The Bone Garden (4 page)

‘It certainly looks like it. Bit of a mystery, eh?’

There was nothing more to be done at Earlsacre Hall. Gerry Heffernan strode on ahead to the car, anxious to get his hands
on a warming cup of tea, and Wesley followed, looking around, taking in
his surroundings. He put his hands in his pockets. The summer was drawing to an end and there was a chill in the air.

‘Anything the matter, Wes?’ the inspector asked as they climbed into the car. ‘You’ve gone very quiet.’

‘I was just thinking that it was a coincidence.’

‘What was?’

‘The name Lantrist. It’s unusual. I’ve never heard it anywhere else before. It’s my mother’s maiden name.’

‘Well, it’s a very small world,’ Gerry Heffernan pronounced philosophically as they drove out of the gates of Earlsacre Hall
and on to the winding lane.

Craig Kettering stared at the fruit machine, then at the solitary coin in his hand.

Perhaps he had been too hasty when he had fled from the caravan. He was sure he had spotted some cash on top of the cupboard
by the door. Maybe he should have stayed and searched the place, taken what he could. Somehow the hours that had passed since
his grim discovery had lessened the horror. There in the gaudy safety of the amusement arcade, with its cheery flashing lights
to lure in the unwary punter, the stench of death and the staring dead eyes seemed a world away. Perhaps he should go back
and take a look – after all, the man was dead, so he could hardly complain.

He put the coin into the slot and punched the button. No luck. Why was it always the same? Farther down the arcade he heard
the solid clunking of a machine paying out. He looked over at the expressionless recipient of this good fortune – a man around
his own age with a shaved head and a silver stud through his top lip – and felt a pang of envy.

But sometimes you make your own luck. Maybe he would go back.

Craig walked the fifty yards to where his rusty white van was parked in a hotel carpark (for residents only) and drove out
to the Bloxham View Caravan Park. A dead man couldn’t hurt him.

Gerry Heffernan pushed open the door to Tradmouth police station, letting it bang dramatically behind him, and made his entry
into the foyer with his usual panache. ‘Hi, Bob,’ he called to the large sergeant on the desk. ‘How are things? All quiet?’

Bob Naseby drew himself up to his full height and stroked the
beard he was cultivating. ‘It was till you came in, Gerry.’ He grinned. ‘Not much happening at all. Still, it gives us a chance
to catch up on the old paperwork, doesn’t it, and I don’t expect it’ll last for long – never does. Is Wesley not with you?’

‘He’s just parking the car. Why?’

‘Oh, I just wanted a word with him,’ said Bob, sounding cagey.

At that point Wesley appeared, shutting the door gently behind him. Bob Naseby’s eyes lit up. This was it. The final challenge.
Ever since Wesley had told him in casual conversation that his great-uncle had played cricket for the West Indies. Bob – trusting
in the hereditary principle – had longed to recruit him for the divisional team. In recent weeks he had sensed that Wesley’s
resolve was weakening so, like any predator, he prepared himself for the kill.

‘Wesley,’ he began with an appealing smile, ‘it’s the next-to-last match of the season on Saturday. We’re a man short. It’ll
only be in the afternoon from one till five: limited overs. I wouldn’t ask but we’re really desperate.’

‘I don’t know, Bob. I haven’t played since school.’

‘That doesn’t matter. We just need an extra body. Please?’

Wesley looked round at Gerry Heffernan for support but soon found it was no use relying on his boss for back-up. ‘Go on, Wes.
The old sound of leather on willow, eh? Nothing like it. I’ll come and watch,’ Heffernan offered generously.

Wesley sensed a trap. But perhaps it was as well to bow to the inevitable.

‘And if you find I’m no good I won’t be asked again?’

A smirk of triumph spread over Bob Naseby’s face. ‘Sounds fair to me. We’re meeting at a place called Earlsacre at half twelve.
It’s a little place between Neston and Dukesbridge.’

‘He knows where it is, Bob,’ said Heffernan. ‘We’ve just come from there. Couple of old skeletons have been dug up.’

‘Not buried on the wicket, I hope?’ Bob looked genuinely worried.

‘Don’t worry, they were nowhere near the cricket ground. That’s settled, then, Bob. Saturday it is.’

Bob nodded, a grin of triumph on his face.

‘That was rather rash of you, Wes, agreeing to play in Bob’s team,’ said Heffernan as they climbed the stairs to the CID office.

