The Blood Pit (9 page)

‘How’s the job going?’ Wesley asked.

‘Great.’ Sam looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to be out in ten minutes. Lucky I’ve not got far to commute.’

‘The Cornvale Veterinary Clinic on the Neston road, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. I’m off to an equestrian centre with one of my new colleagues today. In fact he was on telly the other night.
Did you see him? Simon Tench his name is. Him and his wife were in this property programme … looking for a cottage to renovate.’

‘Him and a thousand second-home owners,’ Wesley said with a hint of bitterness. ‘Pam was watching it – she likes that sort
of thing. She said something about it being local but I wasn’t taking much notice.’

Sam grinned again. ‘I wouldn’t normally have watched it but Simon told me it was on so I felt obliged. I’m the new boy so
I’ve got to ingratiate myself.’

‘Too right,’ Wesley said with a laugh as Sam slipped his jacket on.

He looked around. Gerry Heffernan’s house was normally as neat and tidy as his desk at the police station was chaotic. Even
though Gerry always claimed this was a hangover from his days in the Merchant Navy, Wesley had always wondered how a man could
behave so differently at home and at work. But today there were unwashed dishes on the coffee table and yesterday’s newspapers
scattered on the floor. Even the piano was graced with an empty pizza box. Gerry’s children were home. And they didn’t share
his tendency to keep things shipshape.

Gerry himself appeared from the kitchen. ‘Sit down, Wes, if you can find somewhere,’ he added pointedly, looking at his son
who was making a speedy getaway.

Wesley pushed a cardigan – obviously Rosie’s – to one side and sat himself down on the sofa.

‘What are we going to do about Steve Carstairs?’ Heffernan asked unexpectedly as soon as Sam had gone.

‘I know what I’d like to do,’ said Wesley. He wasn’t normally a vindictive man but sometimes Steve had pushed his tolerance
to the limit.

Gerry sat down heavily in an armchair opposite Wesley with a loud creak of leather. ‘Even if he’s cleared of this accusation,
I’m going to recommend he’s returned to uniform. It’s not that he’s bad at his job but …’

Wesley said nothing. It was the DCI’s decision. ‘Do you think he beat up Carl Pinney?’ he asked after a few moments.

‘Pinney was certainly punched in the face when he resisted arrest but the doctor says the head injuries he got in the cell
could be consistent with a fall. But whether Steve did or he didn’t, we’ll have an internal investigation on our hands. And
the one thing I don’t want is for it to bugger up this murder enquiry.’

‘Think Pinney could have killed Charlie Marrick?’

‘There’s no evidence that he did … except his knife was the same as the murder weapon. But if Forensic come up with a match
…’

Wesley nodded. It was a long shot but they had to make sure. ‘What about our celebrity chef?’

‘He’s got the motive. But he’s also got an alibi. There’s Marrick’s widow of course. She hardly seems heartbroken. And I get
the impression her daughter didn’t have much time for her stepfather – there’s something odd there.’

‘She says she was in Bath when it happened. On her own, so no alibi.’

‘She could have driven down and killed him, started back then turned round when she got her mother’s phone call. She’s certainly
not out of the frame … if we can come up with a motive.’

‘And if Pinney’s knife isn’t the murder weapon. I can’t see her going to Morbay specially and wasting valuable time dumping
it on the Winterham Estate, can you?’

Gerry Heffernan scratched his head. ‘Probably not. Mind you, it’d be a good way of throwing us off the scent. Has your mate
Neil had any more funny letters?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘You think there could be a connection with Marrick’s murder … the mention of blood and all that?’

Wesley said he had no idea but he thought it unlikely. Neil had been on TV and had probably attracted the attention of someone
who was disturbed. The most unsettling thing, in Wesley’s opinion, was that whoever it was had Neil’s home address. But anyone
determined enough could find it out from the electoral register.

They walked to the police station in amicable silence and when they arrived Heffernan gave his customary morning briefing.
One wall of the incident room was taken up with photographs of the victim, alive and dead. One of the photographs showed Charles
Marrick in a bar with friends, good
looking, smooth and prosperous, the life and soul of the party. In the other he was posed against the ruins of Machu Picchu
with a smug expression on his face, arrogant as any conquistador of old.

