The Marriage Hearse (15 page)

There was a newspaper lying in the middle of Heffernan’s desk, an early edition of Tradmouth’s local evening rag. Wesley picked
it up and scanned the headlines.

Kirsten Harbourn’s death had made the top of the page again, her posthumous moment of fame having lasted rather longer than
the standard fifteen minutes. ‘New lead in strangled bride investigation.’ How those journalists relished that image of sullied
purity – the white dress and the noose – beauty and the beast.

His eyes wandered downwards to the other stories on the front page. There was to be a planning enquiry into the construction
of a hundred new homes on the outskirts of Tradmouth and a delegation of local fishermen were taking their protest about EU
fishing quotas to the Prime Minister in Downing Street, who would no doubt make sympathetic noises then ignore the whole thing.
But Wesley spotted a more interesting headline near the bottom of the page – ‘Mystery man found dead’ – together with a photofit
picture that the subject’s own mother probably wouldn’t have recognised. ‘Police are baffled by the stabbing of a mystery
man in a Morbay guesthouse,’ it began, before filling in the basic details. According to the local papers the police went
around in a permanent state of bafflement, which was rather inaccurate and unfair in Wesley’s opinion and probably only served
to encourage the criminally inclined.

Wesley returned the paper to Heffernan’s desk, taking care to leave it as he’d found it. And hoping that Françoise Decaux’s
name wouldn’t be the next one to make the front page.

* * *

Carla Sawyer swung her Toyota sports car into the yard and, when she’d brought the vehicle to a screeching halt, she sat there
for a few moments staring at the former farm building that her husband used as his office. Then she tidied her hair in the
rear-view mirror before opening the driver’s door. She didn’t want Susie, Sean’s secretary, to see her looking anything but
her best. The pecking order had to be maintained.

Sean Sawyer’s farm equipment hire business just outside Neston was housed in a converted cow shed and dairy arranged round
a cobbled courtyard. The farmhouse itself had been bought long ago by a family from London who ran an Internet business and
the land had been sold off to local farmers. Sean had bought his offices cheap as the Internet family had no requirement for
the rambling set of agricultural buildings which, to them, was more of a burden than an asset, so everyone had been happy.

Susie showed Carla into Sean’s office with her own brand of dumb insolence. Carla wished he’d sack her but whenever she raised
the matter, he told her that Susie was efficient and besides, good staff were hard to come by. She suspected efficiency wasn’t
Susie’s only attraction, although she’d never put her suspicions into words. Carla had learned long ago to bide her time.

Sean was seated at his desk, talking on the telephone. As he signalled her to sit down, she saw a flash of irritation in his
eyes. But the fact that she wasn’t welcome didn’t bother her in the least.

He kept his eyes on her as he brought his telephone conversation to a close, like someone watching a suspicious caller to
make sure they didn’t steal the family silver. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said as he put down the receiver.

‘One of our little birds has flown.’

Sean gave his wife a mirthless smile. ‘Bit careless of you, wasn’t it? I thought you’d have the sense to keep an eye on these
girls.’

‘Have you read today’s paper? The front page. There’s a picture of …’

‘Don’t worry. There’s no way they can connect him with us.’

‘But that stupid little cow Françoise is on the loose. If she …’

‘How do you know she’s on the loose? Maybe she’s being taken
care of. Somewhere she can’t do any harm.’ He began to pick at his fingernails, a smile playing on his lips.

Their eyes met. Sean’s calm manner told her everything she needed to know. She felt as if a weight had been lifted from her
shoulders.

‘I’ve got a rehearsal tonight,’ Sean said, still watching his wife’s face.

She flicked an imaginary piece of fluff off her skirt angrily. ‘
The Fair Wife of
bloody
Padua
. I don’t know why you bother.’

‘There’s nothing wrong in having an interest.’

‘There is if that interest’s blonde and goes by the name of Susie. Playing your wife, isn’t she? How appropriate.’

‘Now you’re being ridiculous. And keep your voice down, will you?’

Sean Sawyer stood up and began to pace the narrow confines of the office. Carla sat back, smugly satisfied that she was getting
under his skin. It was a blood sport she always enjoyed.

‘I’ve a lot to do. You’ll have to go.’

