The Blood Pit (6 page)

When the Earl Grey had been drunk and appreciated, Colin led the way to the postmortem room. Heffernan walked by the pathologist’s
side, chatting but Wesley hung back. No matter how many times he entered this place of death, he never became hardened to
what he knew he was about to witness. Heffernan knew how he felt but said nothing. For which Wesley was eternally grateful. Some
bosses would have used it as a cue for snide remarks and teasing … like his former guvnor at the Met had done.

Charles Marrick was lying on the stainless steel table in the centre of the white-tiled room. There was a time when Pam had
hankered after a kitchen in the same materials but when Wesley had told her what it brought to mind, she had opted for something
more homely.

Marrick looked strangely peaceful, considering how he had met his end. The flesh was pallid as wax but the livid wounds on
his neck provided a shocking dash of colour.

‘Well nourished male in his early thirties,’ Colin announced
as he made his preliminary examination of the body. ‘Good muscle tone – he kept himself fit. No sign of injury apart from
two wounds in the neck which appear to have pierced the artery causing major blood loss undoubtedly leading to death.’ He
looked up at the two policemen. ‘In my opinion the wounds were made by some sort of sharp, narrow blade. Stabbing rather than
slashing.’

‘Not a vampire then,’ said Gerry Heffernan with a grin.

Colin chuckled. ‘Can’t rule anything out at this stage, Gerry, but I’ll opt for a thin sharp knife.’

Wesley looked away as Colin made the initial incision into the chest, keeping up a chatty commentary into the microphone which
dangled above the corpse – it saved making notes in an awkward situation.

As Colin worked, Wesley studied the tiled floor, glancing up occasionally to ask an intelligent question. He avoided the sight
of the internal organs being taken from the body and weighed and the stomach contents being emptied into a bowl and examined,
although he caught a strong whiff of garlic and whisky mingling with the scent of air freshener and formaldehyde, which rather
put paid to Gerry’s vampire theory.

The stomach contents, Colin told him, indicated that the dead man had eaten a hearty lunch a couple of hours before death.
Some sort of game … quail perhaps, Colin guessed – he was a man who enjoyed the good things of life – accompanied by a some
sort of fancy potato dish with garlic. He had drunk a small amount of red wine and he had washed the whole thing down with
coffee and a quantity of whisky.

Colin Bowman believed in doing a thorough job and it was half an hour before he delivered his final verdict. ‘The cause of
death was loss of blood through those neck wounds. But he didn’t put up a fight, which I find a little puzzling. The angle
of the wounds suggests that his attacker was facing him so I’m surprised he didn’t raise his hands to defend himself.’ He
picked up the corpse’s right arm and examined
it closely, shaking his head. ‘No defensive wounds. And there’s no sign that he was restrained in any way – no rope or tape
marks anywhere on the body.’ He looked at Heffernan. ‘You sure we’re not talking suicide here, Gerry?’

The DCI shook his head. ‘No note and no sign of the weapon.’

Colin nodded. ‘Mmm. Come to think of it, the angle of the wound’s wrong for suicide. I can see from the mark where his watch
has been that he wore it on his left wrist which suggests he was right handed. If that’s the case, he’d most likely have swept
a knife across his throat from the left to sever the artery.’ He demonstrated with his hand.

Colin studied the corpse for a few moments then he suddenly took a magnifying glass off the trolley by his side. After making
a close examination of the left arm, he looked up. ‘There are some scars on the arm – only faint. Probably old cuts or deep
scratches.’ He put the magnifying glass down. ‘They could even date back to childhood so I think we can forget about them.
I’ll send the stomach contents off for a toxicology report. Taking a blood sample’s a wee bit difficult as he’s not got much
left in him but I’ll do my best. And if you want to come back to my office for another cup of tea, I’ll make a sketch of the
type of knife the killer used.’

‘Thanks, Colin,’ said Heffernan. He lingered by the table for a while, staring at the corpse of Charles Marrick as though
he was expecting him to sit up and tell all. Wesley hung back, focusing his eyes on the microphone … on anything but the remains
of the victim, the reason why they were there.

