The Marriage Hearse (13 page)

‘Come in. I’ve been expecting you.’ The voice was deep and soothing with a slight northern accent and the woman who owned
it looked nothing like Wesley’s idea of a clairvoyant. There were no flowing scarves or gypsy earrings. Georgina had squeezed
her size eighteen frame into a smart grey trouser suit. Perhaps, Wesley thought, the bohemian look would have suited her better.

‘You’re the police, is that right?’

‘Good guess,’ said Rachel sharply.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘I see you’re not a believer. I’m sensing a lot of hostile energy.’

‘If we can just have a word …’ Wesley said, trying to exude sweetness and light.

‘Come through.’

She led the way into a large drawing room of enviable proportions. The walls were painted deep red and the floorboards were
rich brown oak. There was a large, round table in the centre of the room covered by a thick chenille cloth the colour of a
midnight sky. In the middle of the table stood a crystal ball, an object Wesley had only seen before in comic TV murder mysteries.
The whole scene felt slightly unreal, like some art director’s idea of how a clairvoyant’s drawing room should look.

Georgina invited them to take a seat at the table and Wesley feared that they were in for a glimpse of the future. He glanced
at Rachel who sat beside him, stiff with scepticism and disapproval.

‘We’d like to ask you about a client of yours, Kirsten Harbourn. I presume you’ve heard about her death?’

Georgina looked at Wesley and nodded. ‘I knew something was wrong on the day of her wedding. I felt it so strongly that I
wanted to telephone her but I didn’t have her number.’

‘She must have confided in you.’

The woman nodded. ‘She seemed very troubled. She was looking for guidance.’

Wesley glanced at Rachel. ‘What was she troubled about?’

Georgina joined her hands in what looked like a pious attitude of prayer. ‘Would you go to a priest and ask him what one of
his congregation told him in the confessional, Inspector? Kirsten came to me because she trusted me.’

Wesley smiled. ‘I think in this case you’d be doing Kirsten a greater service by telling us all you know rather than respecting
her privacy. I don’t suppose I need to remind you that she’s dead and that we need to catch whoever killed her. Now, what
was troubling her?’

Georgina squirmed in her seat, the self-righteous expression wiped off her face. ‘She wasn’t really specific.’

‘Can you tell us exactly what she said?’ Rachel tried to keep the impatience she felt out of her voice. She sensed that the
woman was playing with them, hinting that she knew more than she did. And they hadn’t time for games.

‘Well, I felt that she was nervous about the wedding. And she didn’t get on with one of her in-laws. Her boyfriend’s sister,
I think it was. Or it could have been his brother, I’m not sure. I felt a lot of hostility there. The same with her father’s
new wife. I felt hatred. Lots of bitterness. And I sensed very strongly that she was worried about her work. There was something
happening there that she didn’t like.’

‘What was that exactly?’ Wesley wished she’d be more specific.

‘She never told me what it was, but I sensed it was something to do with her superiors. That they weren’t being honest in
their dealings.’

‘Not being entirely truthful with the tax man, that sort of thing?’

‘I don’t always have access to the details, Inspector. My clients – most of them – don’t confide in me … they usually wait
until I come up with something that will point them in the right direction. How shall I put it? The pictures I get of their
lives are usually more Impressionist than Pre Raphaelite.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve always been interested in art. I started going
to an evening class … before I discovered my gift.’

‘And what did your gift tell you about Kirsten Harbourn and who was likely to want her dead?’

‘I felt she was a very troubled young woman. Her home life hadn’t been happy recently and I sensed a lot of resentment. And
fear. And she’d had trouble with a man who’d pestered her. That left very deep scars. But she’d found peace with the man she
was going to marry. And, as I said, I sensed that any recent troubles she had stemmed from her work. There was definitely
something going on there that disturbed her greatly.’ She hesitated.

‘Go on,’ Wesley prompted. This was getting interesting.

‘It might have been something financial. Something she was being asked to cover up perhaps.’

‘She didn’t tell you what it was?’

‘No. But I advised her to make a clean break. I said if she was really that worried about whatever it was, she should tell
the police. I don’t suppose she took my advice, did she?’

‘I’m afraid not. And you’re sure she gave no hint as to what it was?’

