The Plague Maiden (8 page)

Wesley looked across the bed at Heffernan, who was chewing at a fingernail, listening intently. He hadn’t considered a connection
with Huntings and he wondered why it had leapt into Neil’s mind.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘No reason. Just prejudice against greedy supermarkets who build on archaeological sites, that’s all.’ Neil closed his eyes,
as though the effort of conversation was becoming too much for him.

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. Neil’s words had reminded them of the primary reason for their visit … to have
a word with Sister Atkins.

They took their leave of the invalid, promising to return.

‘He seems cheerful enough,’ Heffernan said as they approached the sister’s office.

Wesley smiled. Now that he was satisfied his friend’s life wasn’t in immediate danger, he felt more relaxed. Sometimes the
victims of beatings or falls weren’t so lucky.

A statuesque woman wearing the dark blue dress of a ward sister emerged from the office. Wesley flashed his warrant card,
as did Heffernan, who was standing behind him looking rather awestruck.

‘Sister Atkins?’

‘That’s me. I’ve been expecting you.’ Her voice told Wesley that she was from the North – Yorkshire probably. She opened the
office door and stood aside to let them in.

Wesley sat down and looked at Sister Atkins expectantly. ‘You reported a suspected poisoning?’

Sister Atkins blushed. ‘I’ve probably jumped the gun a bit but an elderly lady was admitted a few days ago with poisoning
symptoms. Her husband assured us that she hadn’t eaten anything that he hadn’t.’ She hesitated. ‘When I was working up in
Leeds I saw a few cases of botulism. It was traced back to a batch of cooked ham at a butcher’s shop. Five people died: it
was on the news.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, Mrs Sommerby’s symptoms were identical. I’ve
been half expecting there to be more cases … if it originated in a shop or … ’

‘But there haven’t been?’

‘I rang round some other local hospitals and they haven’t had any cases.’

‘Thanks. That saves us a job,’ Wesley said, giving the woman a grateful smile.

‘So what’s this all about?’ the sister asked. ‘Isn’t it usually the public health people who investigate outbreaks of food
poisoning?’

Wesley looked apologetic. ‘I can’t really tell you at the moment. Sorry.’ It was probably best if their suspicions weren’t
made public just yet. He didn’t want to start a panic. The sister raised her eyebrows but made no further comment.

The lone case fitted perfectly with the threat to Huntings … the letter saying, ‘I see the jam’s been sold already and when
your customer dies’ – customer in the singular. And the first letter Huntings had received had referred to biological warfare,
and there was nothing more biological and warlike than introducing a hint of botulism to one of Huntings’ products. It was
a fair assumption that the dead woman was the letter writer’s first victim. Although at this stage it was still very much
an assumption.

Maybe, like Sister Atkins, Wesley was jumping the gun, assuming too much. Maybe it was a coincidence; perhaps there would
be other cases and the source would be found to have nothing to do with Huntings after all.

Sister Atkins shifted in her seat. ‘There’s something else I haven’t told you. I don’t know if it’s relevant or … ’

Wesley and Heffernan sat forward expectantly.

‘I think Edith Sommerby’s husband used to beat her up. She had a mass of bruises and the doctor found a number of untreated
fractures. It’s my guess she’d been the victim of domestic violence for years. Her husband was an unpleasant man. Aggressive.
Just the type to think it was his right to use a poor defenceless woman as a punch bag.
One of my nurses thought he was going to lash out at her on one occasion. And he pushed a doctor over … he wasn’t hurt, luckily,
but it wasn’t a pleasant incident. Violence towards hospital staff isn’t unknown these days,’ she added sadly.

‘So you suspected the husband might have had something to do with Mrs Sommerby’s poisoning?’

‘It did cross my mind. I might be mistaken about the botulism, and if it’s something else … some poisonous substance … But
they say poison’s a woman’s weapon, don’t they?’

‘So they do. But there are exceptions to the rule.’ Wesley thought for a few moments. ‘However, from what you’ve told me about
the dead woman’s husband, I’d expect him to use less subtle methods to dispose of his wife. And anyway, bullies tend to like
their victims alive.’

Gerry Heffernan was nodding sagely in agreement. ‘If you give us his address, love, we can go and have a word.’

