The Blood Pit (28 page)

The excavation itself was some way away behind the site office and Neil hadn’t really thought it necessary to look there and
check that everything was as it should be. But now he changed his mind. There was somebody there. Somebody intruding on his
excavation. His first thought was night hawks – treasure hunters. He’d had trouble with them before. But, in his experience,
night hawks didn’t usually chant.

He put an arm out to Diane, telling her to stay where she was. If she regarded him as a hero, he might as well live up to
her expectations. He switched off the torch and crept round the side of the building. The moon was full and the scarred, pitted
ground was bathed in a silvery light that enabled him to avoid the trenches.

The one thing he hadn’t expected to see on the site was a cloaked figure standing within a circle of dancing candle flames,
its arms raised, chanting to the moon. Neil froze and watched for a few moments as the figure began to move. It was at the
edge of the circle now, bowing to the points of the compass, moving and muttering. And at the centre of the circle was the
blood pit.

Neil began to creep forward when his foot caught on one of the small test pits he’d ordered to be dug on the unexcavated
section of the site and he stumbled, swearing softly under his breath.

The figure in the circle of light froze, silhouetted against the candle glow and the moonlight. Neil’s heart beat fast as
he straightened himself up and looked around for Diane. He saw that she had flattened herself against an ancient wall that
had once formed part of the monastic manor house and her presence gave him new courage. He wasn’t on his own.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ he called, flicking his torch on and trying to sound authoritative.

The figure hesitated for a second then took off at great speed before Neil could focus the torch beam, disappearing into the
trees surrounding the field with its cloak billowing behind. Neil was only too aware of the trenches and pits that lay between
him and the fugitive and that this sort of terrain could be treacherous in bad light. He knew that pursuit was useless.

‘Did you see who it was?’ asked Diane as she picked her way cautiously over the uneven ground.

Neil turned round. ‘I can’t be sure but I think our friend was trying to recreate a Bronze Age Aztec ritual.’

Diane allowed herself a snort of derision. ‘You mean Lenny?’

Neil gave her a nervous smile. ‘We’d better clock in early tomorrow – get rid of those candles before anyone sees them and
starts asking questions. I only hope he wasn’t sacrificing anything,’ he said as an afterthought.

Diane linked her arm through his as they walked back to the car. And the watcher in the trees didn’t emerge until they had
driven off.

Wesley Peterson and Gerry Heffernan set out early the next morning. Six thirty – a very uncivilised hour in Heffernan’s opinion. The
previous evening they had met up with Gerry’s cousin, Howard, at the small hotel on the outskirts of Chester, selected for them
by DI Heath. They stayed in the bar till nine thirty when Howard had promised to return to his wife who hadn’t been well. After
Howard’s departure, neither man had been in the mood to paint Chester red so they had an early night.

Howard was a cheerful, plodding sort of man and Wesley could see a distinct family resemblance to Gerry. The same nose. The
same eyes. The same portly figure. Howard was quite happy to remain a sergeant and it seemed that he regarded Gerry as the
thrusting, ambitious member of the Heffernan clan. But then he had never served in the Met as Wesley had. These things are
all relative.

They arrived back in Tradmouth around lunchtime and Wesley knew it wasn’t worth going home as Pam would be at work and the
house would be empty. He was glad when Gerry suggested lunch at his place – a chance to catch their breath before returning
to the hurly-burly of the incident room.

Trish Walton had phoned the DCI’s mobile during their journey. St Peter’s school had been through their records and found
that Simon Tench had come to them in the sixth form from Belsinger School where he’d been a boarder. It was the link – it
had to be – and now they needed to visit Belsinger to discover why three former pupils had been done to death in such a bizarre
manner.

A tea-stained copy of yesterday’s local paper was lying on Gerry Heffernan’s coffee table and Wesley read the headline
– ‘Police Hunt for Spider Continues’. Heffernan picked it up and grunted with disgust. He really did need to have a word with
Ray Davenport – put an end to this sensationalist nonsense once and for all. Wesley was about to reply that, in his opinion,
the story seemed quite accurate but he thought better of it. Discovering the identity of their mole in the CID office could
wait. They had more important things to do.

