The Blood Pit (3 page)

‘Haven’t seen you for a while,’ were Wesley’s first words.

‘I’ve been busy organising this training excavation. It’s been a nightmare sending out the forms and taking the bookings. Wish
I’d not volunteered to take charge but it seemed like a good idea at the time.’

Wesley smiled sympathetically. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Not too bad. But it’s early days yet.’

‘I saw you on the telly.’

Neil felt his face turning red. ‘Yeah. Was I okay?’ he asked self-consciously, smoothing his unruly hair. Wesley allowed himself
a smile – he’d known Neil since his university days and never once had he imagined that his friend would become a victim of
media adulation.

Before he could answer, Pam emerged from the living room. She gave Neil a shy, enquiring smile and asked him if he’d like a
drink. He said a coffee would be great before following her and Wesley into the kitchen, wondering how to tackle the subject
of the anonymous letter. Here in the warmth of the Petersons’ house, it seemed so trivial … silly even.

Pam looked up from filling the kettle and caught his eye. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you if I can bring my class to your dig.
I know they’d be interested and I’ll see that the troublemakers are well supervised.’ The words came out in a rush.

‘I’m sure we can arrange something. Give us a week or so to get things going and …’

‘Thanks,’ she said, pouring coffee into the cups – strong for Neil; weakish for Wesley and decaffeinated for herself because
she’d been having problems sleeping of late.

Pam took her drink into the living room but Neil lagged behind. He wanted to talk to Wesley alone. He put his coffee down
on the worktop and cleared his throat. ‘I’ve had this strange letter.’

Wesley was tired after a day spent getting to grips with Charles Marrick’s murder. But Neil’s odd pronouncement grabbed his
attention.

‘What kind of letter?’ Neil was someone who’d class a communication from the Inland Revenue as a threatening letter.

‘It went on about monks being bled and it said he was scared he’d do something terrible and the bleeding wouldn’t stop. Really
weird.’ Now he’d put it into words it seemed even stranger, more threatening somehow. As though he’d given the idea a power
it hadn’t possessed when it had been confined to paper.

‘When did you get it?’ Wesley asked, the mention of bleeding reminding him of Charles Marrick’s murder.

‘It was waiting for me when I got home last night.’

‘No signature, I presume.’

Neil shook his head, gratified that his friend was taking his little problem seriously. ‘He said he felt he knew all about
me. Could he have been watching me or what?’

Wesley noticed that Neil looked strained, as though this thing was getting to him. Or perhaps it was just the burden
of dealing with a load of enthusiastic amateurs on his new project. Never work with children, animals or the general public,
he had once heard Gerry Heffernan say. The trouble was, as a police officer, he didn’t usually have much choice in the matter.

He tried to think up a few words of comfort, something to put Neil’s mind at rest. He didn’t want to mention Charles Marrick’s
death and alarm him even further – after all, there was probably no connection. ‘You were on the telly … on the local news
talking about the dig. I bet that’s where this character’s seen you and he’s taken a shine to you.’

‘Can’t you do something about it?’

Wesley assumed the apologetic expression he used at work with victims of petty crime when he knew the culprit was unlikely
to fall into the hands of the police. ‘He’s not actually threatened you, has he? And it’s only one letter.’

‘So far. What if he sends more? What if he starts stalking me. And I don’t like all this talk of blood.’

Neither did Wesley, especially after what he’d witnessed that day at Foxglove House. He looked at his old friend. ‘I’d never
had you down as the nervous type, Neil.’

Neil looked embarrassed for a split second then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘It just gave me the creeps, that’s all.’

‘Let’s see it then. I presume you’ve brought it with you.’

Neil shook his head sheepishly. ‘Yeah – I suppose I should have but … well … I didn’t want to carry the bloody thing around
with me. Like I said, it gave me the creeps.’

Neil wasn’t normally this sensitive, Wesley thought. But if someone was out there, watching him – someone he couldn’t see
– it was hardly surprising. ‘Look, Neil, why don’t you let me have a look at the letter and I’ll tell you what I think.’

‘Yeah, good idea. Can you come to the dig tomorrow? I’ll have it with me then.’

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘That should be okay. It’s not far from our crime scene,’ he said, trying to sound casual. The
letter had mentioned blood and Marrick’s body had been drained of the stuff – so with the possibility, however remote, that
it could be linked to the Marrick investigation, he wanted a look at that letter. Neil looked as though he could do with a
change of subject – something closer to his heart. ‘What do you know about the site so far?’

