'

'This particular chantry was quite
substantial.' Wesley continued. 'It was referred to as a college. There were
four priests employed ... one as the normal parish priest and the other three just
to serve the chantry. That's what Neil's excavating. Only the chapel shell
remains but there must have been more buildings. He's trying to find out what's
there.'

Fascinating.' said Heffernan
unconvincingly. 'So you've seen Neil recently, then?'

'We went for a drink last week.'

'What did your Pam think to that?'

'She came with us.'

'In her condition?'

'Making the most of our freedom, sir
... before we need to worry about baby-sitters.'

'You'll not have much freedom if
this turns out to be murder, Wes. Mystic Gerry predicts lots of overtime ...
unpaid and all if the super has his way.'

Wesley parked behind Neil's Mini. He
would have recognised the rusting vehicle anywhere - it was unchanged since
their student days. A pair of police patrol cars were parked in front of Neil's,
their occupants absent. They walked back towards the chantry and saw that the
area had been cordoned off with blue-and-white tape. Heffernan made a mental
note to praise this piece of efficiency ... credit where credit's due, he
always thought.

The first person they encountered
was Neil, leaning disconsolately against the chapel's rough stone wall by the
half-demolished west door.

Heffernan spoke first. 'I've got one
thing to say to you.'

Neil looked mildly alarmed.

 
'Next time you want to go finding bodies will
you wait till all our villains have announced a strike ... or a work-to-rule at
least.
 
As if we've not got enough to do.
I just hope
it's natural causes.'

'So do I,' said Neil with feeling.
'Every day we delay this dig we're going over budget. And we're coordinating it
with a project out in the bay. It's bloody inconvenient.'

'Bloody inconvenient for the poor
bugger in there and all...' Heffernan stormed past into the shell of the chapel
where something in the far comer was attracting quite a crowd.

SOCO had arrived.

Wesley hung back to talk to Neil.
'What time did you find him?'

'Just when I rang you. I've got my
mobile.' He produced a tiny mobile phone from his pocket and displayed it
proudly.

'Very nice,' said Wesley admiringly.
He had never associated Neil with high technology. 'Were you on your own?'

'Yeah. Just came to see the lie of
the land. I've sent the others away for now. I'm meeting them in the Bereton Arms
at opening time if you want to join us .. .'

Wesley shook his head. 'I won't have
the time ... unless it's natural causes.'

'Let's hope it is, then. Pam okay?
How long till the baby's due?'

'Ten weeks and she's fine ...
blooming. Bit tired at school.'

Wesley's wife had been supply teaching since their move to Devon. She had found
a long-term contract in a school that she liked and was reluctant to give it up
until nature dictated that she had to.

'Won't be long now 'til you're
having all those sleepless nights.'

'I get them already working for
Gerry Heffernan. I'd better get in there... see what's going on. I'd find your
mates, if I were you. There's no point hanging round here. We may need a
statement later but I know where to find you. You didn't touch the body or
anything like that, did you?'

'Come on. Wes....'

'Sorry. Stupid question,' Wesley
said apologetically. Neil was a trained archaeologist who knew how to deal with
evidence as well as any policeman.

Wesley found the inspector talking
to a tall, genial man who greeted him with a casual affability that made him
expect to be offered a drink and canapés at any moment.

'Good to see you again. Sergeant.
How's that wife of yours? I hear a happy event is imminent.'

'Fine, thanks, Dr Bowman. And
yourself?' He knew that Colin Bowman couldn't be hurried: the social niceties
had to be observed.

'I was just telling the inspector here.
I cut my hand rather badly gardening . . . not as bad as this poor chap,
though.'

He stood aside and Wesley saw the
body, the object of all the attention, for the first time.

'How did he die?'

'Stabbed, poor chap. Straight
through the back and into the heart ... single wound. If it had been an inch
either side it would have hit a rib.'

'So it was someone who knew what
they were doing?'

