The Blood Pit (38 page)

Diane’s reading taste ran from historical mysteries, through archaeological textbooks to general history, especially the Tudor
period, interspersed with a smattering of cookery and self-help books. But one book looked out of place: a dirty, decaying
volume of great antiquity, encased in a clear plastic bag, which lay flat on the top shelf next to a book about the dissolution
of the monasteries. Neil reached out and
touched it. He couldn’t help himself. Besides, Diane was asleep so she’d never know that her privacy was being invaded.

As he lifted the book, he realised there was something underneath. Bits of flimsy paper. Newsprint. Cuttings. Curious, Neil carried
them over to the coffee table and began to read.

Diane must have cut the articles from the local paper. He read the headlines. ‘Boys’ grim discovery.’ ‘Bones found in wood.’
‘Police appeal for information about skeleton.’ ‘Can you give a name to mystery skeleton?’ ‘Who is B I?’ ‘Bones belong to
sex offender.’

When the bedroom door opened he looked up guiltily. Diane was standing there dressed in a black silk kimono, staring at the
newspaper cuttings in Neil’s hands. He could see that her face had turned ash pale.

‘What are you doing with those?’

‘I found them on the shelf. Why? What’s the matter?’

She marched over and snatched them from his hand, ripping them, leaving Neil clutching the remnants.

Neil stood up. ‘What’s the problem? Do you know something about this skeleton business? If you do, you should …’

There were tears in her eyes as she rushed over to the bookshelves. She picked up the book in the plastic bag and carried
it over to the chest of drawers where her computer stood, still switched on, a screensaver of a firework display going through
its silent routine. She hugged it to her for a few seconds then she thrust it into the top drawer.

‘What’s the book? It looks old. Is it … ?’

‘Just mind your own business. Leave me alone,’ she snapped.

He walked over to her and put his arm round her shoulder. She was sobbing now. Shaking. In her agitation she had brushed against
the computer mouse and the screensaver was replaced by a page of familiar-looking text. Neil stared at the words for a few
moments, the truth dawning slowly.

He took hold of her shoulders and swung her round to face him. ‘It was you. You wrote the letters.’ He’d thought
that when he came face to face with the author of his letters, he’d feel angry. But instead he felt stunned … and confused.

She let out a shuddering sob and slumped in his arms, tears and mucus streaming down her face. Neil put his arms around her
and held her close, stroking her hair, comforting her like a frightened animal.

‘I didn’t mean to kill him. It was an accident. I didn’t mean …’ Her voice was muffled by sobs.

Suddenly he felt a thrill of fear. He was alone with a killer. A couple of hours before they had become lovers but now she
was a different person. And the change terrified him. Wesley had suspected the letters might be linked to the Spider murders
and, if he was right, he could be in real trouble.

‘Why don’t you tell me what happened?’ he whispered in her ear, playing for time, feeling in the pocket of his jeans to make
sure his mobile phone was still there. .

‘I tried to tell you in the letters. But I just ended up writing rubbish … playing games so I didn’t have to face the truth.
I wanted to tell you … I did my best.’

‘And what is the truth?’

She shook her head and said nothing.

‘What’s all this stuff about Brother William?’

She turned away and shuffled over to the chest of drawers slowly, like an old arthritic woman. She opened the drawer, took
out the book she had just hidden and placed it into Neil’s hand. ‘I went to the archives,’ she said almost in a whisper. ‘I
was looking for stuff about Veland Abbey and I found this. It’s my own story … what happened to me. I know it was wrong but
I took it. I had to have it.’ She looked at him and he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. ‘I killed a man, Neil.
I’m a murderer. I wanted to confess but I couldn’t …’ She shook her head and began to sob again, her whole body shaking.

Neil took a step back. ‘I’ll take the book back for you,’
he said quickly. ‘I’ll say it was taken out by accident with a pile of other books. Or, better still, I’ll just put it back
on a shelf and they’ll think it’s just been put in the wrong place.’ He knew he sounded too eager. He was appeasing a mad
woman. And madness frightened him. Scared him stiff.

He wished he was somewhere else. Anywhere. The woman standing there was a stranger to him. He felt the mobile phone in his pocket
again. He needed to speak to Wesley. But he didn’t dare make the call for fear of upsetting her.