Colin nodded to his assistant to indicate that he had finished and began to make for the door, Wesley and Heffernan following
in his wake. Then he suddenly turned to face them. ‘Do you know, gentlemen, I’d say this was the very opposite of a frenzied
attack. I’d say that whoever killed Charles Marrick took a great deal of care to puncture the neck in
exactly the right place. It’s a neat job … there’s no tearing around the wounds. Straight in and out.’ He looked at Wesley
for a reaction.

‘He might have been incapable of defending himself … drink or drugs maybe.’

‘It’s possible. The tox report’ll tell us that.’

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘Or it could be that the victim knew his killer and co-operated in his own death.’

Colin sighed. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Wesley. But I’d say that was a distinct possibility.’

Sam Heffernan folded his new overalls carefully and placed them in the boot of Simon Tench’s Land Rover along with his unworn
wellingtons and his shiny new medical bag.

‘Ready?’ Simon asked, unlocking the car door.

Sam nodded.

‘Should be a straightforward calving. Nothing to worry about,’ Simon said reassuringly as Sam climbed into the passenger seat
wondering how long it would be before he shed the mantle of ‘new boy’.

He liked Simon, the junior partner at the Cornvale Veterinary Surgery. Simon didn’t make him feel foolish when he made a mistake
like some would.

‘Have the police been in touch again about that break-in?’ Sam asked, making conversation as Simon turned the key in the ignition.

‘No. Maybe you should have to have a word with your dad. No use having friends in high places if you don’t make use of them.’

Sam didn’t answer, unsure whether to take the comment seriously. His dad had enough on his plate at the moment without being
troubled by kids smashing a window and pinching drugs from a vet’s surgery.

As Simon swung the Land Rover left on to the main road, Sam noticed a figure step back into the shadow of the
tall laurels by the surgery gate as they passed. He had a strong sense that there was something malevolent about the person,
whoever he or she was, but he told himself he was imagining things. Perhaps it was the monk-like hood that shrouded the figure’s
head on such a fine day that gave him the creeps.

Or perhaps it was the uneasy feeling that the figure had no face.

I have dreams about monks – bad dreams. And in those dreams they’re swimming through rivers of blood. Hot blood, flowing through
the passages and cloisters of their abbey, sweeping into their great church and carrying away the costly ornaments and the
painted statues of their saints.

On the TV you said that you wanted to know more about the history of the abbey and I will find out all I can for you. I know
that Veland Abbey was a Cistercian foundation built in the late thirteenth century. The Cistercians – or white monks – usually
built their establishments in isolated locations and sustained themselves by working the land. Some of the houses eventually
became very wealthy and I wonder if the devil wormed his way into the hearts of the monks of Veland through the sin of avarice.
You see I know the end of Brother William’s story but I don’t yet know how the terrible events began. The worm in the bud that
grew into mortal sin and resulted in death.

It must be so good to be like you, Neil, and know that there’s a point to it all.

I will write again soon.

Wesley and Heffernan were silent as they left the hospital, taking in the implications of what Colin Bowman had told them.
From what they had learned from his widow, Charles
Marrick had hardly been the sort to lie back meekly and allow someone to kill him. It didn’t make sense.

Le Petit Poisson was their next port of call. They hadn’t warned Fabrice Colbert of their impending visit. Gerry Heffernan
always liked to take his witnesses unawares … before they had time to perfect their story. The restaurant was within walking
distance of the hospital so it made sense to make the journey on foot. Besides, Gerry Heffernan claimed that he was in need
of the exercise – Joyce, his lady friend, had begun to drop hints about his weight.

Le Petit Poisson was a turreted folly of a building perched above Battlefleet Creek, half a mile up the steep street leading
to Tradmouth Castle. Wesley had heard that the restaurant’s view over the river was spectacular – not that, on a policeman’s
salary, he had ever sampled its delights himself.

‘Wonder if garlic spuds are on the menu,’ Heffernan mused as they approached the gleaming glass door.

The place reeked of quality. There was no ostentation here, nothing flashy about the discreet Michelin stars displayed above
the sparkling white menus housed in a glass case beside the entrance. Wesley began to read the beautifully printed bill of
fare. It sounded good. And the figures by each dish told him at a glance that the price matched the food. Top quality.

