The Plague Maiden (35 page)

Wesley had a similar feeling but he said nothing as they walked down the corridor and knocked on the door, hoping she’d left
them some chocolate biscuits.

Janet Powell looked up when they walked in. ‘I don’t know why I’ve been brought here,’ she said in a tone that suggested she
was used to giving orders rather than taking them. ‘It’s ridiculous. I’ve told the truth about where Chris Hobson was on the
night that vicar died and he’s been acquitted. End of story.’

Wesley sat down, his face serious. ‘Not quite the end, I’m afraid, Mrs Powell. You see, we’ve been doing some digging and
we’ve found a link between the Reverend Shipborne and your sister … a tenuous link admittedly, but a link.’

Janet Powell glanced at Gerry Heffernan, who was sitting beside Wesley watching the proceedings with interest but saying nothing.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Your sister visited Mr Shipborne to confess she was having an affair.’

‘What?’ Her eyes widened in disbelief.

‘But we think she had another reason for wanting to see him. You see, Mr Shipborne had worked as a scientist for the Ministry
of Defence and he felt so guilty about some of the things he’d done in the course of his work that he made a public confession
in his church. He’d been involved in a germ warfare experiment. Bacteria were sprayed over a wide area and later some vulnerable
people developed health problems. Your sister was under the impression that the Reverend Shipborne was responsible for the
death of her son, Adam.’

Janet Powell stared down at the scattering of biscuit crumbs on the desk.

‘You knew about all this, didn’t you?’

‘No.’ She spoke almost in a whisper.

‘The truth, please, Mrs Powell.’ Wesley hesitated. ‘I don’t think this sort of thing comes easy to you, does it? I think you
were used. Did you kill the Reverend Shipborne?’

She looked up, horrified. ‘No, no. I could never do anything like that. And Chris didn’t kill him either. I told the truth:
he was with me. I heard about the murder on the news the next day but Chris had been with me all evening … we had nothing
to do with it.’

‘Did Amy know about you and Chris?’

‘Yes. I’d been stupid enough to tell her all about him in glorious detail. I should have kept it quiet but there you are.’

‘Did you keep in touch while you were in the States?’

‘Yes. Of course.’

Wesley looked her in the eye. ‘So she must have let you know he’d been arrested. You were lying when you said you didn’t know
about it till a month ago.’

‘No, that’s not true. I had no idea. Amy never told me he’d been arrested. She never mentioned it.’ Janet sounded puzzled
at this omission.

‘Doesn’t that strike you as strange?’

‘Yes, I suppose it does.’

Gerry Heffernan leaned forward. ‘Do you think your sister could have killed the vicar? Unless you cooked the idea up between
you and paid Hobson to do your dirty work. We only have your word that he’s really innocent, don’t we?’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Janet snapped.

Heffernan caught Wesley’s eye. ‘I think we should carry this on in the interview room, don’t you? Would you like a solicitor,
love?’

Janet Powell nodded.

Rachel walked up to Wesley’s desk. She was breathless, as though she’d been running. ‘I’ve heard you’re questioning Janet
Powell.’

‘We’re just waiting for her solicitor to arrive then we can interview her properly. If she’s in this up to her neck I suppose
it casts doubts on Chris Hobson’s innocence.’

Rachel tilted her head to one side. ‘I wonder if she thinks we can’t touch Hobson now – double jeopardy: you can’t be tried
for the same crime twice.’

‘If she’s been in the States she might not know the law’s going to be changed.’ Gerry reckons he was paid for the murder and
the proceeds are waiting for him in some offshore bank account. I believe he’s in the tender care of a national newspaper
at the moment, telling his tragic and heart-warming story for an obscene sum of money. But if Gerry’s right, Hobson might
be waving goodbye to his compensation for wrongful imprisonment.

Rachel grinned. ‘So you think he did it after all?’

‘It’s possible. He was besotted with Janet at the time … but a few years
behind bars is a great healer.’

Rachel’s expression suddenly turned serious. ‘I suppose
this could mean DCI Norbert’s in the clear if he got the right man after all. And what about Philip Norbert?’

‘The charge for possession of cocaine should stick and he admits going into the vicarage and pinching the wallet.’

