The Blood Pit (14 page)

When she’d finished her lunch, she stood up and the crumbs she had unwittingly scattered on the ground were swooped up by
a hungry sea gull who brushed her legs with its soft wing. Trish, who had gone off to do some emergency shopping at Winterlea’s,
was walking towards her and she raised a hand in greeting.

When Rachel had looked up the address in her notebook, just to make sure she’d got it right, the two women made their way
up to Celia Dawn’s cottage on one of the steep, narrow streets that meandered upwards, away from the river.

Celia’s house was pristine pink with fresh white paintwork. There were sheer white Roman blinds at the windows, pulled down
for privacy and window boxes overflowing with primulas and pansies. The place had a prosperous look, well cared for. But if
she was a friend of Annette Marrick’s who went in for charity dinners, Rachel was hardly surprised. When Rachel had been a
child, most of these cottages had been occupied by locals – fishermen, boatyard workers, shop staff, teachers, firemen, the
occasional impoverished artist or writer – an eclectic and lively social mix. But now many were either second homes or belonged
to city people who’d retired or downsized to what they hoped were more peaceful surroundings.

A teenage girl answered the door. Dark, sulky and painfully thin. She said her mother was on the yacht – the
Daisy Lady
moored at the Marina. Rachel couldn’t miss it, she was assured. Rachel – unlike Gerry Heffernan who would have spent every
waking moment aboard his yacht, the
Rosie May
, given half a chance – was a little nervous of boats as they seemed so insubstantial and so vulnerable to the whims of nature.
But she walked back through Tradmouth with Trish until they arrived at the Marina.

The thin daughter had been right – the
Daisy Lady
was easy to find. She was the largest yacht in that particular part of the Marina, bobbing above her neighbours like a mother
duck amongst her ducklings. Rachel, unsure of the etiquette involved, wondered how they were going to get aboard. But as they
walked down the wooden jetty they saw a woman on the deck, slumped on a sunlounger, sipping a drink with a slice of lemon
floating on its surface that looked suspiciously like gin or vodka. Rachel called to her, asking her if she could have a word
– reluctant to mention the word police because there were people in life jackets busy on one of the neighbouring boats – and
the woman motioned her aboard with a lazy arm gesture.

Rachel took a deep breath and walked up the gangway, clutching the rails to steady herself, Trish following behind.

The woman wore dark glasses even though the sun was behind a cloud. It wasn’t really the sort of day for sunbathing but this
didn’t seem to bother Celia Dawn. Like Betina she was bottle blonde but Celia Dawn’s hair was curly and she was a little on
the plump side. She wore an orange vest top and a pair of shorts brief enough to reveal a glimpse of cellulite. She must have
given birth to the sullen teenager very early in life because she was considerably younger than Annette and Betina – perhaps
close to Rachel’s own age – although smoking and too much sun had just begun to ravage her face. She sat up when the two women
approached and took off the sunglasses. Rachel was surprised to see the remnants of a black eye – now fading to a sickly yellow.
She invited them to sit.

‘I need to ask you a few questions about Charles Marrick’s death,’ Rachel said, coming right to the point.

The woman nodded meekly and took another sip from her glass.

‘How well did you know Mr Marrick?’

Celia looked her straight in the eye. ‘I was screwing him,’ she said bluntly. She sounded sober. And a little angry.

Rachel was rather taken aback. She’d expected evasion – friends covering up for each other. But she hadn’t expected this.

‘Tell me about him.’ She had a feeling that the woman wanted to talk.

Celia took another sip from her glass. ‘He could be very charming … but basically he was a bastard.’

‘Was he violent?’ Rachel indicated the eye.

‘He liked it rough if you know what I mean. But he didn’t do this.’ She pointed to her eye and glanced at Trish nervously.
‘This was an accident. Cupboard door.’

‘Did Annette know what was going on?’

‘God, I hope not. We were very discreet. And she never gave me any indication that …’ Her lips turned upwards in a knowing
smile. ‘Not that Annette was as pure as the driven snow. What’s sauce for goose and all that …’

‘What do you mean? Was Annette having an affair?’