Gerry Heffernan seemed reluctant to return to work and Wesley didn’t really blame him. But some things couldn’t be put off
so they set out to walk through Tradmouth’s narrow streets beneath a battleship grey sky. When they arrived at the police
station, the CID office was busy, which was what the DCI liked to see and, as they entered, Trish Walton bounded up to them,
an eager to please expression on her face.

‘Do you remember that break-in at the veterinary clinic where Simon Tench worked?’ she began. ‘Well the intruder left a fingerprint
and we’ve found it belongs to Carl Pinney. Some drugs were taken. Ketamine mainly. Horse tranquilliser.’

Heffernan looked at Wesley. ‘So we’ve found our link between Tench and Pinney. Steve’ll be delighted.’

‘We’ve still not established any connection between Pinney and our other two victims. But if we find he’s taken a trip to
Chester …’

Trish looked at him in alarm. ‘So it’s definite then? The Chester killing’s identical?’

Wesley had almost forgotten that the rest of the team hadn’t yet been brought up to date on the Chester development. It was
high time they were. He asked Trish to muster the troops – or what troops were still in the office and not out making door-to-door
enquiries or interviewing potential witnesses – and Gerry Heffernan prepared to deliver his commanding officer’s speech. He
had brought photographs
of the Chester victim and the crime scene with him and he gave them to Wesley to pin on the notice board.

Once the briefing was over, the DCI beckoned the new boy, Lee Parsons, over. The young policeman looked positively scared.
Maybe he hadn’t yet learned that Gerry Heffernan’s growl was a lot worse than his bite.

‘Lee. I want you to go and pick up Carl Pinney. He’s due to appear before Morbay magistrates today – for mugging our own dear
DC Carstairs. He’ll get community service because, allegedly, it’s a first offence – which only means he hasn’t been caught
at it before. He’ll be thinking it’s his lucky day but I want you to spoil it for him. We’ve matched his prints to a burglary
at the vet’s surgery where Simon Tench worked so I want him brought in again. Take DC Johnson with you – he’ll show you what’s
what.’

Lee’s apprehension had vanished. ‘Right you are, sir.’ He scurried off to find Paul Johnson. ‘It’ll be good experience for
him,’ Heffernan said softly.

Wesley couldn’t argue with that. However, he was impatient to follow up their new lead about the victims’ school days. If
all three had attended the same boarding school, the answer might well lie there. They needed to visit Belsinger School as
soon as possible.

An hour and a few phone calls later, they were on the road to the village of Littlebury – which lay on the coast just beyond
Millicombe – and Belsinger School.

Steve Carstairs had been making routine enquiries – the only kind he seemed to get nowadays. He had been manning a road block
with a couple of uniforms near Simon Tench’s house – or a lane block to be more accurate – asking any passing motorists if
they’d been in the area around the time Tench had been murdered and, if they had, had they seen anything suspicious.

It was all a waste of time in Steve’s opinion. The killer
would hardly have been dancing in front of the traffic waving a blood-stained knife at passers-by. He would have been covered
in blood and taking great care not to be seen if he had any sense. And there was no reason to doubt this killer’s intelligence.
He was running rings round them so far.

Steve was due to report back to the incident room at two and a middle-aged DC from Neston had just arrived to relieve him.
He exchanged a few pleasantries with the man and passed on DCI Heffernan’s instructions, anxious to get back to what passed
for civilisation in Tradmouth. He was sick of being sent on all the crap jobs. It was as if the boss didn’t trust him … which
he probably didn’t.

Steve drove back to Tradmouth, hunger gnawing at his stomach. He’d get something to eat at his dad’s shop. Joanne would be
there which was reason enough to call in. He hadn’t seen her since Saturday night and now he was eager to see her again, which
he found rather surprising. Perhaps it was true about the ones who played hard to get being the most desirable.

As he parked in the police station car park he looked out for Wesley Peterson’s car but he couldn’t see it. The boss and DI
Peterson had been on some trip up north – probably living it up on expenses – and if they weren’t back yet, it wouldn’t matter
if he was a few minutes late, he thought. Although since his little bit of trouble with Carl Pinney, he’d been more careful
than usual about bending the rules. In the current climate, you had to watch your back. Instinctively, he turned to look up
at the CID office windows as he scurried out of the car park. There were always those ready to stick the knife in.