Sister Atkins hesitated for a moment as thoughts of patient confidentiality flitted through her head. But then Edith Sommerby’s
husband had never been her patient … and the thought of him receiving a visit from the police gave her an unexpected glow
of satisfaction. She walked over to a tall steel filing cabinet standing in the corner of the room and pulled out a file.

She wrote an address on a piece of paper and handed it to Heffernan. ‘Don’t say where you got it, will you. And I’ll ring
you with the post-mortem findings as soon as we get them.’ She smiled conspiratorially, happy that she’d done her bit for
the rights of women like Edith. She wasn’t a vindictive woman by nature, quite the reverse, but Sister Atkins hoped that Fred
Sommerby would get everything that was coming to him.

Wesley drove back to Tradmouth with Heffernan slumped in the passenger seat. He chose the shorter, scenic route via Queenswear
and the car ferry. As they crossed the river
where scores of yachts bobbed at anchor, their steel masts ringing like gentle wind chimes in the autumn breeze, Gerry Heffernan
stared out of the car window, longing to be out there on the
Rosie May
.

When they reached Tradmouth, Heffernan suggested lunch. A pub, he said: somewhere to get away from the office. Wesley had
to agree with him. He was in no mood to return to the station either. They settled on the Fisherman’s Arms: it was the right
sort of day for a good hotpot by a roaring pub fire.

‘So what do you make of it?’ Wesley asked as soon as they were settled, Heffernan with a pint of best bitter and Wesley with
an orange juice, as he would probably be driving later.

‘Make of what? Your mate getting shoved into one of his own trenches or that poor old dear getting poisoned with botulism?’

‘Both.’

Heffernan took a long drink and stared at his glass. ‘Well, we can’t do anything about the old dear until we get the post-mortem
results. I mean, that Sister Atkins could be wrong. Or it could be that the loving husband added a little something extra
to her tea. And as for your mate Neil … you sure it wasn’t an irate husband who gave him a push? If nothing was taken from
his dig … ’

Wesley smiled. ‘As far as I know Neil’s love life is going through a dormant period at the moment. I’m not aware that he’s
been bedding any married women … or any other women for that matter. I don’t think there’s been anyone since that girl at
Earlsacre last year … remember?’

Heffernan nodded. ‘The one who … ?’

‘That’s the one.’ Wesley hesitated, gathering his thoughts. ‘I can’t think of anybody who bears Neil a grudge so I doubt if
it’s anything personal. That leaves us with the nighthawks. They probably didn’t take anything because they realised Neil
was hurt and they panicked.’ Wesley sat back, looking pleased with himself. ‘I reckon if we make
enquiries among the local metal detectorists we’ll come up with a name sooner or later.’

Heffernan looked at his watch. ‘I’ll leave that in your capable hands, then, Wes. I’m seeing the Chief Super in an hour. He
wants a word about the Hobson case. He reckons it might be best if someone has a look through the evidence before the lawyers
and the miscarriage of justice industry get wind of it. They’ll be circling like a load of ruddy vultures if they think Hobson’s
got a chance of getting his conviction overturned and a hefty wad of compensation. I still can’t think why that Janet Powell
didn’t come forward at the time.’

‘She claims she’d left the country by the time Hobson was arrested and she knew nothing about it. If she hadn’t, I’d be tempted
to think it was a case of aggravated snobbery. Keeping quiet would have disposed of her embarrassing bit of rough while making
sure she held on to the big house, swimming pool and Mercedes.’

‘What makes you think she was rich?’

‘I’ve been checking. Her husband, Derek Powell, was one of these high-powered executives. He lived here and commuted to London
until he was sent to the States to run the company’s New York office. Who’d want to be Chris Hobson’s bit on the side living
in a squalid Morbay bed-sit off the fruits of love and petty crime when you’ve got all that?’

‘Who indeed?’ Heffernan took another long drink.

‘Janet Powell claims that when she went off to live in the States she cut off all contact with Hobson and put her past behind
her. Apparently she didn’t know about Hobson’s conviction until she saw him on that TV documentary,
Nick
. She says she had the shock of her life when she discovered he’d been done for Shipborne’s murder.’

‘But she still didn’t come forward right away?’

‘No. She waited a few weeks. She says her husband’s just run off with a barmaid at his golf club so she feels she’s got nothing
to lose now by confessing to a bit of
how’s-your-father with a petty crook back in 1991.’

