The Marriage Hearse (6 page)

‘Yes, please.’ said Steve patiently as Mrs Lear thrust the plate of stale scones towards him.

Times were hard for farmers. Foot and mouth. Falling milk and livestock prices. There had been times in the past few years
when Brian Lightfoot feared that if it weren’t for his wife’s job as a district nurse, they would have gone under.

Diversify, that’s what the government said. But what did people whose grasp of nature didn’t extend beyond jogging through
a London park know about the likes of Brian Lightfoot whose family had tended the same land just outside the village of Upper
Cudleigh, five miles inland from Tradmouth, for generations?

Brian, like so many, dreamed of a lottery win; a vast sum of money that would enable him to raise two fingers to the distant
powers that shaped his life. And when he’d given the big bearded man with the metal detector permission to search his lower
meadow there had been the barely acknowledged germ of a hope in the dark recesses of his mind that he might find something
that would solve all his problems.

Treasure trove. A hoard of gold coins or a priceless gold goblet. He’d read that a Bronze Age gold cup had been found in a
Kent potato field a few years back and the British Museum had paid over a quarter of a million pounds for it. Devon had a
rich history so maybe someone, at some time in the long distant past, had deposited some rich treasure in his fields. And
as the landowner he’d get half the proceeds. Unless the man he knew as Big Eddie decided to cheat and kept what he found to
himself. It would do no harm to keep an eye on the situation now he’d seen to his beasts.

As he neared the lower meadow he could see Big Eddie squatting near the far hedgerow. He’d found something. Brian’s heart
began to thump with anticipation. This might be it. His ticket to freedom. But then again, it was probably nothing. Another
piece of barbed wire or a nut off a tractor.

‘What you found, then, Eddie?’ He called and the big man looked up, alarmed.

Big Eddie stood slowly, careful to shield the place where he’d been digging from the farmer’s eyes. ‘Nothing much. Old horseshoe,
that’s all.’ Big Eddie was a poor liar. His own mother had always said she could see right through him.

‘Let’s have a look then.’ Brian marched forward, noting the distress on the big man’s face. His metal detector lay on the
ground. It wasn’t switched on. He was up to something.

Brian stepped past him, his eyes fixed on the ground. When he spotted the half exposed ribcage, he stopped and stared.

‘Know what, Eddie? We’re going to have to tell the police about this.’

As Big Eddie turned slowly, Brian noticed that his face had turned white.

Wesley hadn’t been looking forward to facing Kirsten Harbourn’s fiancé but he knew they couldn’t put it off much longer. The
spouse or partner of a murder victim is always the prime suspect. Statistically, most murders were family affairs.

Peter Creston looked stunned as he faced them, perched on the edge of the leather sofa, holding the mug of strong tea his
mother had placed in his hand. After providing refreshments and settling her son, Rowena Creston had left them alone with
him, glancing back anxiously as she left the room like a worried parent leaving their child at nursery for the first time.
Peter was twenty-seven, well built and six feet tall … but the maternal instinct never fades.

‘We’re sorry to intrude, Mr Creston, but it’s important that we find out exactly what happened,’ Wesley began, earning himself
an impatient glance from the chief inspector who was a great believer in coming straight to the point.

‘I know. I’ve never believed in bringing back hanging before but …’

Wesley put his cup down carefully on a coaster and leaned forward. ‘I know this is a very difficult time for you but we need
to find out all we can about Kirsten; her life; her family and friends; her work; what kind of person she was. And, as her
fiancé, you’re one of the people who knew her best.’

Peter Creston stared ahead.

‘How did you meet?’

He hesitated, as though trying to remember. ‘At a party about eighteen months ago.’

‘Whose party?’ Heffernan asked.

Creston frowned, trying to remember. ‘Someone from the rugby club, I think.’

‘What about Kirsten’s work?’

‘She was an administrator at a language school in Morbay. The Morbay Language College. They teach English to foreign students,
that sort of thing.’

‘Did she enjoy her job?’

Peter shrugged. ‘She did talk about looking for something else … maybe something a bit nearer … somewhere in Neston or Tradmouth but …’ His grey eyes began to well with tears.

‘I believe you work as an accountant, Mr Creston?’