The woman shook her head and said nothing.

‘Considering Charles Marrick was your lover, you don’t seem too upset by his death,’ Trish observed, watching the woman’s
reaction.

Celia stretched out her tanned legs. ‘Look, Charlie Marrick was exciting in bed. Our relationship was purely physical, can you
understand that?’

Rachel glanced at Trish and nodded, assuming a ‘woman of the world’ expression. But, being a bit of a romantic beneath her
sensible exterior, she didn’t really understand the appeal of men like Charlie Marrick.

‘Look, I’m a single parent and I need a bit of male company from time to time. Charlie was ready, willing and very able so
…’ She shrugged. ‘But that doesn’t mean I liked him.’

‘Have you spoken to Betina today?’ Rachel asked innocently.

Celia shook her head. ‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘I’m trying to establish everyone’s movements on the day of Charles Marrick’s murder. Where were you on Wednesday afternoon?’

Celia thought for a few moments. ‘Wednesday? I usually work on Wednesdays but …’

‘What do you do?’ asked Trish, curious. Celia didn’t look the working type.

‘Market research – interviewing people. But last Wednesday I was with Annette and Betina. We were here on the
Daisy Lady
. We’re organising a charity dinner and we had a lot to discuss.’

‘What time did Annette and Betina leave?’

She shrugged. ‘I left to go to an appointment at three
thirty. They were still here then but they’d gone when I got back at five.

‘What sort of appointment?’

‘Hairdresser’s. Snippers and Curls.’ She looked at Rachel and smiled a mirthless smile, challenging her to prove she was lying.

Rachel knew she wasn’t going to learn any more. She handed Celia her card. ‘If you remember anything else, ring me,’ she said.

But she wasn’t holding her breath.

When you’re ten years old Saturday is a day of freedom from the tyranny of school and the pointless nagging of grownups.

Of course it helped that Daniel’s and Nathan’s mums worked on Saturdays and their dads were just distant memories, having
left for pastures new when they were small – something that had created an unspoken bond between them at primary school. On
Saturdays the two boys were left to their own devices and – being too old for toys and too young as yet for the sex, drugs
and bottles of strong cider on offer outside the village pubs and phone boxes – they roamed the lanes around the village of
Whitely on their bikes when the weather was fine.

Today their mothers had gone to work as usual, in a bakery and a pasty shop respectively, and the boys had left the small
council estate on the edge of the village to cycle out to the woods next to Sunacres Holiday Park. From the edge of the wood
they could spy on the holidaymakers, sniggering as they watched the self-conscious adults playing ball games or basking like
seals on sunloungers outside the wooden chalets. During the school holidays they’d hide in the trees and jeer quietly at the
kids playing football with their fathers, hiding their painful envy behind the disdain.

But today there were few holidaymakers about so the boys
went in search of other entertainment. After hiding their bikes in bushes, they scuttled away into the depth of the wood,
scratching their bare arms on brambles and bravely ignoring the stinging nettles that grabbed at them from either side.

They trudged on through unexplored territory, stopping now and then to answer a call of nature against a tree, until they
came to a small clearing. To their right a thicket of tangled branches formed a rough tunnel, perfect for their purpose. This
would be a den to end all dens. A palace amongst dens. Quite magnificent. A fine and private place where the unreliable adult
world could never touch them.

Daniel led the way as they pushed through the undergrowth. Then suddenly he stopped.

‘Go on,’ Nathan snapped, almost falling over his friend.

There was a long silence. ‘Nath. Let’s go.’

Nathan pushed his friend out of the way and looked down at the ground where the scattered bones lay, pale against the brown
of the earth. He held his breath for a moment, taking in the skull, the cavernous eye sockets and the teeth that grinned cheerlessly
upwards at the overhanging tree branches.

Daniel began to back away, his eyes on the bones as though he expected them to rise any minute, reassemble themselves and
chase the intruding boys out of their secret place.

Their hearts racing, the boys ran back to their bicycles and rode home as though the devil himself was on their tail.