In contrast, the police pictures of Marrick’s corpse, taken from various angles, showed the shell of the man. No self-satisfied
smile. No life at all – that had drained from him with his blood. Wesley stood there during the briefing, staring at the images.
He wanted to know more about Marrick. He wanted to know what had driven someone to plunge a knife into his neck and leave
him there to die. And he wanted to know why he hadn’t put up a fight.

He was lost in his own thoughts when he heard the DCI mention Steve Carstairs’s name. A formal complaint had been made, he
said, and if anyone knew anything about the incident they were to come forward. But nobody made a move. Rather the whole team
looked mildly embarrassed and shuffled their collective feet. Only Trish Walton looked as though she wanted to leap to Steve’s
defence. But she had no information to offer so she kept silent.

Once the briefing was over and everyone was assigned their tasks, Rachel Tracey marched up to Wesley, brimming with untold
news. She perched on the edge of his desk and leaned towards him. He could smell her perfume, light and floral. She smiled,
showing a set of perfect white teeth.

‘Good news,’ she began.

‘What is? Steve’s suspension?’ He couldn’t resist saying it.

She ignored the remark. ‘Some fingerprints were found in Charles Marrick’s bedroom. They don’t match the wife, the stepdaughter
or the cleaner. I’m having them matched against the database.’

‘Good. Let’s hope it’s the breakthrough we need.’

‘And everyone at Fabrice Colbert’s restaurant was interviewed yesterday. When we had a close look at the statements we found
some inconsistencies.’

Wesley sat up, taking notice. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The wine waiter …’

‘Sommelier. He’s called the sommelier at Le Petit Poisson.’

‘The wine waiter,’ she began again defiantly, ‘said he was with Colbert all afternoon. He said they visited a wine merchant’s
in Neston – Varney’s Vintages.’

‘And?’

‘It didn’t tie in with a statement from one of the young chefs. He said he was looking for Colbert that afternoon because
there’d been a phone call for him. He said he asked the sommelier where he was and he said he’d just been to Neston with him
but they’d split up because Colbert had to go somewhere and he’d be back in half an hour.’

‘So they told the truth about the Neston trip but after they’d been to Varney’s they split up?’

‘That’s about it. He’s the only one who mentioned the discrepancy. Mind you, it was his day off and he was interviewed at
home. Nobody had time to get to him and tell him the authorised version.’

Wesley thought for a few moments. ‘Are you sure he’s not mistaken? Are you sure he hasn’t got the day wrong or …’

‘It’s always a possibility. But if you want my opinion, I think we should get Fabrice Colbert in here fast.’

‘With any luck he might give the cooks in the station canteen some tips.’

‘I’m being serious, Wesley.’ She pressed her lips together.

‘So am I,’ he replied, feeling defiantly flippant – sometimes Rachel’s serious nature affected him that way. ‘I’ll tell the
boss. I’m sure he’ll be up for another trip to Le Petit Poisson. If we time it right, maybe we’ll get a free lunch. If there
is such a thing.’ He grinned at her and she shook her head.

‘You’ve met Colbert. Do you think he could have done it?’ she asked.

‘Have you seen his programme on the TV? All that shouting and swearing.’

Rachel nodded.

‘Pam always said it was an act … that nobody could behave like that at work and survive. But she’s wrong. That’s exactly what
he’s like. His staff are terrified of him. Gerry Heffernan at his very worst is a pussy cat compared to Colbert.’

‘So he killed Charles Marrick in a fit of rage?

‘You know me, Rach. I never jump to conclusions.’

As she walked away, Wesley stared at the picture of Colbert that had just been pinned on the notice board to join their gallery
of suspects. Most murders were simple. And this one probably wouldn’t be any different.

Annette Marrick stared at the lounge door. It had been closed since the police Forensic team had left and she wasn’t quite
sure whether she was allowed in there. But, on the other hand, it was her house. They couldn’t tell her what to do in her own
house.

They had taken fingerprints – left everywhere covered in a mess of grey powder, even the bedrooms. And she was afraid. If
she’d thought, if she’d kept a clear head, she could have wiped everything before the police arrived. The horror of Charlie’s
death had driven all practicalities from her mind. But from now on she’d be far more careful.