Peter looked up, wary. ‘That’s right.’

‘Was Kirsten’s life insured?’

His face turned red. ‘We had insurance linked to the mortgage. If one of us dies it’s paid off. And we both had life policies,
of course.’

Heffernan shifted in his seat and the leather groaned beneath his weight. He looked at the young man through narrowed eyes.
‘So you own the cottage now. Must be worth …’

‘If you’re thinking I killed Kirsten for money, Chief Inspector, you couldn’t be more wrong. I loved her.’ He looked at Heffernan
with feeble defiance.

Wesley took pity on him. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you about her friends and family.’

‘There’s her parents. They hate each other’s guts. And Kirsten hates – hated – her father’s new wife. Called her “the witch”.
As far as friends are concerned the one who knows her best is Marion Blunning. They’ve been friends since school.’

Wesley and Heffernan exchanged looks. Marion Blunning was next on their list.

‘Had Kirsten any enemies? Is there anyone you can think of who would want to harm her?’

Peter Creston shook his head vigorously. ‘Of course not.’

‘What about her stepmother?’

‘They didn’t like each other but that doesn’t mean …’

‘Any ex-boyfriends with a grudge?’ Heffernan asked, his eyes still on the young man’s face.

Peter looked uncomfortable. ‘There was one. He used to follow her around … until me and a couple of mates from the rugby club
had a quiet chat with him.’

‘You threatened him?’ Wesley asked.

‘He was making a nuisance of himself. Sending her flowers and stupid teddy bears. He was frightening her. We didn’t threaten
him, just told him to get lost. He got the message.’

‘You sure?’

‘Well Kirsten never mentioned him again so I suppose …’

‘What was his name?’

He thought for a moment. ‘Stuart something. Marion’d know.’

Wesley suddenly wanted to be out of that immaculately rustic room.
He wanted to see Marion Blunning, the potential fount of all knowledge.

But Heffernan’s thoughts were moving in a different direction. ‘You’ve been having work done on the cottage in Lower Week-bury.
Was Kirsten alone there with the builders much?’

Peter looked wary. ‘What are you getting at?’

‘We’d like to speak to them. Can you tell us how to get in touch?’

The dead woman’s fiancé looked confused for a moment then he stood up stiffly and walked over to a dark oak bureau that stood
in the corner of the room. He rooted around and finally found a card which he handed to Gerry Heffernan. ‘That’s them, M.
Dellingpole and Co. Came highly recommended.’

‘Always nice to find a reliable builder,’ said Heffernan as he pocketed the card, leaving Wesley unsure whether he intended
to interview the builder or use his services.

Wesley noticed that Peter Creston looked strained and ill. But then that was hardly surprising. If all had gone to plan he
would have been on his honeymoon by now. Bali, Rachel had been told by the bride’s mother. All paid for by the bride’s errant
father. Guilt money. But instead he was here with his parents. Bereft. Uncertain what to do next. Wesley felt sorry for him.

Before they left they had a word with Peter’s brother, James, and his sister, Julia. James, some two years Peter’s junior,
was a tall young man with floppy, fair hair. His tight white T-shirt barely concealed a perfectly honed body, the sort of
physique that takes a lot of effort to maintain. He seemed cooperative enough and he made the right noises of shock and grief,
letting the clichés roll
glibly off his tongue. But somehow Wesley guessed he was just saying what he was expected to say. He was preoccupied with
his own life; with his warehouse apartment that he shared with his boyfriend – a man he referred to as Baz – and his job at
a health club in Neston. As he was gay, any sexual involvement with Kirsten was unlikely. And he claimed to have neither loved
nor loathed his future sister-in-law. The indifferent rarely commit murder.

Julia, however, pulled no punches. Kirsten was a ruthless, manipulative social climber. She said she was sorry for speaking
ill of the dead but she believed in telling the truth, which was usually, in Wesley’s experience, a self-righteous excuse
for rudeness. She also claimed to know someone who worked with Kirsten who confirmed her opinion but she didn’t elaborate.
Wesley didn’t much like Julia Creston with her turned-up nose, her designer jeans and her stiletto heels. She worked for an
advertising agency in Morbay, he discovered. Somehow he knew that she wouldn’t be a member of one of the caring professions.