‘Bob’s been going on at me to join the cricket team ever since I arrived in Tradmouth. When he sees I’m no good he’ll let
the matter drop. I’m looking upon Saturday as an investment.’

Gerry Heffernan gave a hearty laugh. ‘I should have known there’d be method in your madness. I hope it’s worth the risk.’

They walked into the office. Wesley saw that Rachel was perched on his desk speaking on the telephone. She looked up as he
came in and smiled shyly. ‘Wesley, it’s a Mr Willerby for you,’ she said in a stage whisper, covering the mouthpiece.

Wesley took the receiver. ‘Hello, Mr Willerby. How can I help you?’

‘Sergeant Peterson, I’d like us to meet if that’s convenient. I have something of a rather sensitive nature that I wish to
discuss with you. I don’t want to talk about it over the telephone.’

‘Why don’t you come into the station tomorrow?’ said Wesley, trying to hide his impatience.

‘I’ll be away in London all day tomorrow. Could we meet tomorrow evening?’

‘Sorry – family commitments,’ said Wesley, remembering that Pam’s mother was joining them for dinner.

‘Would late on Saturday be convenient?’

Wesley hesitated, mildly irritated that this man seemed to think he could trespass on his weekend leisure. ‘Er … I’m not free
on Saturday. Playing cricket actually. But afterwards …’

‘Is that at Earlsacre, by any chance?’ Willerby’s voice suddenly became animated, even mildly excited.

‘As a matter of fact, yes.’

‘Splendid. I’m playing there too. I turn out for the Earlsacre team occasionally. Perhaps we can meet at the match and discuss
the matter during the tea interval, say … or after the game.’

‘Very well, Mr Willerby. I’ll see you on Saturday.’ The line went dead. Willerby had rung off without the courtesy of a goodbye.

‘Well, what was all that about? What did Willerby want?’ asked Gerry Heffernan, who had been standing by the desk blatantly
listening in to the conversation.

‘I’ve still no idea. But it turns out he’s playing cricket for the opposing team on Saturday so we’re going to meet and discuss
it then. Why can’t the man just say what’s bothering him … or come into the station some time if he wants a confidential chat?
All this cloak-and-dagger stuff is beginning to get on my nerves.’

‘Looks like he’s taken a shine to you, Wes,’ the inspector said mischievously before disappearing into his office.

Wesley sat down in his chair and sighed. Why did Willerby have to pick on him?

Craig knew he’d have to take care. One or two families were starting to drift back to the caravan park after their day’s outing.
But it was still quiet up on the top field. If he was careful he wouldn’t be seen.

He parked in the big carpark near the entrance again. He didn’t want to risk his van in the field which was muddy from last
night’s rain – he needed it tonight for his pizza deliveries … and he might need to make a quick getaway.

He walked quickly up to the field, head down, hands in pockets, trying to look as though he wasn’t there. He had no difficulty
finding the caravan again. Its image was etched on his mind. He took a deep breath before opening the door again and braced
himself for the sight of the half-naked body, the smell, the flies.

He let himself in with unaccustomed agility and shut the door gently behind him. No one had seen him, he was sure of that.
He tried not to look at the body but he could see it out of the corner of his eye. And he could hear the flies, louder now.

Craig concentrated his mind on the money lying on top of the cupboard near the door. It was still there waiting for him, almost
as though he had been meant to find it. He snatched it up and stuffed it in the pocket of his denim jacket.

Then, covering his mouth with his left hand, he opened the caravan door silently and emerged into the fresh air. Then he felt
a wave of nausea rising in his stomach. He rushed round to the back of the caravan and vomited into the hedgerow.

It was 5.30 when Wesley Peterson let himself into his modern detached house perched on the hill overlooking the ancient port
of Tradmouth. Pam heard his key turn in the lock and hurried out of the living room to greet him.

Wesley caught her around the waist and kissed her, glad to see her, glad to be back in his own home. ‘You look pleased about
something. What is it?’ he said, kissing the tip of her nose.

‘You’re home on time for once,’ she said firmly, squirming from his grasp and making for the kitchen. ‘If I’d known you were
going to be here so early I’d have made you do the cooking. I’ve had a bloody awful day.’

‘What’s the matter? Is it Michael? Is he all right?’ All sorts of
possibilities ran through his mind: sickness; accident; the onset of meningitis; all the ills that could befall a precious
six-month-old body.

