The Blood Pit (40 page)

‘No,’ Neil said quickly. ‘I don’t want some plod coming round with a notebook and a blunt pencil. I need to talk to you.’

Wesley hesitated for a moment. If Neil was willing to wait, his information couldn’t be that urgent. ‘Sorry. I’ll call you
as soon as I can. Okay?’

‘She’s not turned up for work.’

‘Who hasn’t?’ Wesley asked, puzzled by Neil’s sudden change of subject.

‘Diane.’

‘Have you called her?’

‘Not yet but …’

‘Why don’t you call her if you’re worried? Look, Neil, I really have to go. I’ll talk to you later.’

At that moment Gerry Heffernan came stomping out of his office. ‘Where’s Steve? Try and raise him on his mobile, will you
someone?’

‘I’ve already tried. There’s no answer,’ said Wesley.

‘Keep trying.’

The phone on Wesley’s desk rang again. This time it was Rachel. Barty Carter had confirmed that the person in the Chester
photograph was the same person he saw in Tradmouth. The face from the past – from Belsinger School. Gerry Heffernan gathered
what troops were there and stood in front of the notice board with its gruesome photographs of the Spider’s victims.

But just as he was about to begin his briefing, Wesley’s phone began to ring again. He answered it and signalled to Gerry
Heffernan. This was something important.

Heffernan was standing beside him, waiting for the call to end. ‘Well?’ he said as soon as the receiver was put down.

‘That was Father Joseph. Brother Francis has disappeared. He’s not told anyone where he’s gone.’

‘A disappearing monk,’ said Gerry Heffernan, rolling his eyes to heaven. ‘That’s all we flaming well need.’

Brother Francis had taken the call. He had told the brother with him that it was someone from St Giles’ calling about the
arrangements for the next open day for the homeless. But he had lied – a sin that would have to be atoned for like all the
rest. He could hardly have told the truth. That it was his past – his very own Nemesis – come to settle the score at last.

He knew it was wrong to take the abbey’s old Fiat that was used by any brother who needed it to travel on the Lord’s business. This
was nothing to do with doing good or helping the community. This was Francis’s business and his alone.

He crept into the courtyard where the trio of aging cars was kept, serviced and cared for by Brother James who’d been a mechanic
in his former, worldly life. The keys to the Fiat were in the ignition – the brothers worked on trust –
and Francis looked round to make sure nobody was watching before he started the engine. He didn’t want to have to explain
what he was doing or where he was going. He had to face this alone.

The meeting was to take place not far from where it happened. Appropriate really that things should turn full circle. That
he should make his final atonement in that place where his life had been cursed for ever.

He was a cautious driver who always stuck to the speed limit and he’d calculated that it would take him half an hour to get
there. He took the A roads until he saw the sign to Littlebury and, when he turned off, the lanes became narrow and winding,
single track in places with tall hedgerows towering either side. He prayed as he drove, for protection, for forgiveness.

It had begun to rain, a light drizzle which cast a fine veil over the green, rolling countryside and, as he passed the gates
of Belsinger School, his heart sank. It had been an awful place. Cruel. Brutal. Charlie Marrick had just been the personification
of that cruelty. The bully whose activities had been tolerated by the powers that be. Until it had all gone too far.

He turned the car into the narrow and overgrown lane – little more than a track – that led to the place. To his own private
hell.

As he parked the Fiat he saw another car pulled up on the verge by the path leading to Belsinger’s patch of woodland. Nemesis
was there already. Waiting for him.

There was no reply from Steve’s phone and when Paul Johnson called round at his flat he found that there was nobody in.

However, Gerry Heffernan didn’t seem particularly worried. It was just like Steve to go AWOL when he was needed.

It seemed that a car belonging to Shenton Abbey was missing, presumably taken by Brother Francis, and all patrols had been
alerted to be on the look-out for the small red Fiat. Wesley had a foreboding that Francis was in danger. And he felt helpless.

Heffernan’s mobile phone began to ring and, when he answered it, Wesley watched as his face turned an unhealthy shade of red.

‘Where the hell have you been? We’ve had everyone out looking for you.’ He turned to Wesley. ‘It’s Steve. Bloody idiot says
he’s only just heard I was after him.’ He barked into the phone again. ‘Get back to the station now.’

‘Well?’ said Wesley when the call was ended.

‘Steve says he’s been to the supermarket. He doesn’t half sail close to the wind that one.’