He walked past the Boat Float where small craft bobbed up and down on the high tide, and hurried down the High Street towards
Burton’s Butties. The lunchtime rush was over so there weren’t many sandwiches left in the refrigerated display just inside
the shop doorway. He picked out a lonely
ham baguette, sitting on its own on the top shelf and carried it over to the counter where Joanne greeted him with a shy smile.

‘Hi,’ she said, looking at him through her eyelashes like a coy teenager.

‘Hi,’ he said, holding out the baguette like a lethal weapon. ‘You free tonight?’

She smiled shyly. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to check my diary.’

‘How are things?’

‘Okay. I’ve been busy looking for office jobs – something to use my computer skills – but I’ve not found anything. What have
you been up to? Caught this Spider yet?’

But before Steve could answer, his father emerged from the back of the shop. ‘Hello, son,’ he said, a smirk on his lips. Steve
hated it when he called him that. ‘Fancy a drink after work?’

Steve looked at Robbie and saw the over-eager expression on his face. He was trying too hard. Suddenly Steve felt powerful,
in control. At last after all these years it seemed he held some sway over the man who had blighted his childhood and his
mother’s life. He smiled at him but there was no affection in his eyes. Only contempt. ‘Not today. I’ll be busy.’ He looked
at Joanne and winked. ‘I’ll pick you up at eight. Okay?’

Joanne glanced at Robbie and felt herself blushing as Steve strutted out of the shop with his baguette.

‘You want to watch him, you know, love,’ Robbie whispered in Joanne’s ear. ‘I know he’s my son but …’

But Joanne ignored her boss and began to clean the counter furiously.

Some people just wouldn’t be told.

The village of Littlebury on the coast between Tradmouth and Plymouth was a magnet for tourists in the summer
months, its main attractions being its fine beaches and Monks Island with its famous Art Deco hotel joined to the mainland
by a strip of sand when the tide went out. Littlebury itself had spread over the years and bungalows had sprouted like mushrooms
around its fringes. Belsinger School stood a mile to the east of the village at the end of a long, winding drive and, as he
drove there, Wesley felt a thrill of excitement – the anticipation of the hunter who knew he was on the right trail. For three
former pupils of the same exclusive boarding school to be killed by the same murderer could hardly be a coincidence. The school
had to be the link. The three men had become involved with the killer because of their school connection. The old school tie
had become a noose.

Gerry Heffernan gave a low whistle as Wesley turned the car into the drive leading to the school. The sign set beside the elegant
Georgian lodge was written in gold letters on a black background and it informed them that they had arrived at Belsinger School,
established 1854. Headmaster Dr Oliver Wynn.

They had telephoned ahead and Dr Wynn was expecting them. But they’d given no hint as to why they wanted to see him so, hopefully,
he’d be quite unprepared. Which is exactly how Gerry Heffernan liked his witnesses to be.

The boys at Belsinger wore striped blazers and, it being summer term, straw boaters seemed to be
de rigueur
. Masters wore gowns and, as Wesley and Heffernan got out of their car, a gaggle of boys doffed their boaters to a passing
teacher.

‘Like stepping back in time, isn’t it?’ Heffernan whispered loudly.

Wesley didn’t answer. Gerry was right. They could have been back in the days when establishments such as Belsinger trained
up Queen Victoria’s ruling classes to organise the British Empire with effortless efficiency.

He stood for a few moments studying the school itself.
The lodge at the gates had led him to expect a monument to Georgian classicism but Belsinger School was housed in a much older
building. The Elizabethan entrance was rather magnificent; built with all the confidence and swagger of the Renaissance nouveau
riche on the make. The wing to the left looked older and more ecclesiastical, its arched windows filled with delicate tracery
which Wesley knew was of a much earlier date. This had been an important building in medieval times and Wesley was curious
about its history. No doubt Dr Wynn would be able to enlighten him. It would be a good topic to introduce if the conversation
showed any sign of flagging – they might get more out of the man if they put him at his ease.