‘If we get this case cleared up we can all go out for a drink,’ Rachel said, looking at Wesley hopefully. She opened her desk
drawer and produced a small parcel. ‘By the way, this came for you … registered post. Got an admirer in Scotland?’

Wesley took the packet from her but before he could say anything Steve Carstairs ambled up to them, a knowing smirk on his
face. ‘Trish said to tell you Janet Powell’s brief’s arrived. They’re waiting in interview room two.’

Wesley wandered down to join Gerry Heffernan in the interview room. This was it – with any luck the Shipborne case would soon
be concluded. And then all they had to do was to find out who killed Helen Wilmer. His money was still on Dermot O’Donovan
… but then he hadn’t predicted Janet Powell’s involvement. Perhaps he was losing his touch.

Janet Powell’s solicitor wore an expensive suit. But then Janet Powell was an expensive lady. Wesley wondered how it was that
the Wilkins sisters had both ended up married to rich men. Luck, perhaps … or a talent for being in the right place at the
right time? But whatever it was, it didn’t seem to have brought either of them much happiness.

As Heffernan set the tape running and said the required words, Janet looked nervous. But then so would Wesley if he were facing
a charge of conspiracy to murder.

They went through the events of the night of Shipborne’s death and Janet was adamant: Chris Hobson had been with her all evening.
She’d told the truth.

She stuck to her story. She’d met Chris Hobson outside the Horse and Farrier; they’d sat in the car talking for at least half
an hour, probably longer, then they’d driven to Morbay. She remembered that he’d spotted a boy behaving
furtively outside a large house and mentioned in passing that he’d seen him at some posh school in Morbay and he was surprised
to see him hanging around in Belsham. Wesley supposed this confirmed Philip Norbert’s story … and somehow Janet Powell’s account
was starting to sound more convincing, even if Gerry was still behaving as though Chris Hobson’s guilt was a foregone conclusion.

Wesley asked Janet whether anyone had known her plans for that evening and Janet hesitated before admitting that she’d told
Amy, who had even suggested the Horse and Farrier as a place to meet. Her answer caused Wesley to spend the next five minutes
deep in thought, hardly hearing the questions Gerry was firing at the woman on the other side of the table … or her protestations
of innocence.

When Wesley had gathered his thoughts, he spoke. ‘Did Amy tell you Shipborne had killed Adam?’

‘I told her she was talking rubbish.’

‘We’ve been hearing that your sister had an affair and Adam wasn’t Aaron Hunting’s son.
Is this true?’

Janet Powell’s face was expressionless. ‘It might be.’

‘Did she tell you who Adam’s real father was?’

No answer.

‘Could Amy have killed Shipborne?’

She had a whispered discussion with her solicitor before answering, ‘No comment.’

‘She’s not going to say, is she?’

Wesley was sitting on the other side of Heffernan’s cluttered desk. He picked up a pencil stub and began to twist it in his
fingers. ‘Her sister’s dead … we can’t ask her. Someone knew about Janet’s fancy man’s history and thought the blame could
be put on him. The only person who could have known was Amy. Or Adam Hunting’s real father, whoever he is, if Amy told him
everything.’

‘Or maybe it was Janet herself. Adam was her nephew and she hasn’t any children of her own. She might have wanted to avenge
his death … especially if she had Hobson
eating out of her hand. Hobson might have done it after all. Or maybe Janet and Hobson did it together.’

Wesley ignored this. He didn’t know why, but he believed Janet Powell’s story. ‘If it wasn’t Amy herself then what about Aaron
Hunting? He claims he didn’t know that Adam wasn’t his son. And Helen Wilmer would have known him by sight and knew he was
worth blackmailing.’

Wesley sighed and fumbled in the inside pocket of his jacket. He took out a small package neatly wrapped in brown paper. He
also pulled out a small battered book encased in a plastic evidence bag, flecked with what looked like dried blood.

‘What’s that?’

‘Shipborne’s diaries. I just wanted to read what he said about Amy Hunting again.’ He began to open the packet Rachel had
given him, the packet from Scotland. He found a small book inside, identical to its blood-spattered predecessor. ‘This is
the diary he’d just started to use when the first was full. His niece in Scotland’s just posted it to me.’ He opened it and
saw that the first few pages were filled with John Shipborne’s neat, tiny handwriting. Wesley’s heart began to beat faster:
these were the dead man’s thoughts in the days leading up to his murder. Perhaps they would provide the final solution to
the puzzle of his death … or perhaps not.