You’ve seen the pit – the place where the brothers’ blood was poured. And no doubt, if you have any intelligence at all, this
find will confirm the true purpose of the buildings at Stow Barton. But I wonder if you will discover the rest. I wonder if
you’ll ever find out the truth about what happened to Brother William. I like this blood game. My wits pitted against yours,
Neil.

Did I say it was a game? Perhaps it is and perhaps it isn’t. Can a game cause so much pain?

The writer switched off the computer. Why had Brother William’s story come to light just as the excavation at Stow Barton
was about to begin? Why had its discovery dragged the terrible memory back into the daylight now, when it had been dammed
up for years behind a wall of normality? Why had the whole thing returned like an evil-smelling flood?

At four thirty Wesley was thinking of home and the evening ahead – a leisurely meal followed by a spot of hotel luxury. Pam
had had to face yet another Saturday on her own with the kids and he felt a little guilty that he hadn’t been there to give
her time to prepare for their anniversary evening. But at least he had the recipe for crème brulée, written in Fabrice Colbert’s
own hand, to present to her as a peace
offering. He had sent the pen Colbert had used to write it down to Forensic – but as it was the weekend, he wasn’t holding
his breath for a speedy result.

Gerry Heffernan, beaming like a fairy godfather, had told him to go, saying that they’d done all they intended to do and unless
anything new came in, he might as well go off and enjoy himself. Rachel had reported back on her meetings with the ladies
who’d lunched with Annette Marrick on the day of her husband’s murder, concluding that Annette’s alibi was flimsy to say the
least. She wouldn’t have trusted either of those women, she announced judgementally. But she believed Celia Dawn’s revelation
that she’d had an affair with Charlie Marrick who liked to add a spot of violence to his love life. The man must have made
enemies and the list of suspects probably stretched into infinity. This particular Charlie was nobody’s darling.

With this comforting thought in his head, Wesley reached for his jacket which was hanging on the coat stand. He was just about
to put it on when the telephone on his desk rang. The desk sergeant sounded apologetic as he informed Wesley that a lady was
waiting down in reception with a couple of kids. She was talking about a skeleton in some woods. Was someone from CID available
to have a word with her?

Wesley put the phone down and took a deep breath. He put on his jacket and made his way to Gerry Heffernan’s office. He’d
want to know. He might bluster and complain but he’d still want to know.

In the end they sent Paul Johnson down to see the woman. Somehow neither of them could face it just at that moment and they
both trusted Paul to get at the facts. But after ten minutes Paul returned with a solemn look on his long face. The kids had
come across some bones in the woodland next to the Sunacres Holiday Park. According to the woman it had frightened the life
out of them – but the kids had looked as though they were enjoying every minute.

It was Gerry Heffernan who made the decision. ‘Okay, Paul. You and Lee Parsons go up there with her. It’ll be nothing – probably
a dead sheep or something. But if it turns out to be human, you know what to do.’

Wesley felt relieved. He’d promised Pam he’d be back early. The last thing he wanted was for work to interfere with their
special evening.

He walked home. The sky was bright and the weather forecast was good. Even though tomorrow was Sunday, Wesley knew he’d be needed
at work again. But Gerry had told him not to arrive till after lunch – his token anniversary present to Wesley and Pam.

When Wesley arrived at the house, Pam rushed out into the hall to greet him. And the expression on her face – something between
embarrassment and disappointment – told him that all wasn’t well.

‘It’s my bloody mother – she’s let us down. Some friend’s turned up out of the blue and she called about an hour ago to say
she can’t look after the kids. The friend’s male of course.’

Wesley put a calming hand on her shoulder. He’d known Della was a selfish bitch but this topped everything. ‘Have you tried
Maritia and Mark? Maybe …’

‘They’re visiting Mark’s mum in hospital – won’t be back till late.’ Tears were forming in her eyes. ‘I’ve rung the hotel to
cancel.’

Wesley clenched his fist. His mother-in-law was becoming more irresponsible than most of her teenage students – and she was
getting worse with the years. He would have felt differently if she’d had a genuine reason for ruining her daughter’s anniversary,
but a date with some man … He wouldn’t forget this in a hurry.

He looked at Pam. She was taking it remarkably well – or seemed to be.