‘I’m a clairvoyant, not a counsellor. My clients pay to hear what I have to say about their lives, not the other way round.’
She stood up. ‘I’m expecting a client in half an hour, I’m afraid. I have to prepare.’

Wesley knew when he was being dismissed. Gerry Heffernan would have hung on, asking more questions until the client arrived
just for the hell of it. But Wesley knew that he had learned all he was going to for now so he left, thanking the woman for
her cooperation, such as it was.

‘So what do we do now?’ Rachel asked as they walked back to the car.

‘We get someone to go through the books of the Morbay Language College with the proverbial fine tooth-comb.’

Rachel regarded him with disapproval. ‘You’re putting a lot of faith in that clairvoyant, aren’t you? Let’s face it, if she
couldn’t even predict Kirsten’s murder, she can’t be up to much, can she?’

‘Well, can you suggest anything better?’

Rachel stayed silent for the rest of the journey back to Trad-mouth.

DC Trish Walton sat with the receiver to her ear waiting to be put through to the officer who’d dealt with Simon Jephson’s
sexual assault case. When a deep voice eventually said hello, she cleared her throat and launched into her prepared speech.

When the call ended ten minutes later, Trish hurried to Chief Inspector Heffernan’s office, hoping the news she had to convey
would earn her a few brownie points … heaven knows, she needed them if she was to get her longed-for promotion. She knocked
on
the boss’s door and waited for the familiar ‘come in’ which, when it came, sounded remarkably cheerful.

‘I’ve been talking to Nottingham police about Simon Jephson, sir,’ she began, trying to control her excitement, to stay cool.

Heffernan beamed at her like a favourite uncle after a boozy Christmas lunch. ‘And?’

‘They investigated a complaint by a fifteen-year-old girl. She claimed Jephson had touched her inappropriately when they were
on a school trip to the Lake District. She said he’d tried to have sex with her but she’d fought him off. He denied it vehemently
but it was her word against his. Apparently she looked as if butter wouldn’t melt and the jury believed her side of the story.
Jephson was convicted. Got twelve months and put on the sex offenders register. End of teaching career.’

‘What did the police think?’

‘The girl’s story was believed at first but …’

‘But what?’

‘Well, the officer I talked to said there were a couple of things that didn’t quite ring true. Jephson had given her a hard
time the week before … put her in detention. And a couple of her friends were overheard saying she made it up to get her own
back.’

‘But he was found guilty and sent down for it?’

Trish nodded.

‘Do you think this has any bearing on the Kirsten Harbourn case?’

‘I really don’t know, sir. But if the girl’s story was true … if he is a sex offender …’

‘A monster, eh? And monsters are capable of anything, aren’t they?’ He looked at her enquiringly and she looked away.

A photofit picture on top of a tower of files on Heffernan’s desk caught her eye. ‘Who’s that, sir? The photofit?’

‘Some girl who was seen visiting the Morbay guesthouse murder victim. Why?’

Trish reached across and picked up the sheet of paper. ‘I think I know her.’

‘Well, don’t keep us in suspense.’

‘I’m sure it’s that girl at the language college. Françoise Decaux.’

Gerry Heffernan took the picture from her. ‘Then I think we have to find Mademoiselle Decaux … the sooner the better.’

Wesley had phoned the office to tell Heffernan that he and Rachel were on their way to the Morbay Language College. According
to Georgina there was something distinctly rotten lurking in its dusty corridors … and that something could have led to Kirsten
Harbourn’s death.

When Wesley heard the details about Simon Jephson’s conviction he felt a little disappointed. Like his boss, he thought the
case sounded rather shaky. But then if Jephson had indeed been guilty, sexual crimes can escalate. Today’s flasher is often
tomorrow’s rapist. Jephson was still in pride of place up there amongst their principal suspects.

He was also interested to hear about Trish’s identification of the photofit. In Wesley’s opinion most people wouldn’t recognise
their own mothers from those spliced-together images, but it would certainly be worth talking to Françoise Decaux again. A
visit to the Morbay Language College would kill two birds with one stone.

Carla Sawyer didn’t seem pleased to see them but she hid her feelings well as she invited them into her office. Rachel wondered
if her contact with Carla would get back to her fellow cast member, Sean Sawyer, and she hoped it wouldn’t cause ill feeling.
The atmosphere at rehearsals was tense enough as it was.

