The Merchant's House (11 page)

Heffernan looked impressed.

‘The family got a bit of a shock when I chose to read archaeology and an even bigger one when I joined the Met. But my grandfather back in Trinidad was a detective, a chief superintendent. When we stayed with him he used to entertain us at bedtime by telling us about his more lurid cases.’ He grinned. ‘And all those Sherlock Holmes books I used to read when I should have been revising for exams probably had something to do with it too.’

‘Bet he’s proud of you, your granddad.’

The suggestion of praise almost made Wesley forget his queasiness. ‘Would have been. He died five years ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Heffernan stood in silence, remembering his own early days: his uncle, a bridewell sergeant, the choice between the force and the sea, the sea winning until a burst appendix landed him in Tradmouth Hospital after being winched off his ship by helicopter. He smiled to himself. Such a fuss for such a small part of the human anatomy.

‘I joined ‘cause of my appendix.’ Wesley looked at him curiously. ‘There was this nice young nurse in the hospital and the sea lost its appeal. We got married and I stopped here. Joined the force. Kathy, my wife … she died three years back.’

‘I’m sorry.’

The inspector said nothing. He stared in front of him at the outstretching sea.

Wesley thought it best to change the subject. ‘Any news about Jonathon Berrisford yet?’

Heffernan shook his head. ‘The mother rings Stan Jenkins every day. It’s really getting to him. Fancy having to tell a mother every day that there’s no news. I’m just glad it’s not my case.’

‘Have you had any thoughts on the Karen Giordino case, sir?’

‘You had any?’

‘Looks like a domestic so far. Body found in beauty spot: sort of place you’d go walking with your girlfriend or whatever…’

‘I believe partner’s the word these days, Wes.’ Heffernan grinned.

‘They had a row; a violent quarrel. He bashes her head and face in and runs off. Panics, clears out of the flat. He could be anywhere. We don’t even know who he is.’

‘We will soon. Someone must know them, and if he’s got an ex-wife or in-laws down this way they might be only too happy to turn him in. It shouldn’t take long.’

‘Straightforward, then?’

‘We won’t know that till we find him, will we?’

Heffernan turned the boat round skilfully. It was time to go home.

It was clear to Heffernan that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had never been in the police force. Irritated by the good doctor’s low estimate of the number of brain cells collectively possessed by the Metropolitan Police, he flung the book across the room, blaming Wesley for his unfortunate choice of reading matter. It was Wesley’s mention that lunch-time of his adolescent literary tastes that had made Heffernan pick the smartly bound volume off the bookshelf. Now he remembered why it had been left untouched all these years. If he had been Lestrade, he would have devised some fiendishly cunning way of ridding himself once and for all of that unbearably smug, violin-playing drug addict.

He turned to his bedside table for more reading fodder. Since Kathy’s death he had got into the habit of reading till the early hours.

It wasn’ what he normally classed as bedtime reading, but he hadn’ yet had a chance to examine it in detail. The post-mortem report lay on top of a pile of tempting novels. Duty overcome hedonism: he picked it up.

Ploughing through the medical jargon wasn’t easy, not with a drowsy brain. But when he came to page five something caught his eye and he stopped, went back to the previous paragraph, and began to read more carefully.

I did go into my chamber when Jennet was changing the linen. I stood in the doorway and watched her and she was unaware of my presence. I saw the whiteness of her neck and her breasts and was quite overcome with desire for her. She looked at me as if she comprehended my need. I withdrew from the room lest I be tempted to kiss her

Extract from the journal of John Banized,
14 May 1623

Neil had spent all Sunday worrying about the dig. They couldn’t afford any more wasted time.

After the fragment of white bone had been uncovered, he had thought it best to abandon work until Monday. Jane and Matt had readily agreed. Although nobody voiced their fears, they were all thinking the same thing.

As he unlocked the gate at 8 am on Monday morning, Neil felt uneasy. He retrieved his equipment from the wooden hut at the edge of the site and removed the protective tarpaulin from the trench they’d begun work on. Jane and Matt arrived to find him already at work. He stood and turned as they approached, and stepped aside so that they could see what he’d begun to uncover.

Jane’s hand went up to her mouth.

Neil spoke quietly. ‘I’ll ring Wesley. At least there’s someone in that police station now who knows what they’re doing and won’t trample all over the bloody site.’

* * *

The minicab stopped by the newly painted Victorian gateposts and the driver, instructed to wait, picked up his copy of the
Daily Mirror
to read while the meter ticked away.

Mr Carl looked back at the throbbing taxi and cursed the police force which had temporarily deprived him of the use of his BMW.

He felt in his pocket for the key – it was there. He strode confidently up the gravel path: if you did anything with enough confidence nobody ever questioned your right to be doing it. He had found that out at an early age.

But today was an exception to that rule. On the steps leading to the front door stood a uniformed policeman, an expression of boredom on his freckled face. He would be only too eager to relieve the tedium with a few questions about Mr Carl’s presence.

He turned and walked quickly to the waiting taxi, praying he hadn’t been noticed.

Constable Parsons took the notebook out of his top pocket.

Heffernan poked his head out of his office and bellowed. ‘Wesley, can I have a word when you’ve got a minute?’

Rachel, behind a pile of computer print-outs, raised her eyebrows. ‘What have you been up to?’

Wesley gave her an innocent shrug and joined his boss in the glass-partitioned office.

‘Sit down.’ The inspector seemed to be in a good mood. ‘Good trip yesterday. Bit of a swell, though – not too good for seasickness. What did you think of
Rosie May?’

Wesley looked puzzled.

‘The boat. What did you think of her?’

‘Very nice, sir … very nice.’

He saw Wesley’s eyes glazing over. It was a shame his new sergeant didn’t share his passion for things nautical. Never mind. Back to the matter in hand.

