The Blood Pit (11 page)

‘Has this Collins got a history of violence?’ Wesley asked.

Paul considered the question for a moment. ‘He held up a post office with a replica gun but he’s had no form since then.’

‘So where is he now?’ Heffernan muttered rhetorically. ‘Is there a photo of this Collins character?’

Paul produced an old photograph and placed it on the desk beside the report. Wesley picked it up and stared at it. The young
man who stared out at him was around eighteen with close cropped hair, resentful eyes and a small tattoo of a spider on his
neck. There was something familiar about him but Wesley couldn’t think what it was. Maybe he had just seen too many like him
before. Young tearaways out of control, terrorising a postmaster or off licence assistant for a handful of notes from the till
that would keep him in drugs till the money ran out again.

But, according to police records, this particular young thug hadn’t continued his career of crime. Unless he just hadn’t been
caught.

Wesley passed the photograph back to Paul. ‘Find out all you can about this Collins character, will you? See if you can establish
any connection with any unsolved local crimes … or with Charles Marrick. Check on the staff in his warehouse. And get someone
from uniform to go round all the local pubs and restaurants to ask if Marrick ate lunch there on the day he died – and, if
so, was he with anyone. Look for places with quail on the menu.’

Paul was about to leave the office when Gerry Heffernan spoke. ‘While you’re at it, Paul, ask Rachel to go round to
Le Petit Poisson and chat up the staff – check exactly what time Fabrice Colbert got back on the afternoon of the murder.
Okay?’

The tall, thin detective constable nodded wearily. For the first time in his career, Paul Johnson was starting to look as
if the workload was getting him down.

Annette Marrick was doing her best to play the grieving widow. While the police were still hanging around the place like flies
round a piece of rotten meat, she had to keep up the pretence. The pretence that she and Charlie had been a devoted couple.
That he’d not betrayed her with other women. And that she’d been the model of fidelity.

Living a lie made her restless. Made her want to kick out and shout the truth in their smug, pious faces. Charlie was a lying, cheating
bastard. Charlie was cruel and liked inflicting pain. And if she sought solace elsewhere, she couldn’t be blamed. Anyone would
have done the same.

She stood in the huge dining kitchen that was serving as a living room now the lounge was out of action, with her back to
the door. She needed privacy. There was something she needed to do.

Petronella was around somewhere but there was one place Annette knew she wouldn’t go and that was the lounge. The place still
reeked of blood – that rotting, faintly metallic stench she couldn’t get out of her nostrils – and the splashes on the walls
had dried to a rusty brown. The carpet had been taken up and the sofa removed on her instructions. She had seen no point in
keeping things as they were to remind her of that awful day.

Annette shut the door behind her and stood there, thinking about what she’d say. She’d be casual … call in a favour. After
all, she’d do the same for them if the situation ever arose. She listened for a while before picking up the phone and pressing
out the number. The ringing tone seemed to
last for ever and she was about to abandon the call when Betina answered.

‘Darling,’ Annette whispered. ‘I’m going to ask you a great favour.’ She was about to outline what that favour was when she
heard a sound. She watched with horror as the doorknob turned slowly. ‘I’ll call you back,’ she hissed into the phone before
hiding the thing behind her back just as the door swung open.

It was Petronella who stood there framed in the doorway, fidgeting nervously with a strand of hair. ‘Who are you calling?’

‘None of your bloody business.’

‘Betina. That’s one of the cronies you told the police you were with when Charlie died, isn’t it?’

Annette felt a tear tickle her cheek. ‘I expected a bit of loyalty from my own daughter.’

Petronella snorted. ‘You mean the same sort of loyalty you gave to me when you left me in that hospital?’

As Petronella shot out into the hall, Annette threw the telephone across the room. If all else failed, she might have to break
the habit of a lifetime and tell the truth.

She wished at that moment that she hadn’t summoned Petronella – but she’d needed someone and her daughter was her own flesh
and blood. That was why she hadn’t smothered Petronella at birth. That was why she’d left her there in the warm safe hospital.

But she hadn’t known then that your sins always come back to haunt you.

