The Bone Garden (10 page)

Willerby seemed to hesitate before knocking on the glossy black front door of the pink-washed terraced house directly opposite
the church. There was no answer and after half a minute he knocked again, glancing round anxiously.

At last the front door opened slightly, then wider to admit the solicitor, who slipped swiftly inside. Gerry Heffernan, his
curiosity aroused, strained to see who had answered the door. But it was no use. Whoever it was had stood well back so as
not to be seen by any passer-by.

Heffernan once more stepped out of the porch of St Margaret’s church. The melody of ‘The Heavens Are Telling’ had completely
gone from his mind, which was now turning over what he had seen, rejecting one fantastic speculation after another. Brian
Willerby had looked like a very worried man, and Heffernan wondered what he was so anxious to discuss with Wesley. The possibilities
occupied his mind that night until he finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

‘Good morning, gentlemen. Lovely morning.’ Colin Bowman stood at the entrance to the post-mortem room, grinning genially in
his
green gown and plastic apron. ‘You’re in for the matinée performance, I take it. You’re just in time for curtain up. Come
and take your places in the stalls, if you please.’

Wesley Peterson and Gerry Heffernan exchanged looks. It was 8.45 in the morning. Far too early for this sort of thing. Wesley
wondered, not for the first time, how Colin Bowman managed to stay so cheerful. It must be something to do with not having
living patients burdening him with their troubles and ills. Wesley had never known his own parents and sister – all doctors
who dealt with the living – to be so jovial early in the morning.

He himself felt a little the worse for wear. Della and Jamie had stayed till midnight the previous evening, overstaying their
welcome by a good hour. Since Michael’s birth, sleep had become a precious commodity and, once ten o’clock had passed, he
had struggled to hide his irritation at the fact that Della could be so inconsiderate. That morning he had left Pam and the
baby asleep. Now he was trying hard to keep his own eyes open.

A few minutes later Colin was studying the body of the mystery man. Naked there on the table, he looked thinner than he had
done in the caravan and, now that they could see his features clearly in the strong light, much younger, more vulnerable.

As Colin recorded his observations into a suspended microphone before making the first incision into the pale flesh, Wesley
stared at the body, willing it to give up its secrets. In a moment, when the cutting began, he would look away as he always
did. He had had no inclination to follow the rest of the family into a medical career; he hadn’t the stomach for it.

But Gerry Heffernan had no such qualms. He chatted away cheerfully as the pathologist went about his gruesome tasks. ‘So what
do you reckon, Colin?’ he asked as Bowman began to stitch up the body.

‘Well, I can’t give you a definitive answer without the usual tests, Gerry, but my preliminary findings are that he’s a well-nourished
male in his mid-twenties, five feet eleven inches tall, no visible scars or tattoos, and healthy until someone stuck a knife
in his back. He was killed with something that’s probably like your common-or-garden chef’s knife about a foot long, and he
was stabbed twice. There was no sign of sexual activity prior to death and the assailant was right-handed and would have ended
up with blood-spattered clothing.’

‘Was much force used? Could a woman have done it?’ asked Heffernan.

‘I’d say a woman could have done it, yes,’ said Bowman, staring down at the body. ‘He had been dead approximately forty-eight
hours when he was found, which means he died, say, Tuesday night or early Wednesday morning. I can’t say for certain. I’m
afraid that’s all I can give you so far.’

He paused, staring at the body. ‘There is one thing that might be relevant. There seem to be some threads caught in the wounds;
I’ll send them off for analysis. It’s my guess that he was wearing something when he was stabbed, a T-shirt say. The killer
must have removed it after death. Interesting?’

Wesley nodded. ‘Might be.’

Heffernan shuffled his feet, as keen as Wesley to be out of the post-mortem room. ‘Thanks, Colin. Let us have the other test
results as soon as you can, won’t you.’

‘Have I ever let you down, Gerry? When I’ve cleaned myself up, do you fancy a coffee?’

There was nothing the two policemen would have liked better, but there was work to be done. When they had said their farewells
they walked back to the police station in amicable silence, each preoccupied with his own thoughts about the young man lying
in the mortuary.