Wesley came straight to the point. ‘Mrs Sawyer, we’ve heard that Kirsten Harbourn was worried about something at work. What
could that be, do you think?’

‘I’ve no idea. If there was something bothering her, she certainly never confided in me.’

‘Perhaps she discovered something going on here. Maybe some financial irregularity.’

Carla Sawyer positively bristled with indignation. ‘Our audit last year gave us a clean bill of health. Feel free to go through
the accounts. You won’t find anything untoward.’

She spoke with such confidence that Wesley found himself believing every word. Rachel, however, looked more sceptical.

‘I would like someone to go through your books, just to eliminate that possibility. We’re working on a number of theories
at the moment and if we could discount that particular one …’ Wesley smiled reassuringly, putting on the charm. ‘I’m sure
we can rely on your cooperation.’ He glanced at Rachel. ‘I won’t take up any more of your valuable time. I don’t suppose you’ve
heard anything from Simon Jephson yet?’

‘No, I haven’t. I’m rather annoyed that he’s let us down so …’

‘You do know about his conviction for sexual assault, I take it?’

Carla Sawyer put her hand to her mouth. ‘No. I’d never have employed him if I thought … The references he gave …’

‘He was convicted of assaulting a schoolgirl in his charge. If I were you I’d be more careful about who you take on in future.’

Carla Sawyer looked Wesley in the eye. ‘Do you have any idea how hard it is to get people to teach in places like this. To
be honest, the pay’s not good and as for job satisfaction … If we cut a few corners we’re not breaking any law. And besides,
all our students are over eighteen so we’re hardly in
loco parentis
.’

Wesley watched Carla Sawyer. With her hard eyes and grasping, manicured hands, she was hardly his idea of the perfect mother
substitute.

‘I understand your problem, Mrs Sawyer, but I wouldn’t have thought a man with a conviction for a sexual attack would be the
ideal person to work with eighteen-year-old girls away from their families for the first time. You’ve no idea where Jephson
might be? Please think.’

Carla Sawyer turned her face away and said nothing.

‘We need to speak to Françoise Decaux,’ said Rachel. ‘Where can we find her?’

Carla consulted a chart on the office wall. ‘She should be in Simon’s class. Felicity’s had to take over at short notice.’
She looked at her watch. ‘They finish in five minutes. I’ll take you …’

‘We’ll find our own way. First room on the right is it?’ Audacity always seemed to work well for Gerry Heffernan so Wesley
thought he’d give it a try this once.

Carla looked confused. ‘Up the stairs second on the left but …’

‘We’ll find it.’ He swept out of the office with Rachel in his wake leaving Carla standing at her desk opening and closing
her mouth like a goldfish. As he was passing through the doorway, he turned to deliver the parting shot. ‘We’ll send someone
round to go through your books.’ He smiled. ‘But I’m sure there won’t be a problem.’

‘Nice one,’ said Rachel as they ascended the impressive staircase. ‘I think you’ve been taking lessons from the boss.’

‘Perhaps I have.’

‘He’s been very cheerful recently.’

‘Must be the good weather.’

‘Trish took a phone message for him the other day … a lady. And not a name I recognised as being connected with the case.’

‘Well, he’s not said anything to me. I know police stations run on tea and gossip but should we be discussing the chief inspector’s
private life?’

‘You don’t mean to tell me you’re not interested.’ There was unrepentant mischief in Rachel’s voice.

‘This is it. Second on the left. Looks like we’ve timed it perfectly.’

The door to the classroom had just opened and the students were starting to emerge, bleary eyed and shell-shocked with boredom.
There seemed to be two girls to every male and both sexes carried back packs slung over one shoulder. Some clutched files
to their chests as they sauntered out of the room, chatting in a babel of different tongues.

Rachel stood back, scanning the faces. But there was no sign of Françoise Decaux. They waited until the room had emptied before
strolling into the classroom. A young woman was wiping the blackboard with a dirty yellow duster. She didn’t look round. ‘Yes.
What is it?’ She had a thick northern accent, Yorkshire probably.

‘Felicity?’

She swung round. She was probably only in her mid-twenties but the dark rings beneath her eyes and her gaunt features made
her look older. She had scraped her mousy hair back into a small bun with a pink elastic band, as though she had woken up
with a
bad hair day and hadn’t had the time or the inclination to do anything about it.