‘Not much yet. The farmer suggested we investigate the place ’cause he’s always been puzzled about some ruined outbuildings
and lumps and bumps in the ground at the end of one of his fields. It’s obvious that a lot of the stones were reused in the
present farmhouse – recycling’s nothing new. But we’ve given ourselves the job of finding out what the buildings were originally
used for.’

‘Barns?’

‘Oh no. We’ve found some fine dressed stone and the remains of mullioned windows. These buildings are definitely high status
– fifteenth century or thereabouts. If you want to bring your trowel tomorrow …’

Wesley smiled. Unless they made an arrest in the Charles Marrick case pretty soon, there’d be no time for archaeology … or
much else come to that.

Neil glanced towards the living room door. ‘Pam okay?’

‘She’s fine.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’m planning a surprise for our anniversary next weekend – nice dinner and a night in
a country hotel near Honiton. I’ve cleared it with Gerry and booked Pam’s mum to stay the night here and babysit.’

‘Great,’ Neil said as though he meant it. He looked at his watch. ‘I’d better get back. I might look for somewhere to stay
nearer the dig ’cause I’m sick of the drive. Trouble is, the holiday season’s almost upon us and everywhere’s booked up or
charging top prices.’ He looked at Wesley hopefully but Wesley ignored the hint.

The phone began to ring and somehow Wesley knew it
would be for him. Some new development in the Marrick murder perhaps. He sighed as he picked up the receiver and recited his
number.

He wasn’t surprised to hear Gerry Heffernan’s Liverpudlian accent on the other end of the line. ‘Get down here quick, Wes.’

‘What is it? What’s happened?’

But the chief inspector didn’t answer. ‘Just get down here, will you?’

The line went dead.

‘Sorry, Neil … got to go.’

‘It’s not me you should be apologising to, mate,’ Neil replied, glancing in the direction of the living room where Pam was
waiting for them.

When Wesley arrived at Tradmouth police station it was almost ten thirty and as he entered the CID office he sensed a strange
atmosphere. Some of the investigation team were at their desks and DC Trish Walton looked up as he entered and gave him a
wary smile. Something was up. He’d assumed it was something to do with the Marrick case but now he wasn’t so sure.

He found Gerry Heffernan in his office and DS Rachel Tracey was with him. Gerry was wearing what Wesley always thought of
as his ‘I’ll have his balls for cufflinks’ expression; the one he wore when one of his team had erred and strayed from Gerry’s
interpretation of the path of righteousness.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘Sit down.’ The words were said quietly. No bluster. No wisecracks.

Wesley obeyed. He glanced at Rachel but her expression gave nothing away. She sat on the edge of her chair, her lips pressed
together like a disapproving schoolmistress.

He looked at Heffernan expectantly, unable to bear the suspense. ‘Well? What’s going on?’

Gerry Heffernan sighed and looked at Rachel who pressed her lips together tighter. Her blonde hair was scraped back into a
severe ponytail. It didn’t suit her, Wesley thought.

‘Steve Carstairs has made an arrest. Young lad tried to mug him and got punched for his efforts.’

‘By Steve?’ So far it didn’t sound too alarming.

Heffernan nodded.

‘So? I presume the culprit put up a fight.’ Wesley had no cause to defend Steve Carstairs – when he’d first arrived in Tradmouth
Steve had given him a hard time because of the colour of his skin and even now there was an undercurrent of resentment which
made Wesley uncomfortable on occasions – but a suspect getting a bloody nose in the course of an arrest was nothing unusual.
Some people just didn’t like being arrested.

‘Steve went down to the cells – told the custody sergeant he wanted to check something. Half an hour later the suspect was
found lying on the floor. He’s been rushed to hospital with head injuries.’

Wesley mouthed the word ‘oh’ and sat back in his chair. ‘I find it hard to believe that even Steve would be that stupid,’
he said after a few moments. ‘What’s he got to say for himself ?’

‘He says when he left the cell the lad – name of Carl Pinney – was fine. He reckoned he fell and banged his head after he’d
gone.’

‘Or Steve banged it for him,’ said Rachel. ‘He’s been on edge recently, have you noticed?’

The two men shook their heads. They’d had other things on their minds.

‘Trish says he’s got personal problems.’ Rachel didn’t sound exactly sympathetic … but then she didn’t like Steve Carstairs
any more than Wesley did.

