The Blood Pit (15 page)

‘If we can’t get a babysitter, we’d better have a takeaway,’
she said calmly. ‘Are you going to ring the Golden Dragon, or shall I?’

Wesley tried to hide his anger. Takeaways were commonplace – the thing he always suggested when he wanted to ease the domestic
burden. But tonight they had little choice.

The phone call came just after he’d ordered the food. ‘Wanted to catch you before you went off gallivanting,’ said Gerry Heffernan’s
voice on the other end of the line sounding inappropriately cheerful.

‘The gallivanting’s off,’ said Wesley miserably. ‘I’ll explain when I see you.’

‘Oh … er … right,’ blustered Heffernan, unsure what to say. ‘Well I just thought you’d like to know that Paul’s reported back. The
bones in the wood were almost certainly human.

Wesley glanced at Pam who was watching him expectantly. Perhaps some things were just meant to be.

All in all Simon Tench had had a bleak day. The foal he had been called out to deliver had died but at least he and Sam Heffernan
had managed to save the mother. The promised new life had turned to grim death and the incident left Simon feeling depressed.
Professional failure and the look of disappointment – sometimes even grief – on his patients’ owners’ faces, always did.

When he arrived back at the cottage he and Emma were renting just outside the village of Stokeworthy, he found Emma wearing
her uniform, car keys at the ready. She kissed his cheek and asked him what was wrong – she was always sensitive to his moods;
that was one of the things he loved about her. But as soon as he’d outlined the problems of his day, she’d had to rush out:she’d
changed her shift at Tradmouth Hospital and she’d be working all night. She’d have liked to be there for him in his hour of
need, but sometimes these things couldn’t be helped.

When she’d gone, he sat down and flicked through the
estate agents’ brochures lying on the coffee table. They’d have to find somewhere soon. He’d had high hopes of the TV programme
– that the company could somehow produce the perfect property for them out of nowhere – but it hadn’t happened. Nothing they
had been shown had had the right feel and the only one they’d made an offer for had been whisked out of their grasp by a second-home
seeker with a city bonus to spend. They were still looking and local prices were still rising. But he and Emma had enjoyed
their half hour of fame. Taking part in a TV property show had meant a change of routine and a brief brush with a more glamorous
world.

Simon contemplated making himself something to eat. But he wasn’t really hungry. He kept seeing the dead foal lying on the
straw, still and perfect … like a work of art, a beautiful sculpture. The mother had nuzzled it, urging it to stand, to spring
to life. Simon buried his head in his hands. He mustn’t let it get to him.

He needed a distraction, some mindless noise to fill the room and drive out the gloom. He had just picked up the remote control
to switch on the TV when the doorbell rang, piercing the silence.

He stood up. Perhaps it was Emma. Perhaps she hadn’t been needed at work after all and she’d forgotten her house keys.

But when he opened the door he saw that it wasn’t his wife standing there. But he still greeted the caller with a smile. And
after a short conversation, he invited the newcomer in.

Pam had told Wesley that if he didn’t go and see what was going on, it would only be on his mind all evening. And she wanted
his undivided attention.

So, after making earnest promises that he wouldn’t be long, he joined Gerry Heffernan in the woodland near the Sunacres Holiday
Park. Colin Bowman was already there, examining
the bones. And after a few minutes, he delivered his verdict. ‘Well the bones are definitely human – probably those of a mature
male – and they’ve been here quite some time. They’re scattered around – most likely disturbed by animals – but more than that,
gentlemen, I can’t really tell you until I’ve had a chance to examine them more closely.’

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. ‘Had they been buried or …’

Colin shook his head. ‘They might have been in a shallow grave but there’s no evidence of it. It’s more likely that the body
was just left in the undergrowth and the animals got to it. Not a nice thought but … nature red in tooth and claw and all
that. It’s pretty overgrown here. They could have lain undiscovered for years.’

Wesley nodded. ‘How old was he?’

Colin looked up. ‘You know as well as I do, Wesley, that these things aren’t always easy but I’d say he was probably in his
thirties of forties. Fortunately we have the skull.’ He asked the photographers if they’d finished and when the answer was
affirmative, he picked the skull up, Hamlet style, and gazed at it for a few moments. ‘There are a few fillings which may
help with the identification.’ He sighed. ‘Any idea who it might be? Have you had a chance to look in your missing persons
files yet?’

