The Bone Garden (16 page)

‘Of course. She said he was out. In fact she said he’s been out every night this week. He claimed he was with clients, but
she was a bit vague about it all. She said she didn’t know anything about his work.’

‘Well, that’s a lie for a start. Her brother said she used to be his secretary.’

Rachel raised her eyebrows but didn’t answer. They had reached her car. She unlocked it and climbed in. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,
then, after the post-mortem.’

‘Yes.’

She looked at him for a few seconds. ‘Fancy coming for a drink? We could have something to eat in a pub or …’

‘I’d better get back. Gerry promised to save me some food. Sorry.’

She drove off and Wesley walked slowly back up the drive of Earlsacre Hall towards the stable block where he’d left his car.
He passed the cricket pitch, now deserted, and noticed a swathe of blue-and-white police tape decorating the trees at the
far side, keeping the public away from the scene of Brian Willerby’s death. He marched on towards the hall, poking its head
above the surrounding trees, shrouded in its armour of scaffolding.

He contemplated looking for Neil, but the place seemed deserted. The people who were working on Earlsacre had probably packed
up for the day. Besides, he knew he should get back home and appease Pam. And he was hungry.

As he drove off towards Tradmouth he kept thinking of Brian Willerby. Why did he have the feeling that there had been something
in the dull solicitor’s life that his wife and brother-in-law wanted to conceal?

1 July 1701

Memorandum – to plant six apple trees at the west side of ye kitchen garden.

Memorandum – to cause ye grass in the water garden to be mown.

4 July 1701

Memorandum – the large plinth of Beer stone purchased by Sir Richard for the walled garden to be set in the middle of the
same garden. (Note – Sir Richard did cause the men to rise early and did order the stone to be set in place just after dawn.
Nine men paid 1d each.
)

From the garden accounts of Earlsacre Hall

Thanks to modern technology, in the shape of a microwave oven, Wesley enjoyed his Chinese meal piping hot. It had been a pleasant
evening – the subject of Brian Willerby’s death had been mentioned only once, when Wesley gave his boss a brief report of
his dealings with the grieving widow and her brother.

Both he and Pam had taken a liking to Susan Green, although they were perplexed as to what she and Gerry Heffernan had in
common – apart from a liking for the Beatles. The incongruous couple had left around eleven, with Heffernan giving inappropriately
jolly reminders that Brian Willerby’s post-mortem was booked for nine o’clock the next morning. Wesley and Pam went upstairs
in amicable silence, too exhausted for talk, and fell into bed.

But Wesley’s mind was too active for instant oblivion. When he looked at the glowing red numbers on the radio alarm clock
he saw that it was ten past midnight. He could hear Pam breathing softly
beside him – the sound was soothing and hypnotic. Just as he was beginning to drift towards sleep, the noise of the telephone
startled him awake.

Pam moaned, ‘Who the hell’s that?’ as Wesley picked up the receiver. It was bound to be police work.

‘Okay, love, I’ve got it. You go back to sleep.’

A giggle on the other end of the line told him the call was nothing to do with law and order. ‘Hi, Wesley. Is my lovely daughter
there?’

He held the phone to his wife’s ear and whispered, ‘It’s your mother. I think she’s drunk,’ he added disapprovingly.

‘Hi, Pamela, are you there?’

Pam grunted in the affirmative. ‘Do you know what time it is, Mother? We were asleep.’

‘Nonsense. You don’t want to be asleep and miss all the fun. The night’s young. Jamie and I were thinking of getting a taxi
and coming over.’

‘Now?’ Pam spluttered in disbelief.

‘Why ever not? The night’s young,’ she repeated. ‘We’ll bring a bottle or two.’ Yet another giggle and a man’s voice whispering
in the background.

‘No. Wesley’s got to work tomorrow. Now can you let us get some sleep …’

‘But Pamela, darling …’

‘No, Mother. Positively not. Goodnight.’ Pam put the receiver down firmly. ‘I don’t know what’s got into her, Wes, I really
don’t.’

As Wesley turned over and closed his eyes, a cry went up from the adjoining room. The telephone had woken the baby.

‘I’ll see to him,’ said Pam in martyred tones as she stumbled towards the door.