'Either that or they were lucky.
Must have come up on him from behind. He's got a hearing aid: I've checked and
it doesn't seem to be working. That means he might not have heard his killer.
Look at his face ... he looks a bit startled, doesn't he?'

'Well, you would if you'd just had a
knife stuck in your ribs,' said Heffernan, not too helpfully. 'What was he
doing in a place like this any way?' He pointed to a grey object next to the
body. 'Is that what I think it is?'

'Yes... a rat,' said Colin Bowman
with distaste. 'Not the most salubrious of companions even in death.'

'Have you examined it?'

The doctor looked disdainful. 'Why
should I do that? I'm a forensic pathologist, not a vet'.

'It's just that...' Heffernan touched
the rat gingerly with his shoe. 'Have you noticed it's been wounded?'

Colin Bowman bent down with fresh
interest. 'Might have been killed by a dog or something.'

'Too neat.' Heffernan pointed, not
wanting to touch the thing that lay with its tail stiff, just touching the dead
man's arm.

Wesley bent over to see.

'I reckon,' said Heffernan with a
confidence
 
he didn't feel, 'that looks
like a knife wound.'

Colin Bowman was wearing rubber
gloves. He touched the creature. After a few seconds he stood up and nodded. 'I
think you could be right. Gerry. Why stab a rat, eh? Strange . .. bizarre. I'll
take it back to the lab... have a better look.'

'And the post-mortem?'

'I'll have our friend here on the slab
either later today or first thing tomorrow. As to the time of death I can't be
too accurate at the moment but I'd say between 9 and 11 last night. Can't speak
for our furry friend.' He looked again at the man's corpse. 'Any
idea who he was? The clothes are a little, shall we say, flamboyant for a
gentleman of that age.'

' Doesn't fit in with any of our missing
persons... have to look further afield.' Heffernan shrugged.

'Well. I'll leave you to it, then,
Gerry ... Sergeant. Happy hunting.'

'Why is he always so flaming
cheerful?' asked Heffernan rhetorically as the doctor disappeared through the
chapel archway.

Wesley bent down to look more
closely at the body. A man in his late sixties; baseball cap, baseball jacket
over a shocking-pink shirt. His clothes and shoes didn't look cheap, neither
did they look particularly expensive: but there was something about them
that rang bells in Wesley's head. He looked up at his boss. 'Do you know, sir,
I reckon he could be an American.'

Heffernan sighed, contemplating
diplomatic repercussions and severe blows to the 'special relationship'.
"That's all we bloody need,' he said.

Dorinda Openheim did her best to
look dignified as the white-gloved bugler sounded the last post. She shivered
as a gust of fresh March wind penetrated the thick pink cloth of her best suit.

Most of the wives wore black. Maybe
she should have worn black - it might have been more appropriate. But it was
too late now.

The vicar with the plummy English
accent was talking again.
Vicar? He looked little more than a kid. A couple of the veterans were laying a
wreath at the war memorial. How much longer would they have to stand outside in
the cold?

And where was Norman? She fidgeted
as she remembered the previous night, then she glanced across at Todd Weringer,
his handsome face a study of appropriate solemnity as he remembered
 
his fallen comrades.

"Let us pray," the vicar
intoned.

Dorinda shut her eyes tight and
prayed that nobody would discover her secret.

Even police officers need to eat. They
opted for the Bereton Arms, a little thatched inn near the church which,
although shabby, served an adequate ploughman's lunch and, Heffernan confirmed,
not a bad pint. Wesley, driving, made do with orange juice.

They were taking the last bite of
home-made granary bread when Neil arrived. Wesley knew the couple he was with;
Matt and Jane had worked with Neil on the excavation of a Tudor merchant's
house when Wesley had first arrived in Tradmouth.
They greeted him like an old friend. Heffernan, feeling left out, finished off
his pint and left, telling Wesley not to linger too long over his orange juice.