The Blood Pit (19 page)

‘Jonathan’s coming up to stay for a few days next week,’ she announced. ‘We haven’t seen him since before the wedding, have
we, Mark?’ She looked at Pam and smiled. ‘You remember Jonathan, don’t you, Pam?’

If this had come from anyone else, Pam would have interpreted it as a snide remark at her expense. But she knew that Maritia
was quite unaware of what had passed between her and Mark’s old school friend, Jonathan, just before the couple’s wedding
the previous year. For one thing she’d been far too busy to notice.

‘Mmm.’ She glanced at Wesley, glad for once that he was too preoccupied with work to hear the giveaway nervousness in her
voice.

‘Why don’t you come round for dinner next Sunday?’ Maritia put her arm around her husband’s waist. ‘It’ll be nice to have a
get-together.’

Mark kissed the top of his wife’s head and Pam looked away, feeling a sudden urge to blurt out the truth, to shock these smug
innocents. But she forced herself to smile.

‘Yeah … great,’ she heard herself saying, even though she had every intention of avoiding Jonathan at all costs. Jonathan
was dangerous. Jonathan had threatened her marriage once and she wasn’t going to let it happen again.

Wesley was quiet as they drove back home, deep in thought.

‘Everything okay?’ she asked, glancing round at the children. Amelia had fallen asleep in her car seat and Michael was looking
out of the window entranced at the passing scenery of rolling fields and grazing animals.

‘Yes,’ Wesley replied. ‘Apart from the fact that I’ve got two corpses on my hands – identical MO but no apparent connection
between them. And on top of that some kids found a skeleton in the woods near Sunacres Holiday Park yesterday.’

Pam looked at him, shocked. ‘That’s not been on the news.’

‘Early days. I had a missed call on my mobile earlier – Neil. Why don’t you try and get him now?’ Wesley wanted to distract
Pam from his work commitments – Neil had his uses.

She took Wesley’s mobile and tapped in Neil’s number. But there was no answer. She tried his mobile but it was switched off.
This wasn’t like Neil. Maybe something had happened. Or maybe he was up to something and he didn’t want to be contacted.

Pam, slightly uneasy, promised herself she’d try again later.

They made an early start on Monday morning. Carl Pinney was in the interview room with that indispensable accessory to life
on the wrong side of the law – his brief. Carl regarded his solicitor as an infallible lucky charm that could get him out
of all manner of trouble. Gerry Heffernan had nailed a lucky horseshoe to his back door once. It had fallen off and hit him
on the head. He just hoped that the protection provided by Carl’s brief would prove equally ineffective.

Wesley entered the interview room just behind his boss. He hadn’t been able to contact Neil the previous evening and there
was a small nag of worry in the back of his mind. After all, Neil had been receiving those anonymous letters … the ones that
spoke of blood and death. Wesley would call him later – just to make sure he was okay.

They sat down opposite Carl Pinney and his solicitor, a bored-looking man in his mid-forties with a shiny suit and thinning
ginger hair who kept glancing at his watch as though he’d rather be elsewhere. He didn’t look lucky and he didn’t look charming.
But Pinney was relying on him.

Wesley gave Pinney a friendly smile. ‘I expect you go out on Saturday nights, Carl.’

Pinney rewarded him with a look of utter contempt.

‘Where did you go on Saturday … and who were you with?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘You know why you’ve been brought in, don’t you?’

‘Haven’t a clue.’

‘The knife you used in the attack on DC Carstairs is the same one that killed Charles Marrick.’

‘I told you before. I found it.’ He looked at his solicitor who avoided his eyes.

‘There’s been a development since then, Carl. There’s been another murder. Exactly the same as Marrick’s. Where were you on
Saturday night?’

Pinney’s eyes darted to and fro in panic. ‘I weren’t feeling well. I didn’t go out. I got beaten up, you know. That bastard
mate of yours put me in hospital. I’ve still got the bruises and they still bloody hurt. Takes a long time to get over something
like that,’ he added self-righteously. ‘I think I’ve got post traumatic stress disorder.’

Wesley ignored this last remark. ‘Is there anyone who can back up your story?’

‘Our Chelsea.’

‘Our Chelsea? Who’s that?’ asked Heffernan.

‘Me sister. Me mam was out so we sent out for pizzas.’

‘What time was this?’

