The Marriage Hearse (12 page)

He punched out Wesley’s home number on his mobile phone. He would want to be kept informed of developments. But there was
no reply. It could wait until tomorrow, he told himself as he watched the runner disappearing into the distance.

As if they didn’t have enough problems.

The dead man at the Loch Henry Lodge Guesthouse had no identification. All they knew about him was that he had signed the
register as Mr Jones but Wesley Peterson doubted very much if that was his real name. He had given an address in London and
it hadn’t taken Wesley long to discover that the street didn’t exist.

He and Gerry Heffernan stood in the doorway watching the forensic team go about their work as the photographer organised the
dead man’s final photo call, wishing they were anywhere but there in that seedy, rundown place of no hope. A guesthouse where
only the most desperate of guests would ever contemplate spending a night. Colin Bowman had already been and gone. The cause
of death, he said, was probably a single stab wound to the chest – definitely suspicious – and he estimated the time of death
to have been between ten and twelve that morning. He promised to carry out a postmortem the next day and apologised for adding
to their workload. This was all they needed on top of the problem of the strangled bride.

Wesley looked at his watch. Five thirty. It was warm outside – twenty-five centigrade at least – and the room stank of urine,
dirt and death. After a while Heffernan suggested that they left the Forensic team to whatever it was they did – he was always
a little vague about the gruesome details. There were questions that they needed to ask.

The man who’d found the body was called Ferdy Galpin and it was quite obvious that policemen made him nervous. In fact, Wesley
suspected that he might not have bothered troubling them at all if he hadn’t been so anxious to get the corpse off his property,
bleating on about the inconvenience and the prospective breach of health and safety regulations, A decomposing cadaver on
the premises is hardly something that can be ignored.

Galpin was keen to deny all knowledge. He let rooms to anyone
who could pay for them and all he knew about Mr Jones was that he had booked in five days ago, paying in cash. He had only
had one visitor that Galpin actually saw. A young woman. Slim. Tasty. Galpin positively salivated as he described her. She
was foreign but he didn’t know what kind of foreign. It was all the same to him.

Jones had been foreign too. Maybe the girl was his younger sister … or his daughter … or his girlfriend … or, more likely,
a tart, he speculated with an unpleasant leer.

‘So he had no other visitors?’ Wesley asked.

‘Never saw no one but I did hear voices. Raised voices. Can’t swear they came from his room though. Could have been one of
the others. I can’t be on that reception twenty-four seven, you know, and if I’m not there anyone can walk in,’ the man whined
as though he felt hard done to.

‘What time did you hear these voices?’

Galpin shrugged. ‘Dunno. About eleven … twelve. Didn’t take much notice.’

‘Before or after the girl?’

Galpin shrugged. ‘An hour or so before, I reckon. But I can’t be sure. Wasn’t taking much notice.’

Wesley watched as Galpin scratched his tattooed arm, a nervous gesture. Perhaps he had something to be nervous about. He’d
check him out on the computer as soon as he had the chance.

‘Think you’d recognise the young woman who visited him again?’

‘Suppose so. Yeah.’

‘I’ll send someone to help you make a photofit of her if that’s OK.’

‘Yeah. Sure.’ Galpin was starting to look rather relieved that suspicion seemed to be swinging away from himself.

There didn’t seem to be much more they could do. After making arrangements for all the staff and guests to be interviewed,
Wesley and Heffernan left, grateful to be out of the place. It was hardly the kind of establishment either man would frequent
out of choice.

Outside the Loch Henry Lodge they found Steve Carstairs arguing with a po-faced traffic warden who had just slapped a
parking ticket on his beloved Ford Probe. Wesley and Heffernan hurried past. Steve could sort it out himself.

As they reached Tradmouth Police Station the local seagulls wheeled around their heads, shrieking with what sounded like mocking
laughter. When they arrived at the incident room both men stood in silence for a few seconds, staring as the officers at the
desks talked on phones or typed into computers. Some desks were empty; there were people to interview and the victim’s family
had to be looked after.

Gerry Heffernan scratched his head. He didn’t know how they were going to cope with a second murder investigation. Perhaps
the Nutter would let him draft in some officers from Morbay. He’d insist.