So now they’d met the whole Creston clan and, with the possible exception of Julia, Wesley had found them an unremarkable,
inoffensive lot. He had detected a residual trace of snobbery but then most people were snobbish in one way or another. Julia
was the only member of the family he’d taken an active dislike to. But she had an alibi for Kirsten’s murder. Which was a
pity.

Marion Blunning was next of their list. It was high time they discovered why she had tried to contact Gerry Heffernan the
previous evening. On their way back to Tradmouth, Wesley stopped the car in a lay-by, dialled her number on his mobile phone
and found that she was at home, waiting for their call.

He had her address. Not far from his own house. One of the streets that was built when Tradmouth grabbed its own small share
of Victorian prosperity; a road Wesley passed every day on his journey to the police station.

They didn’t have to ring the doorbell. Marion Blunning was sitting behind the net curtains watching for their arrival, reminding
Gerry Heffernan of his Aunty Bridget back in Liverpool who had been an acknowledged expert in that particular variety of covert
surveillance – nothing in her street had escaped her elaborate
intelligence network. He only hoped that Marion Blunning was half as observant as Aunty Bridget.

Marion led them through into a neat, if slightly old-fashioned living room, explaining that she was alone in the house as
her mother had gone to visit her dad in Tradmouth hospital. When Wesley asked how he was, Marion seemed gratified that he
had taken an interest.

‘I tried to ring you,’ she said accusingly as she sat down, her glasses falling to the end of her nose, every inch the cooperative
witness.

‘Sorry, love,’ said Heffernan. ‘We’ve had a lot of people to see. Her mum … the Crestons and …’

‘What can you tell us about Kirsten?’ Wesley interrupted, giving Marion his most charming smile, drawing her into his confidence.
‘You see we don’t really feel we know her yet.’

He assumed an expectant expression and waited. And he wasn’t disappointed.

‘Some people didn’t like her. She could be a bit … blunt, I suppose you could call it. But she was always really good to me.’
She swallowed hard. ‘I had a bad time at school … bullies and

… Kirsten always stood up for me.’ She looked away, as if the memory was painful. ‘Her parents breaking up hit her hard and
I think she was a bit insecure. She couldn’t stand that cow her dad ran off with. And I don’t think her mum using the wedding
as a way of milking her ex-husband of cash helped. Caused a lot of ill feeling if you ask me.’

Wesley nodded. There was something about plain, sensible Marion that suggested she was old beyond her years. He asked her
what she did for a living and she told him she was a nurse. If he was ever ill, he thought, Marion Blunning was just the sort
of person he’d like ministering to his every need.

‘What about Peter?’

‘He’s nice. His dad’s a consultant. I know him from Tradmouth Hospital. He’s a lovely man and I think Peter takes after him.
Kirsten was lucky.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, I don’t mean …’

Wesley smiled. ‘Don’t worry. Did she appreciate Peter’s virtues or was she ever tempted to stray?’

Marion shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘She was a bit of a flirt
but I don’t think … Mind you, she was so pretty, she had men falling at her feet,’ she said with a hint of envy. ‘But if
there was anyone else she certainly never mentioned it to me.’

‘You make it sound as if Kirsten wasn’t altogether trustworthy where men were concerned.’

Marion looked unsure of herself, as if she was aware that she might have said too much. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest
… I honestly don’t know.’

‘Any particular reason why you rang me last night?’ Heffernan asked.

The young woman’s cheeks reddened. ‘I don’t know whether it’s important but Kirsten was having trouble with an ex-boyfriend.
He used to follow her about.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Stuart Richter. She went out with him for about a few months then broke it off when she met Peter. But he was one of those
people who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Kept buying her flowers and turning up.’

‘Do you have any reason to think he might want to harm her?’

She frowned and pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘Well, he might have thought that if he couldn’t have her nobody could. Some
of these obsessive men think like that, don’t they? Some of Peter’s friends warned him off and he disappeared off the scene
for about six months.’ She hesitated. ‘But then I saw him yesterday … at the hotel where the reception was to be held. He
was there. I spoke to him. It was a bit stupid really but I was angry. I more or less accused him of killing her.’