‘The kettle’s boiled. I’ll make some coffee, shall I?’ He moved slowly, like someone backing away from an unpredictable animal
and as he poured the coffee, he knew she was watching him.

Early Saturday evening on neutral ground. That was the arrangement Rachel Tracey had made. Just a drink. Casual. Nothing heavy.
She had told her housemate, Trish Walton, where she was going – she felt someone should know, just in case – and Trish had
said she was mad. He’d threatened her with a shotgun after all.

But Rachel’s instincts told her she’d be safe. Barty Carter was a man who’d been driven to the edge by circumstances and his
ex-wife. As Saturday afternoon had worn on, she’d experienced a few small doubts, of course. She’d made a mistake once – a
bad mistake that had almost cost her her life. But she kept telling herself that this time things were different. This time
she could trust her judgement. Anyway, it was only a drink and she’d said she could only spare an hour or so because of the
demands of work.

She’d arranged to meet him at the Tradmouth Arms at seven – she thought it best that he didn’t pick her up at the rented cottage
that she shared with Trish just outside Tradmouth, even though it would be on his route. And Gerry Heffernan lived next door
to the Tradmouth Arms so she’d feel that there was somebody there in the unlikely event of
an emergency. Her mother would have laughed at her if she’d known about the precautions she was taking. She would have said
that if she was that uneasy about going for a drink with someone, she shouldn’t be seeing them in the first place. Mothers
were always right, of course. But sometimes daughters felt the risk might be worth it.

She wore jeans and a white T-shirt – high necked because she didn’t wish to give the wrong impression – and parked her small
car by the waterfront. She’d timed it so she would arrive five minutes late. The last thing she wanted was to be waiting in
the pub on her own. She might pride herself on being a woman with modern attitudes but there were still some things a girl
just didn’t do.

He was waiting for her at a table near the door. He’d reserved a chair for her and stood up as she approached.

‘Rachel. Nice to see you.’ Barty Carter sounded nervous, which she found rather gratifying. He’d abandoned his worn, stained
clothes and his disreputable Barbour for clean jeans and a blue linen shirt. They were well cut – probably expensive: leftovers
from his days of city prosperity perhaps. He looked good. Scrubbed up well, as her mother would say. ‘What are you having
to drink?’ he asked eagerly.

She pondered the question for a few moments then opted for an orange juice. She was driving. And, besides, she wanted to keep
a clear head.

When he returned with the drinks Rachel asked him how his animals were. The pigs, he said, were well. And he was keeping the
sty clean. He’d started doing jobs round the smallholding – all the things he’d been putting off doing since his wife left.
It had taken Rachel and Steve’s visit and the incident with the shotgun to shock him out of his downward spiral. He’d reached
the bottom and now the only way was upwards. He had Rachel to thank for bringing him to his senses – for stopping him feeling
sorry for himself, he said, looking at her like an adoring puppy.
He was taking stock of his life. Seeing where he should go from here.

Rachel made encouraging noises. It wasn’t often she was credited with saving someone’s sanity. But the burden of his gratitude
lay heavy on her shoulders and she found that she wasn’t altogether comfortable with the role of rescuer.

Their hour was soon up and Rachel began to regret her self-imposed time limit. To her surprise she found herself enjoying
Barty Carter’s company. He mentioned his ex-wife from time to time but he didn’t harp on about his troubles, for which she
was exceedingly grateful. Self-pity makes for a long evening.

When she told him she’d have to be off soon, he asked her how the case was going. Were they any nearer cracking the Belsinger
connection? Rachel gave the usual noncommittal reply – the enquiries were still ongoing.

‘It’s funny,’ he said, frowning. ‘I saw someone I knew from Belsinger in Tradmouth today. Well I didn’t really know them – more
knew of them. Saw them around all the time. I’m sure it was the same person. I’m good on faces.’

Rachel was suddenly alert, like a hound that had caught the scent of its quarry on the breeze. ‘Who are you talking about?’

Barty Carter proceeded to tell her, chatting away oblivious to the fact that he might just have become a key witness in a
murder enquiry.