The second letter should have been delivered that day. Neil Watson would find it at his flat when he arrived home and the
writer wondered whether reading it would make him feel sad … or angry. Or just curious. Or perhaps the subject of blood would
frighten him.

The writer began to type. The story had to be told. Little by little. Until everything was clear.

I saw you on the television around the same time as I learned what had happened to Brother William. I knew then that you were
the one to help me. It was meant.

I could tell you all about the ruins at Stow Barton and what happened there in 1535 – but I’m sure you’d prefer to find out
for yourself. Think of it as a kind of game. The blood game. I’ve made my first move and you’ve not responded. But I’m near
you. I could reach out and touch you. I could even make you bleed.

There was more to say. There had to be more. But it could wait for a while.

Perhaps this was a dangerous game. Perhaps it would be best to stay silent. It wasn’t too late to stop. The writer stared at
the words on the computer screen and considered the question.

*

According to the kitchen staff at Le Petit Poisson, Fabrice Colbert had returned to terrorise them at approximately four fifteen
on the day of Charles Marrick’s murder. He had just had time to kill Marrick but not much time. He had come into the kitchen
with a carrier bag bearing the logo of a Neston health food shop so it seemed he’d been telling the truth about the shopping
trip. But of course nothing was certain. He was still very much in the frame.

Wesley sat at his desk considering what he knew so far. Marrick had enemies and common sense told him that one of these enemies
had killed him. He had cheated Colbert and, no doubt, he had cheated others. And his widow hardly seemed to regret his passing.
Perhaps there was a lover somewhere with good reason to get rid of Marrick. And Annette’s alibi hadn’t been checked out thoroughly
yet. He’d send Rachel off to interview the ladies who lunched. She would be bound to give an honest and unbiased opinion …
or maybe not unbiased.

His thoughts were interrupted by Lee Parsons, a new DC who looked so young, he was frequently asked to prove his age in pubs.

‘Sir,’ Parsons said nervously. ‘A report’s just come in from Forensics. You asked for a match between the blood on the knife
found on that Carl Pinney and the blood of Charles Marrick. There’s a match. They’re the same.’

Wesley’s heart began to beat a little faster. ‘What about the knife itself?’

‘Available anywhere – supermarkets and …’

‘Not an expensive chef’s knife then?’

Parsons shook his head.

Wesley thanked the young DC and hurried to Gerry Heffernan’s office. He’d want to know right away.

This could change everything.

Neil Watson opened the door of his flat, yearning for a hot shower to wash away the dirt of a day’s digging. But when
he saw the letter lying on his doormat, he felt the blood drain from his face. He recognised it at once. It was exactly like
the other one. He stared at it for a while before bending down to pick it up and tearing the envelope open.

He read the letter inside. There was no actual threat this time, just strange stuff about monks. And blood. Monks swimming
through rivers of blood. The whole thing was bizarre. And unnerving in view of what they’d just found at the dig.

He’d show it to Wesley as soon as possible. He needed someone to share it with. Living alone, these things preyed on the mind.
And the images in the letters disturbed him.

He considered the identity of the writer. Lenny fitted the bill, showing off his knowledge, trying to get one up on the professionals.
But it was going to be hard to find out for sure without a confrontation and Neil hated confrontations unless they were of
the professional variety with developers or the local planning department. Besides, there was no evidence it was Lenny – just
a hunch and maybe prejudice against the cocky man’s arrogance.

He was re-reading the letter, trying to make some sense of it, when his mobile phone began to ring.

After a short conversation, he stood for a moment, feeling rather flattered. They wanted him again, the TV company. They wanted
him to give an update on the dig on the local news programme. The feedback from their viewers had been good and there was a
lot of interest in history at the moment.

Then suddenly apprehension crept in, taking over what should have been a moment of professional triumph. There was always the
possibility that one of those interested viewers might be his letter writer.

If he made another appearance on TV, he would be sticking his head above the parapet again. And people who did that put themselves
in danger.