‘Do you believe all this?’

‘Her story seems to check out so far.’

The steaming hotpot arrived, and the tempting aroma made Wesley realise that he was hungry. His mind had been on other things.

An hour later they returned to the station and went their separate ways; Heffernan to the well-furnished splendour of the
Chief Superintendent’s retreat on the top floor and Wesley back to the more utilitarian surroundings of the CID office.

As soon as Wesley entered the office Rachel Tracey walked briskly up to him, her face serious as though she had some momentous
news to impart. ‘Huntings supermarket in Morbay has received another letter. It came by hand this time, left on the customer
services desk.’

‘What did it say?’

Rachel lifted up her notebook. She glanced at Wesley and began to read. ‘“So someone died yesterday in Morbay Hospital after
eating something bought at Huntings. That’ll look good in the papers, won’t it? It’s so easy to add new products to your stock
… with a little added botulism for flavour. There’s one dead so far. What’s the final score to be? Happy hunting, Huntings.”’
Rachel looked up. ‘That’s it. No demand for money, just threats. What are they after?’

Wesley pondered the question for a few moments. ‘To create a climate of terror? The killing is probably a means to an end.
For some reason they want to get at Huntings. I suppose they might be preparing the ground; letting Huntings know that they
mean business and their demands might come later.’ He thought for a moment. ‘We’d better pay the manager a visit. I wonder
if it’s just the Morbay branch they’ve got it in for or is it Huntings in general?’

‘Did someone really die of botulism at Morbay Hospital?’

‘Yes. That’s what’s strange. The sister in charge of the
ward told us she thought it was botulism poisoning because she’s seen cases before, but the post-mortem hasn’t been carried
out yet so it’s not confirmed. There’s no way anybody outside the hospital could have got to know.’

‘It’s not been in the papers that there was a suspected case or … ?’

‘No.’ He took a deep breath, getting his thoughts in order. ‘Sturgeon, the manager, provided the names and addresses of a
couple of people who’ve been dismissed from that branch of Huntings recently and I asked Steve to check them out. See if he’s
done it, will you. Then we’ll pay a visit to Huntings and see if Mr Sturgeon can throw any more light on all of this.’

Rachel said nothing and turned away.

‘Anything wrong, Rachel?’

She swung round. ‘No. Why should there be?’ She hesitated, as though wondering whether to confide in him. ‘I’m just fed up
with living on the farm, that’s all. I’m thinking of moving out. I went to see a flat in the High Street last night … above
a shop.’

‘Are you going to take it?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve seen better pigsties.’

‘You’ll find somewhere eventually,’ Wesley said, looking at his watch. If he finished at Huntings at a reasonable time, he
might have time to visit the dig. He was sure Matt would appreciate a police presence, however fleeting.

As he was leaving he met Gerry Heffernan in the doorway. The chief inspector took him by the arm and led him into his office.
Wesley assumed the worst. The Hobson case was open again.

‘We’re to make a thorough investigation … go through all the evidence. It’ll mean talking to Stan Jenkins to see whether there
were any doubts about Hobson’s guilt at the time.’

‘Or any other suspects?’

‘Precisely, Wes. I don’t have to spell it out to you, do I? What the Chief Super said, in effect, is that we don’t want
any more cock-ups. He didn’t put it quite like that but …’

Wesley nodded. He got the message. But there were more pressing problems than a twelve-year-old murder case. ‘I’m off to Huntings
again. They’ve had another letter and whoever sent it knows that Edith Sommerby died in Morbay Hospital.’

‘How the … ’

‘That’s what I want to find out.’ He searched in his inside pocket for the written transcription Rachel had made of the latest
letter and handed it over.

‘Still no demand for money,’ said Heffernan as he handed it back.

‘I think he’s keeping them guessing; making them so jumpy they’ll agree to anything when the time comes.’

Heffernan slumped down in his chair. ‘Off you go to Huntings. And don’t bring me anything back … I don’t think I’d fancy it.’

The words ‘nobody is indispensable’ passed through Matt’s head as he stood at the edge of Pest Field watching the busy diggers.
Although things were going well without Neil, everyone seemed uncharacteristically quiet. No one felt like laughing and joking
when the man in charge was lying in hospital with concussion and broken ribs.