‘Can’t stand the snooty waiters you get in these places,’ Heffernan mumbled, shifting from foot to foot like a Victorian tradesman
who’d just realised he’d rung the front door bell of the big house instead of going round the back to the servants’ entrance.

Wesley rang the bell again and this time a young man appeared, dressed in sleek black with hair to match. He mouthed ‘Sorry,
we’re closed’ without looking very sorry at all and he was about to disappear back into the bowels of the building when Wesley
held up his warrant card. There followed a frantic unlocking of the door and when it opened the young man stood there, looking
nervous.

‘We’d like to speak to Monsieur Colbert if we may,’ Wesley said politely. There was no point in alienating potential witnesses
unnecessarily.

There was no mistaking it, the young man’s expression changed from nervous to terrified. ‘Chef’s busy,’ he said, almost in
a whisper. ‘He doesn’t like to be disturbed.’

Wesley gave the young waiter – he was certain he was a waiter – a sympathetic smile. He’d worked for a chief inspector like
that when he’d first started in CID in the Met. ‘I’m afraid we have to talk to him. It’s important.’

The young waiter looked dubious. Chef wouldn’t be best pleased about being disturbed for some trivial police matter like a
speeding ticket – and Chef found it almost impossible to stick to the speed limit in his Porsche. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here,’
he said, preparing to scuttle away.

‘Tell him it’s about the murder of Charles Marrick,’ Wesley said to the man’s disappearing back.

The waiter turned, his eyes wide. ‘Murder?’

‘That’s right, mate. Murder,’ Heffernan said with inappropriate relish.

There was no more argument. The waiter disappeared through a swing door, leaving the two policemen to wander into the restaurant.

The reports hadn’t lied. Two walls of the room were taken up by massive windows which gave a spectacular view over the river.
The tables by the windows would be the most desirable and Wesley wondered if the diners were charged a premium for them. Probably.
But then anyone who could afford to dine at Le Petit Poisson probably didn’t care too much about a few extra pounds. The tables
were well spaced out and swathed in white linen straight out of a washing powder advert. Nothing cheap and cheerful here.
In fact it was all a little too perfect for his liking. He’d have felt awkward eating here.

The young waiter appeared in the doorway. ‘Chef will see
you now,’ he said in a hushed voice, like a royal flunky about to show someone into the presence of the Queen herself.

They were led into a huge kitchen which looked as though it had been designed by the person responsible for Colin Bowman’s
postmortem room. The white tiles were polished to a dazzling shine and you could use the stainless steel surfaces as a mirror
in an emergency. White-clad acolytes were scattered around, chopping vegetables, mixing sauces and attending bubbling stockpots,
and seated on a stool at the end of the room, flicking through a file, was the great man himself. Average height with luxuriant
locks and a pristine white jacket with his name embroidered on the right breast, Fabrice Colbert looked the part. King of
his kitchen. And a hard taskmaster.

He stood up and addressed one of the sauce makers. ‘Damien. How many times have I told you? Taste the fucking thing. How can
you get the seasoning correct if you do not use your sense of taste?’

‘
Oui
, Chef,’ barked the terrified Damien like a rooky private answering the sergeant major.

‘Imbecile,’ Colbert muttered to nobody in particular. ‘Why must they always send me incompetent monkeys?’ He swung round to
face Wesley who instinctively took a step backwards.

‘You wish to speak with me about Charlie?’ He pronounced Charlie the French way.

Wesley cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sir. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’

Colbert made a vague Gallic gesture with his hands and began to march towards a door marked ‘Private’. Heffernan gave Wesley
a nudge and they followed. It wasn’t often Gerry Heffernan looked overawed but it seemed that Fabrice Colbert had rendered
him speechless. Wesley, however, told himself firmly that he wasn’t one of Colbert’s kitchen hands and there was no way he
was going to be intimidated by a
jumped-up cook. He kept this thought in his mind as he entered what he assumed to be the chef’s office and sat down without
being invited. After a few moments of hesitation, Gerry Heffernan did likewise.