Gerry Heffernan sat forward. ‘Haven’t we all? What problems has Steve Carstairs got? Can’t decide which aftershave to use?’

Rachel didn’t smile. ‘I think it’s something to do with his father. His parents got divorced when he was young and his dad
went up north – apparently he’s just come back and got a job in Tradmouth. I don’t know much more than that but I sense there’s
some bad feeling.’ She sounded disappointed that the office grapevine hadn’t worked with its usual efficiency. ‘According to
Trish, Steve’s been under a lot of stress.’

‘And that’s an excuse for beating hell out of a suspect, is it?’ Gerry Heffernan growled, shooting Rachel a hostile glance.

‘No, sir … of course not. I was just saying …’

But the chief inspector wasn’t listening. ‘Anyway, he’s suspended from duty pending enquiries. The chief super’s doing a very
good imitation of a volcano about to erupt and we’re a DC short on this Marrick enquiry. He put his head in his hands as Wesley
caught Rachel’s eye. ‘What have I done to deserve this?’ He groaned rhetorically before muttering a detailed and colourful
account of what he’d do to Steve Carstairs if he ever met him alone down a back alley.

Wesley gave Rachel an almost imperceptible nod and they both got up. They’d leave Heffernan to his private grief and return
when he’d calmed down a bit. They left the DCI’s office, closing the door gently behind them.

‘How’s Mrs Marrick?’ Wesley asked once they were outside.

‘She insists on staying at the house.’

‘Someone’s with her, I take it?’

Rachel nodded. ‘A WPC’s staying there.’

‘Can’t she go to relatives while … ?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘She says she’s got nobody round here. But she has got a daughter … name of Petronella.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

‘She’s called her but she doesn’t know if she’ll come. I get the impression there’s something not quite right there.’

‘Maybe they’ve fallen out.’

Before Rachel could reply, Wesley heard the boss calling
his name so he turned round and retraced his steps. When he re-entered the office, Gerry Heffernan looked up and sighed. He
seemed to have recovered from his despondency – but then Gerry’s moods were like the British weather, changeable and unpredictable.

Heffernan looked at his watch. ‘You’d best get home, Wes. There’s nothing more we can do tonight. We’ll just have to see how
Carl Pinney is in the morning and what he says in his statement.’

Wesley said nothing. He had the beginnings of a headache and he felt exhausted. And things wouldn’t get any better tomorrow.
In fact they’d be worse.

When he finally got home Pam had gone to bed. Neil, she told him, had left soon after he’d been called to the police station
– and he hadn’t seemed his usual self.

It looked as if Wesley wasn’t the only one with problems.

Petronella Blackwell – she’d often wondered why her adoptive parents, had given her such an elaborate first name – inserted
the CD into the slot, keeping her eyes on the road. After a few seconds the cello began to weep out the notes of Bach’s Suite
Number One and she felt hot tears trickling down her cheeks. She wiped them away with an impatient fist, telling herself that
she was a grown woman. Annette and Charlie shouldn’t have the power to hurt her any more.

She tried to concentrate on the tree-shaded road, following the white lines that kept blurring behind her tears and asking
herself why she was making the journey. Perhaps she shouldn’t have set off for Devon as soon as she got the message. After
all, what did she owe Annette? Nothing. All Annette had done was given birth to her – dropped her like some farm beast. Annette
had been sixteen when she’d become pregnant after a brief encounter of the sexual kind with a boy or man she had never named,
and she had left it too late to
get an abortion. Twenty-nine years ago, she’d given birth by default. Then she’d put on her clothes and left her daughter, crying
and hungry in a plastic hospital crib. She’d walked out; abandoned her baby in the hospital while she swanned off to resume
her life. End of story.

Only that hadn’t been the end. Two years ago, at the age of twenty-seven, after the death of her adoptive father from cancer
– her adoptive mother had died some years before in a motorway pile up – Petronella had found herself without a family and
newly split up from her long-term boyfriend. It was at this vulnerable stage in her life that she had felt an irresistible,
almost primal, urge to trace her biological mother. Her adoptive parents had done everything by the book – bequeathing to
her their love of music and animals, particularly horses – and, on the advice of the adoption agency, they had never made
any secret of her background. But it wasn’t until her comfortable world had fallen apart that she had begun her quest for
Annette. And eventually she had found her.