The Blood Pit (27 page)

Heath said it would be easier to walk to Christopher Grisham’s flat than to travel by car. He’d lived right in the centre,
in one of the main streets given over to pedestrians. Wesley had never visited Chester before and he was glad to
combine duty with a spot of sightseeing. He knew Chester was a walled city and that the walls were more intact than those
of his old university city, Exeter: perhaps when the day’s work was over, he could persuade Gerry Heffernan to indulge in
some impromptu tourism.

John Heath led them through the streets, past the Grosvenor Museum and into wide thoroughfares thronging with shoppers. Wesley
studied the buildings as they walked. Lofty, half-timbered shops rose up either side of the street – magpie black and white.
Many had covered galleries on the first floor revealing a second tier of shops behind their balustrades. These were the famous
Rows, unique to the city – a masterly method of medieval space-saving.

‘So where did the victim live?’ Wesley asked, wondering how much further they had to go.

‘Right in the heart of things. Just coming up to our right. He had a flat in the Rows … top floor above an antique shop.’

Heath turned sharp right, weaving his way through a group of Japanese tourists, and led them up a narrow flight of steps to
a wide walkway with a wooden balcony on one side and a row of small shops on the other. To the left of an expensive-looking
antique shop was a door. Heath took a key from his pocket and placed it in the lock.

‘The landlord’s had a firm of cleaners in to get rid of the worst of it,’ he said, wrinkling his nose. ‘Grisham’s stuff’s still
in here. His relatives haven’t cleared it out yet. The rent was paid a couple of months in advance so the landlord’s not in
much of a hurry.’

‘You wouldn’t pay a few months’ rent in advance if you planned to kill yourself,’ Wesley observed.

‘It might have been a spur of the moment decision.’ There was a hint of resentment in Heath’s reply, as though he thought that
Wesley was being too clever by half.

Wesley had to concede that Heath was right. The fact that
the dead man paid his rent up front had been no reason to set alarm bells ringing. Unlike two virtually identical deaths in
another part of the country.

They walked up a flight of carpeted stairs. The carpet was new and the paint was fresh. As they entered the flat Wesley saw
that this was no cheap rented hell-hole – the walls in the wide hallway were pristine cream and the floor was solid oak. And
the art work on the walls must have come from one of the exclusive galleries they’d passed on the way there.

Wesley pushed open the door to the living room. The sofa had been taken away and the carpet had been ripped up. ‘This was
where he was found?’

‘That’s right. Not a pretty sight. The constable who found him was sick.’ Heath took a deep breath. ‘The blood had seeped through
and stained the ceiling of the shop below. They dialled nine nine nine when they saw it and a patrol car came round and the
lads got the key off the landlord. There was no sign of anyone else being involved.’

‘Have you spoken to Grisham’s friends and family?’

‘Yes. They said he never seemed the type. But then people surprise you, don’t they?’

‘He wasn’t the type. He was murdered.’

Heath looked doubtful. Although he had alerted them to the similarities to the two Devon murders, Wesley felt that there was
still a small sliver of doubt there. He wasn’t one hundred per cent convinced that such an obvious suicide could possibly
be murder.

‘Didn’t you think the use of hemlock was a bit strange?’ Wesley asked. ‘Wouldn’t pills and booze be a more likely method of
doing away with yourself?’

Heath looked smug as he strolled over to the bookshelves. ‘See for yourself – lots of books of herbalism and the use of plants
in medicine. Seemed to be his thing.’ He picked out a book and passed it to Wesley. ‘And there was this – life of Socrates.
One of our DSs noticed it – he’s a graduate …
classics. He said this Socrates bloke topped himself by drinking hemlock.’

Wesley nodded. He might have come to the same conclusion himself.

Gerry Heffernan had begun to snoop round, opening drawers and cupboards. He took a pile of photograph albums out of the top
drawer of a sleek, birch sideboard and began to flick through it.

‘Did Grisham have a girlfriend?’ Wesley asked.

‘Yes. But apparently it was cooling off before he died. Might have been why he killed himself. It all seemed to fit at the
time.’ It seemed that Heath was making excuses for his initial lack of suspicion. But Wesley had some sympathy for him. Hindsight
was a wonderful thing.