*

First thing the next morning, Rachel Tracey asked the question that was on all their minds. ‘This Darren Collins’s prints were
found in Annette Marrick’s bedroom – but where is he now?’

Gerry Heffernan shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s the six million dollar question, love. When we find that out, we might be
nearer to cracking the case.’

Rachel decided to forgive her boss the ‘love’ just this once. He was under pressure after all.

Wesley Peterson considered the six million dollar question for a few moments. ‘Of course all it really indicates is that Collins
has been in the Marricks’ bedroom at some stage. It doesn’t prove he was there when Marrick died. He could be a handyman who
did some work there.’

Heffernan grunted. Trust Wesley to put a dampener on things. Not that he wasn’t right. Collins might be their man. But on
the other hand, he might not.

The picture of Collins, taken so many years ago, had been pinned up on the notice board along with the crime scene pictures
and the names and photographs of all the people involved in the case – the possible suspects and those whose paths, through
no fault of their own, had crossed Charles Marrick’s near the fatal time. Wesley walked over to the board and began to examine
the faces, one by one.

After a couple of minutes, he turned to the DCI. ‘Gerry, have a look at this. Tell me if you think I’m mad.’

He pointed to the picture of Collins then to another photograph. Heffernan frowned and peered from one image to the other.

‘Nah, Wes. Couldn’t be. Anyway, he hasn’t got a tattoo.’

‘Tattoos can be removed.’

‘No. You’re barking up the wrong tree there.’

‘Fingerprints would settle it.’

Heffernan laughed. ‘Rather you than me, mate. We’d have
every lawyer from here to Timbuktu on our backs if we tried that one.’

Wesley smiled. A secretive smile. ‘He doesn’t necessarily have to know.’

Gerry Heffernan pretended to look shocked. ‘Wesley Peterson wash your mouth out with soap and water. Have you never read the
Police and Criminal Evidence Act?’ A grin spread across his chubby face. ‘When shall we do it then?’

Rachel Tracey looked concerned as she usually did when things weren’t done by the book. ‘You sure it’s a good idea?’

‘He won’t even know it’s happening,’ said Wesley with an innocent expression on his face. ‘Fancy coming with me?’

Rachel considered the question for a few seconds. Then she gave her answer. ‘Wish I could but I’m going to see the ladies who
lunch – the ones who’ve given Annette Marrick her alibi. A Betina Betis said that she’ll be at the boutique she runs in Foss
Street all morning. Then I’ll see the other one – Celia Dawn – separately to see if she comes up with the same story.’

‘You do have a suspicious mind,’ said Gerry Heffernan. He sounded cheerful this morning and Wesley wondered why. It wasn’t
as if they were any nearer finding out who killed Charles Marrick. In fact the case was becoming more confusing by the day.

‘We need another word with Carl Pinney. He’s a thug and he was found with the murder weapon, although he claimed he found
it.’

Heffernan snorted. ‘I wouldn’t trust him if he said sea gulls shat on chimneypots. Let’s bring him in again.’

‘After his little triumph over Steve, he’ll be on to his solicitor as soon as the police car appears at the end of his road.’

The DCI knew Wesley had a point. At that moment Pinney would consider himself untouchable. Invincible.

‘Then let’s pay him a quiet visit.’ He grinned. ‘A courtesy
call. Present our compliments and ask him to go over his story again.’

Wesley looked happier about this proposal. Tact and diplomacy were required in this case. Even though the little toerag was
hardly worth it. ‘The Pinney residence first, then,’ he said, putting on his jacket.

‘Yeah. Then we’ll pay a call on you know who … just in time for coffee.’

Steve Carstairs had never imagined that he’d miss work. He’d dreamed many times of a life of idleness, preferably somewhere
hot near a bar and a swimming pool in the company of a couple of bikini-clad blondes.

But the day-to-day reality of enforced sloth was starting to get to him. He had tidied his flat but that hadn’t taken long.
He had visited his mum, telling her that he was taking some leave rather than the truth that he’d been suspended from duty
pending enquiries for allegedly beating up a suspect. He often lied to her to keep the peace … and to stop her worrying as
all mothers did.