Carla looked at her watch and stood up. ‘The police have been sniffing around, asking questions about Kirsten. I should be
there to make sure nobody says anything they shouldn’t.’ She hesitated. ‘You have dealt with Françoise properly, haven’t you?
There’s no chance she’ll …’

Sean Sawyer walked over to her and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. It’s all been taken care of.’

Carla turned and left without saying goodbye to Susie. Everything was going to be all right. Françoise couldn’t make waves.
And the only thing Carla required from the girl now was her silence.

‘Well that’s all the paperwork out of the way, you’ll be glad to know. I’m so very sorry about your husband, Mrs Kent. Please
accept my condolences.’ Joyce Barnes assumed a sympathetic expression as she shook the newly widowed woman’s hand. Official
procedures had to be followed but Joyce was of the opinion that it was her job to make things as smooth as possible for the
bereaved. There but for the grace of God go any of us.

She watched the widow shamble down the corridor, supported by a friend. Forty years of marriage ended by someone’s moment
of thoughtlessness. Mrs Kent had told her the story in great detail – how her husband had nipped out to buy a newspaper and
had crossed the road, only to be hit by a driver who was busy chatting on his mobile phone. The driver was going to be prosecuted,
of course, but that would hardly bring Mrs Kent’s husband back.

Joyce stood in the doorway until Mrs Kent had disappeared round the corner then she returned to her office, trying to think
pleasant thoughts: of the long bath she was planning to have that evening; of the box of chocolates she’d consume as she soaked
in the foamy, scented water; and the glass of wine she’d treat herself to afterwards while she was watching her favourite
detective programme on the television. Or rather that was the plan. If her mother had one of her bad nights, the best laid
schemes had the habit of going awry.

The thought of detectives reminded her of Gerry. A widower, perhaps a bit rough around the edges. But then he was ex-merchant
navy and he moved in the macho, shady world of crime. Joyce considered herself a good judge of character and Gerry Heffernan
had passed the first test. She had arranged to meet him at the weekend – she had already asked Mrs Hodge from next door to
sit with mother – and she was rather surprised to find herself impatient for their next rendezvous. After a couple of false
starts it looked as if her gamble with the Fidelis Bureau might have paid off at last.

The local newspaper was lying on the floor underneath Joyce’s office chair. She had thrust it there quickly, out of sight
when Mrs Kent had come in. It would never have done for the newly bereaved woman to see that her attention wasn’t fully on
her job.

Joyce picked it up and glanced at the front page, curious to know if anything exciting was happening in her part of the world.
She was about to sit down when she froze. The image was so unreal, like one of those pictures of suspects she’d seen on
Crime-watch
– like a stiff wooden model of a head, human yet not human. But it was him, she was certain of it. She’d noticed him particularly.

A line at the bottom of the article requested anyone who thought they knew the man to contact Tradmouth CID. Joyce picked
up the telephone and punched out the number. At least it might give her a chance to speak to Gerry again.

The postmortem on the mystery man from the Loch Henry Lodge had yielded nothing surprising. As Colin Bowman had predicted,
the cause of death was a single stab wound, administered several hours before Ferdy Galpin had discovered the body. The dead
man was in his thirties and the state of his hands indicated that he’d been doing some kind of manual – maybe agricultural
– work prior to his death. His last meal had been a bowl of corn-flakes – the Loch Henry Lodge wasn’t renowned for its lavish
breakfasts.

Wesley and Heffernan came away from the hospital feeling rather deflated. The man’s death was still a mystery … unless Françoise
Decaux could shed some light on it. But Françoise had disappeared.

‘Let’s pay the Quigleys a visit,’ Heffernan suggested. ‘Nobody’s spoken to the son yet.’

Wesley said very little as he drove out to Morbay. He too was curious to meet the private investigators hired by Stuart Richter.
And there was always a chance that John Quigley might be able to tell them something new.

When they reached the office they found John Quigley holding the fort. His mother was out on a case, he explained. An unfaithful
husband.

Quigley seemed delighted to see them, almost as if he’d been longing for a chance to learn the latest news and swap theories.
Perhaps, Wesley thought fleetingly, he saw himself as Holmes to their Lestrade.