‘Where is she now?’

‘Germany. She got a job there and went out shortly after we spoke to her. Forget what part she went to – could have been Munich
… or was it Frankfurt? She got a job in some big hotel.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Jenny. Jenny Pringle. Nice girl. She hadn’t been going out with Grisham that long but she was really shocked about what happened.’

‘Did she live here with him?’

Heath shook his head. ‘No, she worked in a hotel in the centre. Lived in.’

‘You interviewed her yourself, I take it?’ Heffernan spoke for the first time since they’d entered the flat.

‘Yes. But as I said, she couldn’t tell me anything much except that things between her and Grisham were cooling off. And she
seemed to think Grisham might have been having some trouble at work.’

‘We’d like to speak to her. Have you got an address?’

‘I must have it back at the office but I don’t honestly think she’ll be able to tell you much. She hadn’t seen him
for a few days and when we called her to tell her he was dead she told us they’d rowed about her going off to Germany. She
said her career was important to her. Her number was in his address book – that’s how we got in touch with her.’

‘So it all seemed straightforward? Man having troubles at work then his girlfriend announces she’s going abroad.’

‘You’ve got it in one. There’s no way we suspected murder.’

‘You checked the girlfriend’s alibi?’

‘What do you think we are? The Keystone Cops?’

Wesley could tell that his question had hit a sensitive spot. Which wasn’t what he’d intended.

Before he could say anything Heffernan stepped in. ‘Come on, John, we’ve got to ask.’

Heath took a deep breath. Maybe he had been too touchy. But on the other hand he had two detectives from another force there,
questioning his professional competence. ‘Of course we checked it. She was working at the hotel. They were busy and she was
working an extra shift at the time the pathologist reckons he died.’

Wesley smiled. It was time good relations were re-established. ‘Can you tell us about his working life?’

‘He worked in an art gallery. The Potterton Gallery in Bridge Street. He was a partner in the business.’

‘But there was trouble at work?’

‘The gallery isn’t doing well. The other partners said they should all chip in a bit of extra capital but Grisham said it was
throwing good money after bad.’

‘So his partners would have a motive for getting rid of him?’

‘I suppose so. His life was insured and they benefit. It might even save the gallery. But both partners have cast-iron alibis.
One was in the States and the other was at the hospital. His wife had their first baby the night Grisham died.’

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. It was time to move on. Heffernan produced photographs of some of
the Tradmouth
dramatis personae
: Fabrice Colbert, Annette Marrick, Emma Tench, Carl Pinney, Barty Carter. Heath looked at them blankly … except the picture
of Fabrice Colbert – or Darren Collins: he recognised him from the television.

John Heath stood awkwardly near the door with his hands in his pockets while the two Devon detectives made a search of the
flat. He wasn’t sure what they were looking for and he doubted if they’d find it. Someone had gone through Grisham’s things
already and found no suicide note or any other clue to his death.

But fifteen minutes later, Gerry Heffernan gave a shout of triumph. ‘Wes, come and look at this.’

Wesley, who had been examining Grisham’s bank statements and finding nothing of much interest, hurried over to the sideboard
where the DCI had spread out a school photograph. Around twenty boys, sitting neatly in rows in garish striped blazers.

‘Recognise anyone?’

Wesley stared for a few moments. One adolescent boy looked much like another in his opinion. But when Heffernan turned the
photograph over all was revealed. The boys’ names were neatly printed on the back. And there they were. Christopher Grisham,
Simon Tench and Charles Marrick.

‘Belsinger School. That’s that posh boarding school near Littlebury, isn’t it?’

‘You’re dead right, Gerry,’ Wesley said with a grin.

His mobile phone rang and after a short conversation he turned to the DCI again, resisting the urge to punch the air. John
Heath probably thought he was cocky enough already.

‘That was Trish. She’s just visited St Peter’s School in Morbay. They said Simon Tench only joined the school in the sixth
form. He’d been to a boarding school before that because his mother was dead and his father was working away. When his
father returned to Devon, he sent Simon to a day school so they could be together. St Peter’s didn’t have the name of his
former school to hand but they’re going to dig through their records and let Trish know.’