‘I was just arranging rosters and all that. Have you got another appointment at that clinic? Want to make sure you get there this time …’

‘Nine thirty, Thursday. I was just about to tell you.’

‘That was quick.’

‘It’s surprising what they can do when you cross their palms with silver. I don’t really agree with private medicine but …’

‘Will you be there long?’

‘Well, they did all Pam’s bit last week, so I shouldn’t be long. They say there’s nothing to it – more embarrassing than anything else.’

‘Have they said anything yet? Any ideas?’

‘They did some tests and didn’t find anything wrong. She might have to have one of those laparoscopy operations. You know, when they stick a camera …’

‘I know.’ Heffernan had heard of the procedure but wasn’t well up on the detail. Nor did he want to be. ‘What’s that for exactly?’

Wesley, amazed at his boss’s sudden interest in gynaecology, explained in simple terms, the only kind he knew.

‘Only I’ve been trying to get in touch with Colin Bowman all morning but he’s out. Some meeting or other. Have a look at this, will you.’ Heffernan chucked the post-mortem report across the table. ‘Page five, last paragraph.’

Wesley read aloud. ‘ “Scarring of both fallopian tubes most likely caused by pelvic infection.” ’

‘Could that infection be caused by childbirth?’

‘Yes. And other things: abortion, sexually transmitted disease, all sorts of things. But certainly infection after childbirth.’

‘Is that the sort of thing they look for at the clinic? I mean, can that cause infertility?’

Wesley nodded. It was a subject Pam was always reading up on, almost to the point of obsession. ‘Is it important?’

‘No idea. Probably not.’ He stared at the report open on his desk. ‘But where’s this child Colin Bowman said she had? It must be somewhere. Get Rachel to run a check on all the hospitals and clinics in the areas she’s been known to live in, and all the adoption agencies; she obviously didn’t have a kid in tow in Morbay.’

Wesley nodded as the inspector sorted through the jumble on his chaotic desk and produced a piece of paper – the face of a man. They looked at the picture jointly created by
the regular police artist, a solemn, ponytailed young man, and Karen Giordino’s public-spirited neighbour. The face of a dark-haired man in his thirties with no distinguishing features. He looked disconcertingly ordinary – the elusive John.

‘Get it put in all the local rags. Someone’s bound to recognise him.’

Wesley nodded. It was easy to remain anonymous in the metropolis, but South Devon out of season … He said as much to the inspector.

‘Don’t you believe it. Maybe that was true a few years back but now there’s a floating population all round the coast … if you’ll pardon the pun. Lots of people coming and going. Doesn’t make life any easier.’

After a perfunctory knock, Steve Carstairs burst in. ‘Phone call for you, Sarge,’ he said sulkily. ‘A Neil Watson … says it’s urgent.’

Wesley excused himself and took the call. Neil sounded more annoyed than worried. It was one more delay for the dig, using up valuable time. Wesley promised to be round there as soon as he could. He returned to his boss.

‘Another skeleton, sir, at the dig in St Margaret’s Street. The archaeologist in charge is a friend of mine. He says it all looks contemporary with the site.’

‘We’ll still have to go through the motions. Do the necessary, will you. Get Dr Bowman to pronounce life extinct and all that. You’d best get up there but don’t be long.’

‘I’ll make sure everything’s done to Home Office regs, sir.’

Wesley left the room, trying hard not to show his enthusiasm for the task ahead. A bit of time spent with Neil on the dig would be a welcome diversion.

Heffernan heard the phone ringing in the outer office and once more Steve was the bearer of tidings, this time good.

‘There’s been a message from the PC posted at the dead girl’s flat, sir. A bloke arrived in a minicab and turned tail as soon as he saw him. He got the minicab’s number.’

‘Well, you know what to do,’ Heffernan snapped. A display of initiative now and then wouldn’t have gone amiss with DC Carstairs.

‘Shall I interview the driver, sir?’

‘What a good idea. Off you go.’

Carstairs bit his lip and closed the door behind him.

Rachel was hovering by the door. ‘I had a look through the dead girl’s things yesterday, sir, like you asked. She had some good clothes. Fashionable.’

‘Like the stuff she was wearing when she died?’

Rachel hesitated. ‘Not really, sir. The stuff in her flat was more … you know, flashy.’

‘So she wanted to look the picture of respectability, eh?’

Rachel shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘You’d better go with Steve and hold his hand, Rach. Someone’s got to. Let me know what you turn up. I’m off to see Mrs Giordino.’

‘When’s she going home?’

‘I don’t know, and I haven’t liked to ask.’

Heffernan lifted his coat off the standard-issue inspectors’ coatstand. It was a chilly day.

‘Where’s he off to, Rachel?’ asked Steve outside, as he donned his jacket.

‘Visiting the bereaved. Full of good works, our inspector. Come on.’

‘Where to?’

‘We’re off to find that minicab. I’m coming with you.’

Rachel marched out of the office. Steve Carstairs followed behind, studying her legs.

Carl paid the minicab driver and navigated his way down the driveway of the white-stuccoed cottage, avoiding the rusty skip full of building rubble. He hammered with his fist on the glass front door. There was no answer. He hammered again till the glass shook, then watched as the dark shape in the hall grew larger. The door opened.

‘I heard you the first time. Have you got the bag?’

‘I couldn’t. The police were outside.’

‘Shit. I need those bloody clothes. Come on in. I was just going to have a shower.’

Carl stepped into the narrow, woodchip-papered hallway, nearly tripping over a child’s tricycle that lay in wait behind
the front door. He looked at his companion’s stained towelling dressing gown and bleary eyes.

‘You look awful.’

‘Those bloody builders were here first thing this morning banging and crashing. I hadn’t slept all night and I’d just managed to get off.’