Wesley no longer felt like sleeping. He lay awake, listening to Pam moving around in the next room and feeling vaguely guilty
that he wasn’t doing his fatherly bit. But soon he found his thoughts turning to work; to the death of Brian Willerby and
the corpse in the caravan. Was there a link? Something obvious he was missing? As his brain became more and more alert, he
had the feeling it was going to be a long night.

The next morning Wesley rose bleary-eyed, leaving Pam asleep. He crept out of the house, closing the front door quietly behind
him, and walked down the steep streets, silent on this Sunday morning apart
from the raucous cries of seagulls overhead. He headed towards the hospital. One of the good things about living in a small
town like Tradmouth was that he could walk into the centre, and he took advantage of this to wake himself up with some bracing
sea air.

He loved the walk, and the view over the rooftops to the glistening river with its busy boats and the white toy houses of
Queenswear dotted along the far bank. It was at times like this that he remembered why he had been so keen to leave the crowded
bustle of London behind.

He met Gerry Heffernan in Colin Bowman’s office, where he was treated to fresh coffee and croissants; an unaccustomed treat,
especially when he hadn’t had time to grab any breakfast at home. He just hoped he’d manage to keep them down during the post-mortem.

Colin was silent during his gruesome investigations. When he’d finished he turned to the two police officers. ‘I’m rather
puzzled by this one, gentlemen. He’s a healthy specimen apart from a fractured skull caused by a blow – or series of blows
– to the head. But what really puzzles me is what made these marks. Here, have a look.’

The three men bent over the corpse’s head. The marks on the dead flesh seemed clearer now than they had the day before.

‘Is that stitching? Could it be a cricket ball?’ suggested Wesley.

Bowman looked at him and nodded approvingly. ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking. You can see the impression of the stitching
on the seam quite clearly,’ he said. ‘I suspect that we were meant to think that he was hit on the head by a stray ball, but
it must have taken a few blows to finish him off. The marks are all around the same place, but it’s quite clear he was hit
a number of times: about half a dozen at a guess.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I suppose someone could have held a ball and
hit him, but it wouldn’t have been easy: the fingers would have got in the way and it would be difficult to get enough momentum.
From the force used I’d say the ball had been bowled at his head at some speed … and accuracy.’

‘So we’re looking for a demon bowler?’ said Heffernan. ‘Well, that lets the current England team out, eh?’

‘The bowling at yesterday’s match was pretty ropy,’ said Wesley. ‘Let’s face it,’ added Heffernan, ‘I can’t see that there’s
anybody in the Earlsacre team with the skill to commit murder by bowling a cricket ball accurately at someone’s head several
times.’

‘A bat would be the usual weapon of choice for the enthusiastic
cricketer, I would have thought, gentlemen,’ said the pathologist. ‘So you’re looking for a murderous cricketer with a formidable
talent for bowling. Any ideas?’

Heffernan shook his head. ‘So it’s definitely murder? No chance of it being an accident?’ The inspector always liked to get
his facts straight.

‘As I said, we were meant to assume death was accidental, but I’m afraid all the evidence points to the fact that it was murder.
But as to how it was done …’ Colin Bowman gave a frown. ‘That’s a puzzle … a complete puzzle.’

Neil Watson lay beside Claire O’Farrell in the bedroom of her tiny rented cottage and allowed himself a satisfied smile. He
pushed the duvet back and ran a gentle finger along the contours of her naked waist. She stirred and opened her eyes.

‘What time is it?’ she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

‘Just after ten.’

‘Neil … we’re late. The others said they’d be there at half nine.’ She sat up, clutching the bedclothes to her bosom in a
gesture of modesty.

Neil grabbed at the sheets and pulled her towards him. ‘It’s Sunday. They won’t miss us for half an hour.’

‘Martin’s called a progress meeting for ten-thirty.’

‘Shit, I’d forgotten.’

‘Get dressed.’ She looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. ‘We’re going to be late anyway. Give Jake a ring on his
mobile and tell him, will you?’

‘Tell him what?’ Neil grinned.

‘That we’re going to be late.’ She threw a pillow at him. He ducked and it knocked the alarm clock on to the floor. ‘You’re
an idiot, Neil. Has anyone ever told you?’