‘Michael’s fine.’

Wesley relaxed. Whatever it was couldn’t be that bad if Michael was all right.

‘It’s my mother,’ Pam continued. ‘She called round today. She’s only gone and picked up a man in a supermarket.’

All sorts of inappropriate pictures began to flash through Wesley’s mind: Della, his mother-in-law, wheeling a trolley down
the supermarket aisles with a man sitting obediently inside; a checkout girl searching for a bar code on some inaccessible
part of the man’s anatomy. He began to laugh.

‘It’s not funny, Wesley.’ Pam nudged him, trying hard not to laugh herself. ‘I never know what she’s going to get up to next.
There was that mature student of hers last year – the one who turned out to be married; a small fact she hadn’t bothered to
tell me. And she admits that she doesn’t know anything about this new man. He could be an axe murderer for all she knows.’

Wesley put an arm around his wife. ‘There aren’t that many axe murderers about, in spite of what the tabloids say. What’s
this man’s name? Bluebeard?’

‘It’s James Delmann.’

‘Well, as far as I know he’s not on our wanted list.’ He tried to look serious. ‘You should be pleased your mum’s getting
out and about. It’s three years since your dad died. She needs a social life.’

‘I know. And I’d be pleased that she’d met someone if she wasn’t so … so silly. She’s just like a giddy teenager; worse than
I ever was. And that’s not all. You know she’s coming round for dinner tomorrow night?’

Wesley nodded, wary.

‘Well, she only wants to bring this Jamie with her.’

‘Then we’ll be able to judge for ourselves. Stop worrying. Della’s old enough to look after herself.’

Pam didn’t answer. Wesley was probably right: she found it hard to admit it, but he usually was. She was overreacting.

Wesley knew he couldn’t put it off any longer. It was time to drop his bombshell. ‘I’m playing cricket on Saturday afternoon,’
he said, trying to sound casual.

Pam looked at him as though he’d just told her he’d volunteered for a NASA mission to Mars. ‘Cricket? Why?’

‘Our desk sergeant’s been after me to play for the team ever since I arrived, so I thought that if I showed him how bad I
was he’d leave me in peace. Besides, they’re short of players and he sounded pretty desperate. The match is at a place called
Earlsacre; it’s between Neston and Dukesbridge.’

‘And am I invited to this great sporting occasion? I hope I’m not expected to make the sandwiches,’ Pam said with token feminist
disgust.

‘Bob told me there’s been some trouble about the teas. Apparently the wives and girlfriends refuse to make them any more.’

‘Quite right too.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘This cricket’s not going to become a regular thing, is it?’

‘Not much chance of that.’

‘In that case, Michael and I might come along to watch if the weather’s decent,’ she said with a gracious inclination of her
head.

Then Wesley remembered his appointment with Brian Willerby. Pam’s presence would give him a good excuse for a quick getaway
if the solicitor was fussing over some trivial matter. ‘Yeah, good idea,’ he said with what he hoped sounded like enthusiasm.

‘It’ll make a change from planning lessons and the fresh air will do Michael good,’ Pam said. ‘And as you say, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime
experience.’

‘Too right it is.’

Pam turned and made for the kitchen just as Michael began to cry. But the crying stopped as soon as Wesley picked his son
up out of the playpen. The proud father was rewarded with a wide, gummy grin. As he entertained the baby he suddenly realised
that there was something he hadn’t yet mentioned to Pam; the fact that Neil Watson was working up at Earlsacre. Wesley sat
there shaking a rattle and defending his best silk tie against tiny grabbing hands while he pondered the best way to break
the news.

Jacintha Hervey walked towards the cricket pavilion at eight o’clock precisely. Jake had given her the key and told her to
wait for him.

Martin Samuels and some of the team were meeting up at the house to discuss the progress of the work. The meeting had been
due to finish at ten to eight. She had already seen Charles Pitaway driving away in his red sports car, heading home to his
new apartment in Dukesbridge. She thought of Charles and smiled. She had made
subtle approaches but so far he hadn’t responded: perhaps he was gay, she thought … which would be a terrible loss to the
female sex; or perhaps he just needed time and a little more persuasion. It never crossed her mind that not all men found
her irresistible. But in the meantime she had Jake, an energetic young man who would do nicely for the time being.