The killer flicked through the pages of Saturday’s paper. They were using that name again. The Spider. It was a name to frighten
children. Tabloid shorthand for a monster. It was mocking the killer’s purpose. Mocking all that suffering.

The killer put down the paper, picked up a small address book and began to turn the pages. There he was. Francis Duparc. The
killer recalled his face. Serious, dark, eyes wide with fear. And something else – fascination.

The clock in the corner told the killer it was nine o’clock. It was time to return to life. To put on the mask of normality.

Pam Peterson was having a dream, not a pleasant one. She was being chased up a hill by somebody or something she couldn’t
see and her legs would only move in slow motion. Her pursuer was catching up fast. And when she turned round she saw that
it was Jonathan. She woke up sweating and breathless, her heart pounding, and looked at Wesley who appeared to be fast asleep
beside her.

Della had turned up to babysit the previous evening, still unrepentant about letting them down the week before, talking as
if she was doing them a huge favour. They’d had a pleasant meal at the Angel but Pam’s mind had been on the Sunday lunch she
was due to have with Maritia and Mark later that day. Jonathan would be there and the thought made her feel slightly sick.
She’d feel safer if Wesley could have been with her. But, on the other hand, if Jonathan decided to make life awkward for
her and drop hints about what had happened … Wesley was a detective, after all. He would be bound to pick up the undercurrents.

She glanced at the alarm clock – it was seven forty-five. Wesley would probably have to call into the police station that
morning but first he’d promised to go down and make her breakfast. She turned back to him and kissed him gently on the forehead.

He stirred, a small smile playing on his lips, and was about to reach out to her when the phone beside the bed began to ring.
Wesley muttered something softly under his breath and opened his eyes. It had to be for him. Nobody but the police station
would call at that time on a Sunday morning.

He rubbed his eyes and sat up before picking up the receiver. It turned out that he was half right. It was Rachel Tracey but
she wasn’t yet at work. However, she did have some news.

Wesley put the phone down and turned to Pam. ‘Sorry. I’ve got to go into work right away.’ He smiled. ‘Well as soon as I’ve
made your breakfast.’ He grabbed his towelling bathrobe from the end of the bed. ‘Rachel had a date last night and discovered
something rather interesting.’

Pam was about to say something risqué but decided against it. ‘About this Spider?’ she asked.

‘Possibly. And if she’s right it rather turns everything on its head.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ll try and make it to Maritia’s for
lunch … promise. I’ll tell Gerry I …’

‘Don’t worry. Maritia’ll understand,’ Pam said quickly.

‘I know. But I want to have Sunday lunch with you and the kids,’ he said before darting off downstairs to make the breakfast.

An hour later he was at the police station, perched on the edge of Rachel Tracey’s desk, listening to a word for word account
of Barty Carter’s revelations.

‘Do you think it’s important?’ she asked, thinking that perhaps, in her enthusiasm, she was making too much of it.

Wesley thought for a few moments. ‘I don’t know. Is Carter willing to make a statement?’

‘I should think so.’

He hesitated. ‘What if … ?’ He stopped himself. ‘Look, I’m going to call Cheshire police. There’s something I want them to
chase up.’ He looked across at Gerry Heffernan’s glass-fronted office. It was empty. The boss was probably having alarm clock
malfunction problems – they happened to him regularly. ‘When the boss gets in, tell him I need to have a word with him. Tell
him it’s urgent.’

‘Right you are,’ answered Rachel, wondering whether she should volunteer to be the one to take Barty Carter’s statement.

Diane had confessed to killing a man and Neil wasn’t sure what to do about it … or whether to believe her. When she
was a child she’d killed him in the woods and left him to rot there. She’d nursed her terrible secret for years and at times
she’d almost forgotten it, shoved it away into the dark recesses of her mind. Until she’d come across the story of Brother
William, a story that had seemed to mirror her own.

When the two boys discovered the bones, Barry Ickerman had sprung back to life – a grim Lazarus who nobody welcomed back from
the dead. Least of all Diane. Neil hadn’t stayed the night at her flat. It hadn’t seemed appropriate somehow. After the first
shock of discovery he’d decided not to call Wesley for the time being. Diane had seemed too fragile to face police interrogation. And
he’d needed time to think.