‘What about … ?’

Gerry Heffernan shook his head. ‘It’ll wait.’

Wesley hurried from the room. There were things to do. He just hoped they wouldn’t be too late.

At five o’clock Neil and his helpers packed up. People had been asking where Diane was all day and Neil had used the tried
and trusted story that she was ill. Nobody questioned illness – apart from Lenny. When he had asked what was wrong with Diane,
Neil had mouthed the words ‘women’s troubles’ and Lenny had fallen uncharacteristically silent.

Neil had put a brave face on it all day but as the day wore on and Diane still wasn’t answering her phone, his anxiety had
increased to the point where he could think of little else and he almost forgot that Wesley hadn’t called him as he’d promised.
He was quite relieved when it was time for all the equipment to be put away so that the diggers could go home. He helped the
students lock everything away in the site office and put tarpaulins over the trenches because rain was forecast that night. Then,
when everyone had gone,
he drove off, after locking the gate to the excavation field carefully behind him.

He was aware that he was driving too fast down the country lanes but he needed to reassure himself that Diane was okay. When
he reached the A road he put his foot down and the old yellow Mini protested with a judder. It seemed an age before he arrived
at Diane’s flat but the drive had only taken half an hour.

As he emerged from the car, he had a feeling that things weren’t right. Diane’s curtains were closed for a start. He opened
the wooden gate and the hinges creaked, breaking the expectant silence, and when he pressed her doorbell he could hear it
ringing in the distance but there was no sign of movement; no twitch of a curtain or faint rumble of footsteps on the bare
floorboards.

Neil stood for a while, wondering whether he should try Wesley’s number again and ask for his advice but then Wesley had made
it quite clear that his mind was on other things. Neil was on his own.

Except in matters archaeological, Neil Watson often found it hard to trust his own judgement. And as he stood there, shifting
from foot to foot at Diane’s front door, he was torn between driving back to Exeter and taking some decisive action. He struggled
with the conflicting options for a while before pressing one of the other doorbells. Maybe one of Diane’s neighbours would
know where she was.

There was no answer from the first but the second bell produced a tired-looking young Chinese woman who listened politely
to his concerns and let him into the hallway. She was a nurse, she explained, and she’d been on night duty so she’d been asleep
most of the day. She hadn’t seen Diane but, she admitted, it wasn’t like her to leave her curtains like that. By the time
they’d stood there in the hall for a few minutes wondering what to do, the young woman, who introduced herself as Eliza, looked
as worried as Neil felt.

The landlord, Eliza said, had a key. But, failing that, she added shyly, a credit card sometimes worked – she’d resorted to
that solution several times when she’d forgotten her own key. Neil took the hint and, with the help of Eliza who proved to
be far more experienced at breaking and entering than he was, they managed to open the door to Diane’s flat without much trouble.

Eliza’s hearing must have been more acute than Neil’s because he was still looking around, trying to get his bearings while
she was making a bee-line for the bathroom. He was about to follow her when he heard a low moan. Then he broke into a run.

‘Don’t come in,’ Eliza called as he hovered in the bathroom doorway. ‘Just ring for an ambulance. Quick.’ He knew it was Diane
in there but he asked no questions. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and made the call. Then he phoned Wesley. He’d need
to know about this.

Eliza was talking, mumbling reassuring words and she worked on Diane’s prone body with quiet efficiency. Then he heard a groan.

Diane was alive. Just.

Brother Francis knelt on the earth, oblivious to the scent of wet vegetation and the damp that penetrated the thick cloth
of his habit. Tears trickled down his cheek and he cursed himself again for his weakness.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he sobbed.’

The figure started to walk round the kneeling monk, slowly, like a scientist studying a particularly interesting specimen.

Francis knew it was no use arguing that he, along with Chris Grisham and Simon Tench had been innocents in those far-off days.
Boys caught up in wild games. Hypnotised by the will and whims of a much stronger personality … the personality of Charles
Marrick who had been as persuasive
in those days as Satan himself. Francis said nothing in his defence and he bowed his head in the heavy, threatening silence. The
birds seemed to stop singing:nature held its breath as though death was near. The death Francis was expecting and which he
knew he deserved.

Their eyes met in a split second of sympathy. Then the knife began to descend, slowly, almost ceremoniously. But its journey
was suddenly interrupted by the ringing of a mobile phone.