He stood in the middle of the office and called for silence before breaking the news about the late Mr Jones and the instant
reaction was a collective groan. But, Heffernan assured them, there was nothing that could be done until the dead man’s fingerprints
had been run through the computer and various checks had been made so for the time being they would concentrate on the dead
bride. No holds barred.

After a pep talk worthy of an army general, he enquired about progress, hoping the answer wouldn’t be an embarrassed silence.

Rachel Tracey cleared her throat and adjusted her skirt before trying her best to put a positive spin on things, but the reality
was that nobody invited to the wedding of the year had been able to tell them anything useful. Nobody seemed to know anything
about the randy builder, Mike Dellingpole – nobody, that is apart from the friend of Peter Creston’s who’d recommended him
and his only connection was that Dellingpole had once done some satisfactory work for his parents.

If they’d hit a brick wall with the wedding guests, they’d encountered an equally intractable dead end at the language college.
The students all denied ever having seen Mrs Sawyer’s secretary – and most claimed they weren’t even aware of her existence.
They went to lessons and that was that.

The staff had been equally unforthcoming. In the smoke-filled atmosphere of the staff room, one by one they had denied any
knowledge of Kirsten Harbourn’s personal life. A few had heard she was getting married but she had tended to keep herself
to herself. However, she was often seen with Simon Jephson and some of his fellow teachers wondered whether there had been
anything going on between them.

Disappointed at the lack of progress, Heffernan stalked into his office, Wesley following behind. The chief inspector looked
at his watch and told Wesley to get off home. They’d make a fresh start in the morning with the clairvoyant, the stepmother
and the builder. And maybe by then Richter or Jephson would have deigned to show up.

Somehow Wesley couldn’t share his boss’s optimism: in his experience when people went to ground, they stayed there until someone
or something flushed them out. And the next morning might bring more information on the mysterious Mr Jones. He hoped those
reinforcements from Morbay would arrive quickly.

He was about to leave when Trish Walton poked her head round the open door of Heffernan’s office. ‘There was a call for you
just after you went out, sir. A Mrs Joyce Barnes. She said she’d have to change the time and could you ring her back.’

Wesley turned to his boss and saw that his face had turned an unhealthy shade of crimson.

Carla Sawyer stared at the girl sitting opposite her. Françoise Decaux’s eyes were red with crying and she kept sniffing in
a most unattractive way. Carla found hysterics very hard to deal with.

‘Pull yourself together,’ she said automatically.

Françoise looked up at her with incomprehension. So far her textbook hadn’t covered clichés. ‘
Quoi?
’

Carla searched for the right words in French. ‘
Calmez vous
,’ was the best she could come up with on the spur of the moment. She handed the girl a bunch of tissues and Françoise blew
her nose loudly.

‘
Il est mort
.’

Carla raised her eyes to heaven in exasperation. ‘Your English will never improve if you don’t use it.
En Anglais, s’il vous plaît
.’

‘He is … dead.’

‘Who is dead? What do you mean?’

The girl looked blank.

‘
Qui est mort?
’

‘
L’homme
. The man.’ She stood up suddenly, looking Carla in the eye. ‘He is killed.’ She made a stabbing action with her right hand,
an imaginary blow at her own heart. ‘He in hotel. I find him.’

Carla swallowed hard and began to play with a stray paper clip. ‘Did you call the police?’

‘The police? No. I must tell them?’

‘No. No. We … you … should stay out of it. Keep quiet.’ Carla was trying her best to sound calm. Her eyes strayed to the photograph
of her smiling husband that stood on the filing cabinet.

‘You kill him?’

‘What?’ Carla frowned, hoping she’d misheard.

‘You. You kill him. He make trouble. You kill him.’

Carla leaned over the desk and caught hold of Françoise’s arm. ‘Sit down, Françoise. Everything’s going to be all right,’
she said as she picked up the telephone receiver.