Pinney shrugged. ‘About six … seven. Dunno really. We ain’t got a clock.’

‘Where did you order the pizza from?’ Wesley asked.

Pinney said a name which meant nothing to Wesley or Heffernan – one of the many small pizza delivery joints that plied their
trade in the large seaside resort of Morbay. It would be checked out, of course, but even if the delivery driver saw Carl
Pinney, it didn’t mean he didn’t nip out soon after the pizzas were dropped off and murder Simon Tench. To do that he’d need
access to a car, of course. But Wesley would put money on his ability to hotwire and pinch any car that lacked adequate security
and he would have honed his driving skills on the unofficial skidpans of the Winterham
Estate, terrifying the older residents with the noise of squealing tyres as the vehicles careered recklessly around the litter
strewn streets.

Wesley made a mental note to ask someone to check on stolen cars at the relevant times. It was the only possibility: buses
in the area were like rare protected beasts reported on in hushed tones by David Attenborough on BBC natural history programmes
– infrequent and unreliable. And Pinney was hardly the type who’d walk miles on the off chance of finding a likely victim.

But the more Wesley thought about it, the less likely it seemed that Pinney was their murderer. The impulse attack – the knife
in the alley or the snatched handbag – was his style. Not the calculated piercing of arteries. But they still had to be thorough
and check out his story.

‘Have you any pets, Carl?’

Pinney looked at Wesley as though he was mad. ‘We had a dog once but that was years ago. Why?’

‘Did you ever take it to a vet called Simon Tench?’

Pinney looked puzzled and shook his head. ‘Never took it to no vet. It got run over in the end … killed. We never had to take
it to no vet.’

Wesley and Heffernan caught each other’s eye. Carl Pinney was no advert for responsible pet ownership.

‘Have you ever heard of or met Simon Tench? He worked in Tradmouth. The Cornvale Veterinary Clinic.’

Pinney shook his head vigorously but Wesley could tell he was uneasy. He had recognised Tench’s name – or that of the clinic.

The solicitor made a show of studying his watch. ‘I think it’s time my client had a break.’

Gerry Heffernan stood up. ‘Break? We’ve not even started yet.’

Wesley put a hand on his arm. ‘Quite right. We’ll continue this later on. We’ve got to attend the postmortem of the
latest victim.’ He watched Pinney’s face for a reaction but saw none.

And he had an uncomfortable feeling that they were wasting their valuable time.

DC Trish Walton was getting sick of keeping an eye on Annette Marrick at Foxglove House. She didn’t like the woman but she
did her best to hide the fact, to stay professional.

Annette had started to regard the policewomen assigned to provide her with support and protection as unpaid servants who made
the tea, fielded phone calls and visitors and packed the dishwasher and washing machine. She had asked Trish to fix up a cleaning
company to remove all trace of the murder and this was one thing Trish could sympathise with. Living with the reminders of
violent death would be a nightmare for anyone.

Petronella Blackwell seemed to have made the decision to stay for the duration. Trish Walton had heard the story of her birth
and adoption and was rather surprised that the young woman felt such loyalty to the mother who had abandoned her. But she
sensed there was something else there too … some unknown factor. Some secret in the house that hadn’t yet come out into the
open.

Her task for that morning was to break the news of Simon Tench’s murder and point out the similarities to the death of Charles
Marrick. DCI Heffernan had told her to observe Annette’s reaction and try and discover her whereabouts at the time of Tench’s
death. And, most importantly, she was to find out whether there was any connection, however slight, between Charles Marrick
and Simon Tench.

She made a pot of tea and sat down with the two women. Three friends having a chat over a cuppa. Or at least that was the
image Trish wanted to create to encourage confidences.

Annette was looking bored rather than grief stricken. She stared into her steaming mug absentmindedly. Petronella looked at
Trish and gave her a shy smile.

‘How did you sleep?’ Trish asked, breaking the morning ice.

Annette looked at her. Trish saw a flash of contempt in her eyes. ‘If you must know, I took something. Knocked me out for the
night.’

Trish cleared her throat. It was time to ask the embarrassing question DI Peterson had instructed her to ask. She felt her
cheeks reddening as she took a deep breath. ‘Can I have a word with you alone, Annette?’

Annette touched Petronella’s arm and Trish saw the young woman flinch before slowly edging away. ‘I’ve got no secrets from
my daughter. You can say anything you like and it won’t bother her, isn’t that right, Pet?’