He grabbed her again playfully and pushed her back on the bed. She kissed his nose. ‘Phone Jake,’ she whispered in his ear.
‘Now.’

He pulled a pale blue sheet off the bed, wrapped it around himself and staggered down the steep, narrow stairs into the living
room, a small, low room furnished in a twee cottagey style which he suspected would hardly be Claire’s own choice.

A flowery address book lay by the telephone, probably a present from one of the elderly female relatives back in Ireland that
Claire had mentioned last night when they had exchanged life stories, each
fascinated by the other’s most trivial details. He thought he could remember Jake’s phone number but he couldn’t be sure:
Claire was bound to have it written down.

He picked up the address book and flicked through the pages, noting male names and hating himself for experiencing this symptom
of possessiveness. He had always believed in giving girlfriends their own space, that no one person could ever own another.
But his first night with Claire had changed that … and the unfamiliar feeling disturbed him.

He reached the end of the book. W for Jake Weston. The number was there, written in Claire’s neat hand. As he held the book
open and lifted the receiver, ready to dial, his eyes scanned the rest of the page. Jake’s was the last name listed. He scanned
upward. A Dr Williams; a Josie Wood; a Charlotte Wyvern – names that meant nothing to him. But at the top of the page something
had been scribbled out violently with a pencil. Neil, his curiosity getting the better of him, held the page up to the light
and could just make out the name beneath the pencil scrawl: Brian Willerby. And he could see two addresses – one in Earlsacre
and what looked like a business address in Tradmouth. He couldn’t see the handwriting clearly but it seemed to be spidery,
in contrast to Claire’s, which was small and neat. He flicked through the book and found that no other addresses had been
scribbled out in this way. People who had moved house merely had a neat line through their old address.

Claire must have known Willerby well at one time for both his addresses to be in her book and, as his name preceded the others,
she must have known him for a while. But what had caused her to obliterate his name like that?

He put the address book carefully back where he had found it and dialled Jake’s number, trying to put all thoughts of Brian
Willerby’s death from his mind.

‘Of course, it doesn’t necessarily have to be one of the cricket team. It might have been a spectator. Anybody who was around
Earlsacre yesterday afternoon in fact,’ said Wesley as they walked down the police station steps towards the carpark.

Gerry Heffernan nodded silently. ‘Might even be a woman. They play cricket at a lot of posh girls’ schools. I knew a woman
who played cricket once.’

‘Really, sir?’ Wesley tried to imagine his boss in the clutches of a
well-bred lady cricketer, and failed. ‘How did your meeting with the Chief Super go?’

Gerry Heffernan sighed. ‘You know Stan Jenkins is on his hols, don’t you?’

Wesley nodded.

‘Well, what you don’t know is that Stan’s handed in his resignation … retiring on health grounds.’ Heffernan winked significantly.
‘So thanks to Inspector Jenkins’ choice of this week to go and play with his bucket and spade, and his decision to jump ship
as soon as he gets back, yours truly is in charge of both our murder investigations. But the good news is that we can use
Stan’s team, so we’ve got extra manpower – we’re setting up an incident room in the stables at Earlsacre Hall. The phone lines
and computers are going in as we speak. And the even better news is that I’m now Acting DCI and you – congratulations – Acting
Inspector Peterson.’ He grinned widely as he watched Wesley’s face.

Wesley was lost for words. He had thought that Gerry Heffernan’s promises of promotion had been wishful thinking; the products
of an over-optimistic nature. ‘That’s, er, great,’ he managed to stutter, feeling a warm glow of satisfaction as he anticipated
Pam’s reaction to the news, and that of his parents – particularly his parents.

He recalled their disappointment when he hadn’t followed them into the medical profession, when he had chosen archaeology
out of pure intellectual fascination rather than any thought for status and security. People from ethnic minorities, his parents
had always warned, have to try just that little bit harder, and sadly, Wesley thought, they were probably right. But now his
abilities had been recognised and he would be one of the youngest inspectors in the force. Surely even his father, so fiercely
ambitious for his children, would be proud of that.

‘I told the Chief Super that if you were going to do the job you should have the rank to go with it. And when Stan actually
retires …’

‘Thanks,’ said Wesley. He could find no other words to say so he kept it simple. The two men climbed into Wesley’s car and
drove out to Earlsacre in amicable silence.