At nine o’clock the next morning Wesley Peterson felt that he needed at least two hours more sleep. Amelia had woken three
times and, as the children were temporarily sharing a room while Maritia was staying, Michael had woken too. Pam had slept
through it all – or pretended to – and it had been Wesley’s job to play the perfect father. Because of the body at the Loch
Henry Lodge, he hadn’t arrived home until eight the previous night and Pam had given him a frosty reception. He felt he should
make it up to her … work permitting.

On his arrival at the office, he’d been greeted by the news that Rachel had managed to get an address for Kirsten Harbourn’s
pet clairvoyant, Georgina – or Madam Georgina as Rachel insisted on calling her. It seemed she advertised in the
Neston Echo
and was building quite a reputation for herself.

He let Rachel drive to Neston. She was a good driver and, being local, she knew all the short cuts. And besides, he could
hardly keep his eyes open.

‘Keeping you awake?’ she said as he yawned.

He didn’t dignify the question with a reply. ‘How are the rehearsals for your play going? Am I going to get my money’s worth?’

She pulled a face. ‘If you like that sort of thing. I’ve only got five lines and I’m having trouble learning them. Too much
else on my mind, I suppose.’

‘What are the other actors like? Any good?’

‘Not bad for amateurs.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Someone said the wife of the man who plays the Duke runs the language college
where Kirsten Harbourn worked.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘Small world. What’s his name?’

‘Sean Sawyer.’

‘What’s he like?’ Having met his formidable wife, Wesley was curious.

‘Middle-aged businessman … bit on the smooth side. Fancies himself. I’ve hardly spoken to him except to pass the time of day.
Anything come in on the guesthouse murder yet?’

‘Not a thing. Everyone at the Loch Henry Lodge is doing an imitation of the three monkeys – seeing nothing, hearing nothing,
saying nothing. The only lead we’ve got is this foreign girl who visited the dead man. There’s no match for the victim’s prints
on the computer and no ID. He gave a false address.’

‘A mystery man.’

‘The manager, Ferdy Galpin, has got form for burglary and actual bodily harm.’

‘Has he indeed?’

‘He said he heard raised voices from the dead man’s room around the time the murder took place but it’s all a bit vague. He
said they might have come from any of the rooms on that floor.’ He smiled. ‘I had the impression that raised voices are quite
common at the Loch Henry Lodge. It isn’t exactly the Ritz. Galpin’s supposed to be making a photofit picture of the girl for
us but I’m not holding my breath.’

‘Think she exists?’

‘Who knows? But I’m not ruling out Galpin as a suspect. He might have made up the story about the girl to throw us off the
scent. He could have been stealing from the room and stabbed the victim when he surprised him. Gerry’s having him brought
in for questioning later. He’s hoping forensics will find something damning between now and then.’

They fell silent and Wesley looked out of the window at the passing scenery. On their way out of Tradmouth they passed a couple
of coaches filled with pensioners making for the town’s attractions. Day trippers and coach holidays for the elderly: there
were a lot about at that time of year.

They drove down the hill into Neston and Rachel made straight for the police station car park. Parking in Neston was a nightmare
during the summer months and Georgina’s address was only a short walk away.

Georgina – they still didn’t know her surname – lived in a pretty Georgian house, veiled with Virginia creeper, at the end
of a narrow alley off Neston’s main street. It was a picture book sort of house … but then Neston was a picture book sort
of place. A quaint, unworldly, Elizabethan town whose steep streets were lined with small, New Age shops and cafes, art galleries,
and delicatessens. In the middle of the main street was a large sandstone church, set back from the road and it was near this
ancient place of worship, built in the middle ages on the site of a Saxon minster, that Georgina plied her trade; setting
up in opposition to the establishment, as it were.

An elaborately painted sign by the door bearing the words ‘Georgina – clairvoyant, tarot card reading, crystal healing’ told
Wesley he’d come to the right place. He let Rachel ring the bell and they waited. Wesley stared up at the house, scanning
the sash windows for signs of activity.

‘I would have thought she’d be expecting us,’ he said after they’d waited half a minute.

Rachel looked at him enquiringly.

‘Well, she is supposed to be a clairvoyant.’

Rachel smiled. ‘Wonder if she foretold Kirsten’s murder?’

‘I was wondering that too.’ He was about to say more when the door opened.