Petronella didn’t answer.

‘Okay then. Were you having a sexual relationship with Fabrice Colbert … the chef?’

Annette smirked. ‘What if I was? Not a crime is it? Fabrice and I had a bit of a fling … and it’s true what they say about
Frenchmen. Fabrice was as good in a bed as he is in a kitchen, I can assure you,’ she added by way of explanation.

Trish felt herself blushing at the woman’s candour. Petronella, sitting beside her, looked as if she wanted to shrivel up with
embarrassment, shifting in her seat to put some distance between herself and her mother.

‘Where did you meet?’

‘Here. We couldn’t go to his place because of his girlfriend.’

‘Whereabouts in the house did you … er … ?’

‘The bedroom. Where do you think? Swinging from the bloody chandeliers? And before you ask, it’s all over now. It finished
a couple of days before Charlie died – when he pulled that wine stunt. It was nice while it lasted but I can assure you it
was purely physical on both sides. Nothing to commit murder over.’

Somehow the words had the ring of truth. Trish found herself believing her. And at least she could report back to Wesley Peterson
that Annette Marrick had corroborated Colbert’s explanation as to why his prints had been found at the murder scene without
any prompting. All she had to do now was to break the news about the second murder … the one that seemed to be identical to
Marrick’s. She took a deep breath. ‘Did you or Charlie ever know a vet called Simon Tench?’

‘No. Why?’

‘He was found dead yesterday morning … and it looks as if he was killed in the same way as Charlie was. We’re trying to establish
some sort of connection.’

Annette stood up and walked over to the window. ‘Well, I don’t know of any. And I knew all of Charlie’s friends.’

‘So you’ve never heard of Simon Tench?’

Annette shook her head. ‘Never.’

‘You’ve never had any animals … any pets you might have taken to … ?’

‘Can’t stand bloody animals,’ was the reply. ‘Neither could Charlie before you ask. His ex had a dog but he had it put down
’cause he couldn’t stay in the same house with it.’

This caught Trish’s interest. ‘Where can we find this ex-girlfriend?’

‘Search me.’

‘Do you know the name of the vet who put it down?’

Another look of contempt. ‘How the hell should I know? It was a long time ago … before I met him.’

This wasn’t going anywhere. But Trish was getting a clearer picture of Charlie Marrick. He’d have his girlfriend’s dog destroyed
just because its existence didn’t suit him. Trish, an animal lover, felt she would have disliked Marrick if she’d met him in
life … even more than she disliked his wife.

‘I’m going out. I need to do some shopping in Tradmouth. Is that okay with you?’ she said to Trish sarcastically before sweeping
out of the room.

Petronella, on the sofa, watched her go, looking rather embarrassed. ‘Look, I’m sorry she’s so rude.’

Trish smiled reassuringly. ‘She’s been under a lot of strain. Grief can affect people …’

‘Grief ? Is that what you think it is?’

‘What else?’

‘Relief,’ she said with a vehemence that made Trish look at her intently. And when she looked she saw that tears were forming
in Petronella’s eyes. ‘He …’

It occurred to Trish that this was the first time she’d actually been alone with Petronella. Up to now she had been concentrating
on Annette, assuming the abandoned daughter who now lived in Bath couldn’t be involved in any way. But perhaps she’d been
wrong. ‘Go on,’ she prompted.

Petronella stood up, fists clenched, eyes full of tears and fury. ‘If you want the truth, Charlie was a complete bastard.
Whoever killed him deserves a medal and I hope you never find him because he’s done the world a favour.’

Trish said nothing. She waited for Petronella to carry on, to get whatever grievance she had against the dead man off her
chest.

But Petronella didn’t elaborate on her statement. Instead she slumped down on the sofa and buried her head in her hands.

Trish decided a bit of gentle probing was in order. ‘What do you mean, Petronella? What did Charlie do to make you hate him
so much?’

Petronella looked up at her, her eyes red with unshed tears. ‘Okay, if you want to know, I’ll tell you. When I came here a couple
of years ago to find my mum I was naive, trusting. Some would say stupid. Charlie put on a good act at first … all sympathy
and pretending he was glad I’d found Annette and all that. He said I could stay as long as I liked … he seemed keener on the
idea than Annette was. It wasn’t till I’d been here a couple of weeks that I found out why.’