When they reached Heffernan’s office they found a pile of crisp new reports on his desk. The inspector picked them up with
the glee of a child opening a Christmas parcel. ‘Here they are, Wes. Just what we’ve been waiting for.’ He plonked himself
down in his swivel chair, which gave an ominous groan. Wesley sat himself down in the office’s other chair and awaited the
verdict.

‘No matches with the dead man’s fingerprints, which means he’s not been one of our loyal customers. The pattern of the bloodstains
confirms what Colin said. He was stabbed from behind, probably when he was standing by that bench seat next to where he was
found. He might have been reaching up to get something from the cupboards above. And someone had gone round and done a good
job of wiping the place of fingerprints around the living area and the caravan door. The rest of the caravan hadn’t been cleaned
up so we can assume that the murderer only got as far as the living area.’

‘Or the killer wore gloves to search the rest of the caravan. As we didn’t find anything to identify the victim I think it’s
likely that the
place must have been searched thoroughly. Which means he – or she – had come prepared. It was all planned.’

Heffernan nodded. Wesley’s theory made sense. ‘Anyway, another set of fingerprints was found in the living area.’ He grinned,
as though he were about to reveal some tantalising secret. ‘And guess who they belong to.’

‘I give up, sir. Who do they belong to?’ said Wesley obligingly.

‘Only Craig Kettering. A lad who’s been a loyal customer of ours ever since his first appearance at the youth court. Burglary
and petty theft are his specialities. There’s a rumour going round the canteen that he’s been seen delivering pizzas. Useful
cover for a burglar, eh? Gives a whole new meaning to the word takeaway.’

‘So he might have been trying his luck at the caravan park and stumbled on the body,’ said Wesley, catching on quickly. ‘Do
you think it was him who reported it?’

‘It fits. Knowing Craig as I do, I can see that he’d prefer to remain anonymous when dealing with the local constabulary.
Let’s go and have a word with him, eh.’ He looked at his watch. ‘He’ll still be asleep. We’ll give him an alarm call in half
an hour, shall we?’

‘Whatever you say. Is there anything else in that forensic report?’ Wesley stifled an unexpected yawn.

Heffernan shook his head. ‘Nothing of any importance.’

‘We know Craig Kettering was at the scene but you seem to have ruled him out for the actual murder?’

‘I’ve known Craig since his first caution. Murder’s hardly his style. Go and look him up on the computer and tell me if you
agree. I think he just found the body while he was on his rounds, as it were.’

Wesley returned to his desk and called up Craig Kettering’s details on his screen. Gerry Heffernan was right. Craig was a
petty thief with no history of violence. Even when he was once cornered by an irate shopkeeper, he had waited patiently in
a storeroom for the police to arrive and had come quietly. He was a model villain: stabbing a stranger in the back, as the
inspector had said, just wasn’t his style at all.

As he stared at the computer screen, Wesley remembered something. He had promised himself that he would check Jamie’s name,
just to make sure that Della wasn’t consorting with anybody undesirable like a mass murderer, an armed robber … or a fraudster.
All through the previous evening he had had a nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right about the man, but he hadn’t
been able
to pinpoint exactly what. But knowing Della, he thought, a colourfully criminal past might prove attractive in a man: might
give her added kudos in the sociology department, where she taught. There was no accounting for the way his mother-in-law’s
mind worked. He tapped out the name James Delmann and waited.

But there was no match for the name. James Delmann had led a tediously virtuous life – either that or Delmann wasn’t his real
name. He had claimed to come from Leeds. He wondered whether he should get on to the Leeds police and see if they knew of
anyone answering Jamie’s description defrauding unsuspecting widows in their area. But then he rebuked himself. He had found
James Delmann too smooth by half – but perhaps he was just prejudiced against the silkily confident. Or maybe his work in
the police force was making him too suspicious. He would report back to Pam that all was well and that her mother wasn’t in
immediate danger of rape, murder or robbery.

‘Got a minute, Sarge?’

Wesley looked up to see Steve Carstairs standing there, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

‘Yes, Steve. What is it?’ He pressed a key and wiped James Delmann’s name from the computer screen.

‘I’ve been through all the statements from the people staying in the caravans near the dead man’s,’ Steve said, avoiding Wesley’s
eyes. ‘Nobody saw nothing. But a woman in a caravan in the next row thought she heard raised voices late on Tuesday night
… around one in the morning, she said.’ He put a pile of papers on the desk.