‘I knew there was something strange about the set-up,’ Quigley began. He was a small man, probably in his late forties, with
receding hair and bright blue eyes. ‘If the fiancé was paying us to keep an eye on her, I didn’t give the marriage five minutes.
I mean, there has to be an element of trust, doesn’t there?’

‘But he wasn’t her fiancé,’ Heffernan observed.

‘I did have my suspicions. He was very convincing but I knew there was something …’

‘Your mother gave us a list of Kirsten Harbourn’s visitors. I wondered if you could tell us anything more about the runner?’

‘I can give you a description but that’s about it.’

‘How long did he stay?’

‘Not long. Half an hour tops.’ He thought for a few moments. ‘I didn’t get the impression they were lovers … and I’ve had
a lot of experience of this sort of thing.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. Perhaps the Quigleys had bugged the place as well. ‘How did you get into this game?’ he asked
out of curiosity.

Quigley smiled. ‘In my former life I worked in Exeter as an accountant. I fancied a change. Something a little more challenging
than balance sheets and costing medical equipment. I brought Mother in. My Miss Marple, I call her. She’s seventy-five, you
know, though you’d never guess it. She’s a wonder when it comes to surveillance.’

‘I can imagine.’ Wesley didn’t know quite what to make of John Quigley. He seemed just a little too eager to please. He had
one more question to ask. ‘You drive a blue Vauxhall, don’t you? Was it your car I saw outside Honey Cottage on Sunday?’

Quigley’s eyes widened for a second. ‘Er … I don’t think so.’

Wesley suspected he was lying but the truth could wait for another
day.

Gerry Heffernan stood up. It was time to go. Wesley sneaked a look at his watch, planning to go straight home after dropping
Gerry at the station.

‘If you think of anything else, you will let us know?’

‘You can count on me, Chief Inspector,’ Quigley replied with what looked like a wink.

Now that the hospital had let Marion Blunning’s father come home, she felt obliged to take some more time off work to help
her mother with the invalid. She was a nurse, after all. And her mother was hardly the most competent of creatures, being
on pills for her nerves.

All through Marion’s childhood she had thought of her mother as delicate and highly strung, the sort of woman who gets a lot
of attention from relatives and doctors. Marion had accepted that this was how things were. Only since she’d started nursing
and seen the stoical suffering of some of her patients, had her mother’s affectations begun to irritate her.

‘Marion.’ The voice from above was a pathetic whine.

‘Yes, Mum. What is it?’ Marion called up the stairs, trying to hide her impatience.

‘If you’re going out can you get some ice cream? Your dad just fancies some.’

‘Yes, Mum.’ Marion replied. She didn’t mind too much as she was going to the shops anyway. She wanted to buy a sympathy card
for Peter Creston. She liked Peter and a card would be something tangible, something that would ensure that she wasn’t forgotten.

The sun was shining and it had brought the tourists out on the streets. They moved slowly, licking Devon ice cream in dripping
cones, gazing in gift shop windows. Marion had never resented the summer influx of visitors as much as some Tradmouth residents
did. They spent money in the shops, hotels and restaurants and kept people in work, even though they did increase her workload
when their relaxed holiday mood made them careless and accident prone. Accident and Emergency was often full to over-flowing
in the summer months.

She chose Peter’s card carefully. Nothing oversentimental; nothing too flowery; and nothing too religious because she wasn’t
sure where Peter stood on that sort of thing. In the end she selected one she thought was exactly right. ‘Thinking of you
at this sad time’, were the words printed beside a stylised stained-glass window. The inside was blank. No sloppy verse. Perfect.

Marion decided to delay the purchase of her father’s ice cream and her return home. She had spent the past few days yo-yoing
between home and the hospital, the routine broken only by visits from the police who, to give them their due, had been pleasant
and sympathetic; no sign of the police brutality the papers always talked about. She strolled down to the river through the
Memorial
Park. A band playing on the bandstand had attracted quite a crowd. Marion stood listening for a few minutes. Songs from the
shows, cheerful and loud enough to drown out the mournful cries of the seagulls wheeling overhead. When she had had her fill
of music she walked along the quayside and watched the boats: the yachts gliding on the smooth summer water and the passenger
ferry, teeming with people, beetling to and fro across the river between Tradmouth and Queenswear.