‘When for?’ Heffernan chipped in. ‘You haven’t told us how long he’s been there yet.’

‘I might know more when I’ve done a full examination, Gerry, but I can’t promise anything.’ He looked round at the line of
uniformed police officers who were combing the ground in the hope of finding something – anything – that might provide them
with some clue. Until they had something they were working blind. The bones could have been there for fifty years or five.

Gerry Heffernan looked at his watch. ‘Not much more we can do here, is there, Colin?’

‘Got plans for tonight, Gerry?’ Colin asked casually.

Wesley saw his boss’s face redden. ‘Oh … er, just going out for something to eat … er …’

Colin gave Wesley a wink. He’d heard all about the DCI’s lady friend, Joyce, who worked in the register office in Morbay.
If Heffernan thought he could keep his private life secret in Tradmouth nick, he was sadly mistaken.

‘I think Gerry’s right,’ Wesley said. ‘We’ll get the area sealed off and we can start a fingertip search first thing in the
morning.’ He looked down at the sad pile of bones. ‘If he’s been there for a while, a few more hours won’t make much difference.’

‘So what happened? Why aren’t you at the hotel?’ Heffernan whispered as they made their way back to the cars.

‘Della happened. She promised to babysit – stay the night – but she had a better offer.’

The DCI shook his head. ‘Oh Wes, Pam must be gutted.’

‘I’m not too pleased about it myself.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

Wesley gave his boss a sad smile. ‘We’ll just have to have a quiet night in with the proverbial takeaway. There are worse ways
of spending your wedding anniversary, I suppose.’

He drove home, thinking of the unknown man who had lain alone amongst the trees for years. He was somebody’s son or father
or brother. Somebody must be missing him. Unless he was a loner – a tramp – who just lay down one day and died. Some things
were too sad to contemplate.

Steve Carstairs had hoped he was on a promise when he’d turned up to meet Joanne Beeston at the Flying Pig – one of Morbay’s
flashier bars. His father had told him that Joanne seemed keen, whispering the words with a nudge and a wink. She’d mentioned
him that very afternoon at work and said she was going home to the small flat she was renting near Bloxham harbour to have
a shower and get changed.
It sounded good. Attractive girl. Unattached detective – albeit one who was temporarily suspended from duty. Steve’s instincts
told him he couldn’t go wrong.

When Joanne was half an hour late he began to wonder if his confidence was misplaced as he sat in the soft black leather sofa
in the corner of the bar, tapping his feet to the beat of the music and taking occasional swigs from his bottle of lager.
But eventually she arrived, breathless and apologetic, fresh from the shower and looking beautiful. Steve got her a drink
and she sank into the sofa beside him with a coy smile.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, touching his arm lightly. ‘I had things to do and I lost track of the time.’

There was an awkward silence while they studiously consumed their drinks, searching for something to say.

It was Steve who spoke first. ‘Did my dad say anything … after I’d been in today?’

Joanne smiled. ‘Robbie says a lot of things. He’s got the gift of the gab, your dad. Talk the knickers off a nun, he could.’

‘About me? Did he say anything about me?’

She hesitated. ‘He told me you’d been accused of beating up a suspect. Is that true?’

Steve nodded, annoyed with his father for betraying his confidence – but then Robbie had betrayed him before so it was nothing
new. ‘I don’t always do things by the book but I never touched the little toe-rag. Not that he didn’t deserve a good beating.
He murdered that bloke, you know. The one in Rhode … the wine merchant.’

Joanne’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Really? I didn’t think they’d got anyone for that yet. It’s not been on the news.’

‘I met someone I work with.’ He shuffled his feet. ‘An ex-girlfriend actually,’ he added almost proudly. ‘She said the knife
he tried to use on me was the one that killed that Charles Marrick.’

Joanne gave a theatrical shudder. ‘You had a narrow escape then.’

Steve sat back and considered what she’d said. ‘Yeah,’ he said after a while. ‘I suppose I did.’ He grinned at her. ‘Anyway,
we’ve got him.’

He saw the look of relief on her face and wondered whether he’d said the right thing. A killer at large would have given him
the chance to play Sir Galahad, to see her home, to check her flat, to insinuate himself into her life under the guise of
protecting her. He felt suddenly annoyed with himself for missing this opportunity. Next time he’d think before opening his
mouth.