‘Thanks. It might be worth having a word with her to see if she can tell us anything else. When’s she due to leave the site?’

Steve looked at him blankly.

‘When does her holiday finish? When’s she going home?’ Wesley did his best to hide his impatience.

‘I think she said Monday,’ Steve mumbled, his hands in the pockets of his expensive leather jacket.

‘Well, why don’t you get over there now and see if you can have another word with her. Find out exactly what she heard.’ Steve
turned to go. ‘Take Paul Johnson with you. Okay?’ PC Johnson was a sensible, if spotty, young constable on secondment to CID.
Wesley could rely on him to provide a steadying influence.

As Steve left the office, jangling the keys to his precious Escort XR3i ostentatiously, Rachel came over and perched herself
on
Wesley’s desk. ‘How’s it going?’ she whispered, leaning towards him. ‘Steve doesn’t get any easier, does he? I’ve heard rumours
that he wants to apply to join the Met.’

‘That’s all the Met needs,’ said Wesley. ‘As if they don’t have enough problems. I shouldn’t have thought he’d want to leave
his home comforts. Am I right in thinking he has a flat in Morbay and his mum comes in and does all his cleaning and washing?’

‘That’s right. No wonder he thinks women are there for his convenience. How did the post-mortem go?’

‘How do post-mortems ever go? Unpleasant. The victim was stabbed twice in the back and it’s possible the murderer went through
the place taking anything that would identify the victim and wiping away any incriminating fingerprints. It seems he or she
was efficient.’

‘So we’ve drawn a blank?’

‘It’s early days but the boss and I are going to have a chat with Craig Kettering. His fingerprints were found at the scene
and the boss has a theory that he’s the one who found the body and made the anonymous phone call. We’ll see if he’s right.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know. But I suspect there might be some connection with a place called Earlsacre. He asked the woman who owned the
caravan park about it and we found a newspaper cutting about it under his mattress. It’s an historic garden that’s being restored.
Neil’s working on it.’

‘Is he indeed?’ said Rachel significantly. She had met Neil, had seen how Wesley’s old friend could reawaken his interest
in archaeological mysteries at the siren drop of a trowel. She didn’t see the appeal in dead dusty ruins herself, but Wesley
seemed to find them fascinating, so she tried to take a polite interest. ‘What do they need an archaeologist in a garden for?’
she asked, puzzled.

‘They’re excavating the seventeenth-century garden that’s buried under the present one. They’ve discovered lots of things
– paths, buildings, flower-beds … couple of skeletons.’ He grinned.

‘So I suppose you’ll be seizing every opportunity to get down there.’

‘Not at all. If I go to Earlsacre it’ll be strictly in the line of duty,’ Wesley said convincingly. ‘Apart from this afternoon,
of course.’

‘What’s happening this afternoon?’

‘Bob Naseby’s cricket match: the Divisional XI versus Earlsacre Village XI. He’s persuaded me to play, but when he sees how
bad I am he won’t ask me again,’ he said with fragile confidence.

‘Oh, Wesley, I’m surprised at you, I really am. You realise your weekends won’t be your own now?’

Wesley looked at her, unable to work out whether she was joking or not.

‘So you’re not coming down to cheer us on, then?’

Her lips tightened. ‘I lost a boyfriend to the cricket field once. Every spare moment he spent there. If it wasn’t interminable
matches it was practising in something called “the nets”. Just watch it, that’s all. Cricket’s an addiction like any other.’

‘I’ll remember.’ Their eyes met and Rachel began to smile. ‘How are things at the farm?’ Wesley asked. ‘How’s Dave?’

The smile disappeared. ‘Okay.’ She changed the subject, probably deliberately, Wesley thought, and waved a piece of paper
she was holding in front of his nose. ‘I was coming to show you this. There have been another two reports of an old man borrowing
money from tourists which they never see again … one in Morbay and one in Bloxham. Same description and same MO. I think he’s
almost certainly obtaining money by deception.’

‘That’s all we need.’

Gerry Heffernan lumbered out of his office. ‘Right, Wes. Let’s go and give Craig Kettering his wake-up call, shall we?’