From the journal of Abbot Thomas Standing – 15 November 1535

I write as an unworldly man yet the world and all its evils are ever around us. John Tregonwell left soon after the hour of
Terce for his native Cornwall. I fear he desires to put an end to our house at Veland and has reported much to his masters. And
yet he knows nothing of the matter concerning Brother William. If he did, I fear the lad would be hanged as a common criminal
and that I cannot allow for I know he was driven to his crime.

Another call from Neil. Wesley felt a little guilty as he answered the phone. It was the third time Neil had tried to get
hold of him which suggested that he had something important to say. However, because of the new developments in the Spider
case, he hadn’t had a chance to call him back.

‘She’s been taken to hospital,’ Neil said as soon as he answered the phone. ‘She tried to kill herself.’

‘Who?’ Sometimes Neil tried his patience.

‘Diane. She killed Barry Ickerman. The skeleton in the woods. That’s what I’ve been trying to …’

Wesley listened carefully as Neil outlined what he knew. If it weren’t for the current emergency, this would be his top priority.
But as it was, there were lives at stake. ‘Where are you now?’

‘Tradmouth Hospital. How soon can you get here?’

Wesley took a deep breath and looked at his watch. ‘Sorry, we’ve got an emergency here. I’ll see you as soon as I can … I promise.’

There was a long silence. Then, ‘I’ve found out all about Brother William.’

‘Good,’ said Wesley. Even in a dire situation, Neil’s mind was still on archaeology.

‘Look, Neil, I’ve got to go. I’m sorry. I’ll get back to you soon. Promise.’

He felt bad but it was all he could do for now. They had to find Francis Duparc – and he only hoped they wouldn’t be too late.

‘They’ve tracked down the mobile phone signal. It’s in the vicinity of Belsinger School. And the helicopter’s spotted a red
car parked in the lane just by the woodland at the edge of the school grounds. According to Father Joseph at Shenton Abbey,
their missing car’s a red Fiat.’

‘It looks like they’re together,’ said Gerry Heffernan quietly. ‘Let’s hope we’re not too late.’

‘So what’s happening, sir?’ Steve Carstairs stood there with his mouth open. He looked confused. And a little lost.

Wesley gave him a sympathetic glance as the phone on Gerry Heffernan’s desk rang. The DCI picked it up and barked a ‘hello’. After
a few seconds he looked up at Wesley. ‘They’ve found Francis. He’s been taken to Tradmouth Hospital. But the killer’s got away
… disappeared. We’ve got the registration number. All patrols are on the look-out for the car.’

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘Let’s go and have a word with Brother Francis. I want to know once and for all what all this
is about.’

‘You and me both.’ Heffernan turned to Steve. ‘You stop here. If anything comes in let us know right away if not sooner.’

‘What’s going on, sir?’

Wesley had rarely seen Steve worried before. But there’s a first time for everything.

They had to talk to Francis Duparc urgently and twenty minutes later they were sitting at his bedside. Heffernan gave Wesley
a nudge: he’d let him do the talking.

There was no time for pleasantries, however brief. ‘We need to know what’s going on.’

The monk raised his right hand weakly. The blood was beginning to seep through the dressings on his upper body. The killer
hadn’t been controlled and methodical this time: it had been an unfocused, half-hearted attack and he’d had a lucky escape.
Perhaps someone up there had been looking after His own, Wesley thought fleetingly.

‘Have you found … ?’ His voice was stronger than Wesley had expected.

‘Not yet. But all patrols are out looking. We need to know the whole story. Why don’t you start at the beginning?’

Francis considered the question for a few moments. ‘Very well,’ he said before pausing to gather his thoughts. ‘I’d never encountered
real wickedness until I met Charles Marrick at Belsinger,’ he began, a tremor in his voice. ‘I’m not talking about naughtiness
or what they call nowadays challenging behaviour. Charles wasn’t necessarily naughty at school – he was too clever for that
– too sly to want to draw attention to himself by getting into trouble. But he – how shall I put it? – lacked basic human
feeling. He considered himself the centre of the universe and thought the rules of morality didn’t apply to him – not that
we realised that at the time, of course. He used people for his own ends. And he gathered a little clique of weaker boys –
including myself – around him. You have to understand, he was very charismatic, Inspector. If he hadn’t … if he hadn’t been
the way he was, he might have been a natural leader. He had a terrific
influence over us. And he manipulated us so that we’d do anything he suggested.’ He hesitated.