‘So it was really you that caught him?’ She sounded impressed. Perhaps things weren’t so bad after all. She was starting to
think of him as some sort of hero and that suited him fine.

‘Yeah. I suppose it was – not that I got much thanks for it.’ He thought it wise to change the subject before he started to
rant against what he saw as his unjust treatment. The last thing he wanted to do was to bore her … and he felt the injustice
so strongly that he didn’t think he could help himself. ‘How long have you been down here in glorious Devon then?’ He edged
closer to her, his arm draped round the back of her seat.

‘It’ll be almost three weeks now.’

‘Do you like it down here?’

‘Bit quiet after Bristol.’

‘So what brought you here?’

She shrugged. ‘Fancied a change, didn’t I? And I knew it from when I was a kid.’

‘You came here on holiday?’

‘Mmm. What about you? Lived here all your life, have you?’

Steve detected a note of mockery in her question. Mummy’s boy. Never been away from home. ‘I’m thinking
of going to London … joining the Met. I fancy a change … just like you.’ He smirked. ‘How do you like working at Burton’s
Butties?’

‘It’s okay.’

‘And that’s the summit of your ambition, is it … a sandwich shop?’ He immediately regretted his sarcastic tone. ‘Not that
there’s anything wrong with …’

‘It’s all I could get at short notice. It’s a job. I did a computer course in Bristol so maybe I’ll be able to move on soon.
And I’ve done a bit of interviewing work … that was really interesting.’ She took a sip of Bacardi Breezer. ‘I’m keeping my
options open.’ She paused. ‘I like your dad. He’s good fun.’

There was a long pause before Steve replied. ‘He walked out on me and my mum,’ he said simply. ‘But like you said, he’s good
fun. What about your family? What does your dad do?’

She gave a dismissive grunt. ‘Did. He’s retired.’

‘What did he do before he retired?’ Steve suddenly became aware that he was interrogating the woman. But he was curious. He
wanted to know all about her.

‘Nothing glamorous. He was a caretaker. Want another drink?’

Steve liked a woman who stood her round. But when he gave her a lift back to Bloxham, she didn’t invite him in.

Some things needed time.

When Emma Tench returned from her shift at the hospital at seven forty-five on Sunday morning she sensed something was wrong.
Simon’s Land Rover was parked outside, just as it should be. And the curtains were still drawn across – he was never an early
riser on a Sunday. But everything seemed too still – the birds too quiet in the fields around the cottage – as if the world
was holding its breath.

The door swung open and she stepped inside. As the curtains
were still drawn the room was fairly dark, but she could see the glossy estate agents’ brochures strewn on the coffee table
in an untidy heap. She walked in, intending to straighten them. But as she put her hand out to touch the brochures, she saw
him out of the corner of her eye, slumped in his usual armchair. For a split second she thought he was asleep and opened her
mouth to speak, to scold him for having too much whisky and passing out before he could get upstairs.

But when she saw the blood she stood for a few seconds paralysed before saying his name, tentatively at first. Then with the
heartrending despair of a mother seeking a missing child.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, she saw the drying blood splashed on the walls and floor and spread out around
Simon’s body like a rusty aura.

He was dead, staring with horrified eyes at the ceiling, and even Emma’s medical training couldn’t bring him back to life.
She sank to the floor, her skirt touching the pool of blood on the bare wooden boards, and screamed.

Wesley Peterson took his wife’s hand tentatively, as though he feared that she would snatch it away. ‘I’m so sorry about this.’

Pam let him hold on to her hand for a few seconds then she withdrew it. She kept telling herself that being married to a policeman
meant that he could be called away at inconvenient moments; that she should be glad he wasn’t in the pub with his mates or
spending time with another woman or – like some husbands – in the bookie’s gambling their meagre savings on the favourite
in the three thirty at Newton Abbot. Wesley was only doing his job. And, besides, it was all her mother’s fault that she wasn’t
waking up in a hotel bed with crisp white sheets and having a leisurely shower and a full English breakfast. It was Della
who had ruined
their anniversary … but she still felt a little resentful that Wesley wouldn’t be there for Sunday lunch.