She felt a sudden urge to enter the room, to break that invisible seal that had formed on the bland white door and to see
the scene of Charlie’s death once more. The room would have to be stripped, of course, and the sooner the better. All trace
of him would have to be removed. All trace of the man who was a cheat, a bully and a brute.

She walked to the door and placed her right hand on the handle. This was it. Courage.

‘What are you doing?’

Annette swung round. Petronella was standing there, her eyes full of contempt.

‘Do the police know that you wanted to get rid of him
like you got rid of me?’ she said in a heavy whisper. She walked up to Annette and put her face close to hers. ‘That’s what
you do isn’t it, Mummy?’ The word was almost spat with hatred. ‘You get rid of people who are inconvenient.’

Annette stood, stunned, for a few seconds before rushing up the stairs and slamming the bedroom door behind her.

But if she’d turned she would have seen the tears streaming down Petronella’s face.

Gerry Heffernan was unavailable. He had to see Chief Superintendent Nutter about the Steve Carstairs situation. Carl Pinney
had gone home to nurse his wounds and his solicitor was talking about prosecution and compensation. Gerry rather suspected
that Carl Pinney was more concerned with obtaining the latter than the former.

At eleven o’clock Wesley decided that he couldn’t put off his visit to Le Petit Poisson for much longer. He asked Rachel to
go with him because he trusted her judgement. Besides, he felt the Frenchman might respond better to an attractive female.
Or maybe he was just indulging in racial stereotypes.

It was raining quite heavily – a depression coming in from the Atlantic – so Wesley decided to drive. Arriving to interview
a potential suspect soaking wet would hardly bestow on him an air of authority. When they reached the restaurant it seemed
busier than it had on his last visit. He looked at his watch – they’d be preparing for the lunchtime rush. If there would
be a rush at those prices. But then the rich are always with us, thought Wesley, racking his brains for who had said that
first, and the white-trousered yachtsmen on the river had been denied good sailing that day so they were in need of some consolation.

He pushed the door open and went in, Rachel following, looking around. She came from a farming family who never visited those
sort of places and she herself had never thought it worth stretching her budget just for something to eat. On
special occasions she went to the Tradmouth Castle like most other locals. Le Petit Poisson was a cut above.

They were met by the young waiter who had greeted Wesley and Heffernan on their last visit. He looked worried. ‘Chef’s busy,’
he said when Wesley asked to speak to Colbert. ‘Can you come back around three?’

Wesley gave him a sympathetic smile as he explained that murder enquiries didn’t tailor themselves to Chef ’s convenience.
He needed to speak to Fabrice Colbert and he needed to speak to him now. But from the fearful look on the young man’s face
he was starting to think his insistence might be a mistake. An infuriated Colbert might be hard to handle.

Suddenly he had an even better idea. He made a great show of reconsidering his request. ‘Well perhaps my word with Monsieur
Colbert will keep till this afternoon. I wouldn’t want to upset the smooth running of the restaurant.’ He gave the young waiter
what he considered to be an understanding smile. ‘But as we’re here, I’d be grateful if I could have a word with your sommelier
– Jean-Claude, isn’t it? I won’t need to keep him long.’

The relief on the waiter’s face was clear. Jean-Claude, the sommelier, obviously didn’t inspire as much abject terror as the
chef. In fact when Jean-Claude Montfort appeared, he was wearing an expression of wary curiosity – an expression Wesley usually
saw on the faces of innocent men.

Somehow Wesley had expected the sommelier of a Michelin-starred restaurant to be tall, dark and superior with sleek hair and
a disdainful manner. The sort of man who sniggered silently if you failed to observe the rituals of the establishment and
sneered if you chose the cheapest wine on the list. But Jean-Claude Montfort was small with thinning ginger hair and a tendency
to smile. He invited Wesley and Rachel into the restaurant and the three of them sat down at one of the corner tables.

‘Would you like a coffee?’ he asked. ‘I know you policemen …’ He looked at Rachel and smiled, radiating Gallic charm in her
direction. ‘I apologise – police
persons
cannot drink while you are on duty.’

Rachel felt herself blushing. ‘Thank you. A coffee would be nice.’

Wesley nodded in agreement. Coffee would oil the wheels – make things more relaxed. And he wanted the man to be at his ease.
Off his guard.