‘If you find anything interesting, let me know.’ Heffernan stood up. ‘I’m getting myself a cup of tea. Want one?’

Wesley nodded. And by the time Gerry Heffernan returned from the vending machine in the corridor with two plastic cups full
of some scalding liquid that resembled tea only in its general appearance, Wesley had returned to his own desk and begun to
run over everything in his mind: Loveday’s attempt at sabotage; someone, perhaps Amy Hunting, framing Chris Hobson; Helen
Wilmer’s death. There was something he was missing.

He read through the papers on his desk for half an hour
before the idea came to him. There was one person who might be able to throw some light into the chaotic darkness. It was
time he returned to Morbay.

Checking up to see how Loveday Wilkins’s two latest victims were recovering gave Wesley’s mission some semblance of legitimacy:
it had been his case, after all. But although he was glad to see Ellie Pickering and her daughter, Chloe, home from hospital
and well on the road to recovery, his real interest lay in another direction.

He found Ellie lying on the sofa, a blanket over her legs like a Victorian invalid. She bore a slight resemblance to her sister,
Georgie Bettis, but she was younger and her face was more gaunt … probably as a result of her recent misfortunes. Her husband,
Joe, an amiable, balding man, made a great show of fussing over the invalid and Ellie was beginning to display flashes of
irritation which Wesley took as a sign that she was on the mend.

After fifteen minutes of polite enquiries and bringing the Pickerings up to date with the police’s progress, Wesley thought
the time was right to come to the point of his visit.

‘I believe your sister, Georgie, worked for Aaron Hunting?’

Ellie pursed her lips. ‘She was his PA. It was a wonderful job and I was surprised she gave it all up when her eldest was
born but she said she’d had enough.’

‘Of Hunting?’

‘Oh no, I think she got on well with him. It was Hunting’s wife who used to make a bit of a nuisance of herself, and I think
Georgie got a bit fed up with it. Wasn’t she found dead recently?’

‘Yes.’ Wesley didn’t feel like elaborating.

Ellie continued. ‘There were things going on in the office that Georgie didn’t like so she wasn’t sorry to leave.’

‘What sort of things?’

Ellie hesitated, as though she feared she’d said too much. ‘You’ll have to ask Georgie.’

An hour later Wesley was sipping rather good coffee in Georgie Bettis’s converted barn on the outskirts of Tradmouth and immersing
himself in office scandal.

And as he drove back to the station he felt the overwhelming feeling of satisfaction he usually felt when he was about to
identify a murderer.

Neil Watson had arranged to meet Aaron Hunting and his entourage that afternoon. He wasn’t looking forward to it. He never
felt at home with commerce. He’d met Hunting on several occasions and found him more likeable than the usual run of businessmen.
It was his hangers-on he couldn’t stand; the po-faced yes-men who swarmed around him in their uniform suits and ties. And
there was one who got right up his nose; the one called Sturgeon, a self-important prat who always wore a flower in his buttonhole.
He’d heard rumours that Sturgeon was supposed to be taking over as manager of the new store when it was eventually built.
Which would be a long time off if Neil had his way.

Neil was still holding himself stiffly: although he felt much better and was even able to turn without experiencing an excruciating
stab of pain, he wasn’t ready to relinquish his invalid status just yet. He was settled at Wesley and Pam’s … it was somehow
comforting to live in a proper grown-up house rather than a glorified student flat. And it was a long time since he had spent
so much time with Pam. He was beginning to regret this omission, although he would never have said as much to Wesley. When
his old friend was around – which was seldom, thanks to his job – Neil was careful not to betray his feelings. But he wondered
how much, if anything, Pam had sensed.

He looked on as the others worked, still bringing skeletons out of the ground. The forensic anthropologist who was examining
the bones, a large woman with cropped hair called Dr Rhodes, had concluded that the remains were those of a typical cross-section
of a medieval village: old
and young; male and female; rich and poor. The Black Death had been no respecter of persons. None of the bodies showed any
signs of injury: only the young male corpse with the richly decorated dagger had died by the violence of man … and if that
corpse was really Robert de Munerie, Neil reckoned that he’d had it coming to him.