‘I think we’ve just saved them a job. It’s Belsinger.’ Heffernan chuckled.

‘And Rachel’s found out where Marrick ate his quail and garlic spuds. He had an intimate lunch with Celia Dawn on the day
he died. Rachel’s double-checking her alibi.’

‘You two seem happy,’ said John Heath, curious.

Heffernan caught Wesley’s eye and grinned. ‘Tell you what, John, we’ll buy you a drink. We’re celebrating.’

Neil Watson had rung Pam who’d told him that Wesley was away for the night. Chester. As a dedicated archaeologist, the fact
that Chester was once the Roman settlement of Deva – home of Valeria Vitrix, the twentieth legion – immediately sprung into
Neil’s mind. There was a lot of good Roman stuff in the Grosvenor Museum. And there was a very interesting excavation of the
city’s Roman amphitheatre. He wouldn’t mind a trip up there himself, he thought with a twinge of envy.

He was glad that relations with Pam were returning to normal. He’d missed their talks and their easy intimacy. The discovery
of her fling with Jonathan had placed a wall of mistrust between them for a while and he resented this … as though Jonathan
had deprived him deliberately of something precious. But his thoughts were interrupted by a tinny rendition of the Indiana
Jones theme tune – his mobile phone was ringing.

He was surprised to hear Diane’s voice on the other end of the line. She couldn’t find her purse. She was certain she’d left
it in the site office and Neil was the only person with the key. She was terribly sorry to bother him. She knew it was a nuisance.

He looked at his watch. It was coming up to eight o’clock and dusk was beginning to fall. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘I’ll
pick you up. You’re in Neston aren’t you?’

When Diane had recited her address and given him directions, he picked up the keys and locked up his flat carefully. He’d
been far more cautious about his security arrangements since he’d started receiving the letters. You couldn’t be too careful
when there was a nutter playing games and making threats. A nutter who might also be a killer.

The roads were quiet when he picked Diane up at her flat and by the time they reached the dig the daylight had vanished. He
hated driving on the narrow Devon lanes in the dark. At night they took on a sinister dimension as the hedges towered either
side of the winding, single track road like magic thickets in a fairy tale and the headlights caught ghostly moths and scurrying
creatures in their beam. As Neil drove, his hands stiff on the wheel, he felt as if he was on a theme park ride – a cross between
the roller-coaster and the ghost train.

When he brought the car to a halt at the farm gate which gave the only access to the site, Diane leaped out to open the gate
but Neil produced a torch from the glove box and said they’d leave the car there and walk down the rough track to the site
office.

‘Look, Neil, this is very good of you,’ said Diane as they walked in the darkness. ‘I’m so sorry to drag you out like this.
I know I’m a nuisance …’

‘Not at all. I hadn’t anything planned.’ He glanced at Diane and realised that he was glad of the distraction. He didn’t want
to be alone. ‘Look, it’s early. Fancy coming for a drink when you’ve … ?’

She smiled, almost as though this was what she’d been hoping for all along. A more cynical man might have wondered whether
the lost purse was a ruse but Neil’s mind wasn’t that devious. He saw it as serendipity.

‘That’d be nice,’ she said.

Neil unlocked the heavy duty padlock that secured the site office door and entered, switching on the bare bulb dangling from
the ceiling. A brown leather purse lay on the filing cabinet in the corner. Neil took it to Diane who was hovering in the
doorway and she thanked him profusely. If it hadn’t been there – if she’d lost it somewhere else – she didn’t know what she
would have done. All her credit cards were in there – her whole financial life – not that there was much finance involved
as she was an archaeologist.

Neil let the wave of thanks wash over him. It wasn’t often he was treated as a hero and he knew he should really make the
most of it. As he locked up, his mind was on the question of where was the best place to go for a drink. Somewhere in Neston
would be best, he thought, so he could drop Diane off and get home at a reasonable time.

They’d begun to make their way back to the car when Diane froze. ‘What was that?’

They both stood quite still as their ears became attuned to the noises of the night. One faint sound was out of place and
unmistakable. A voice, chanting on one note softly, hypnotically.