An Unhallowed Grave (14 page)

"What was it you were out of your heads on? Drink? Drugs?" Gaz stared at Wesley in defiant silence. "All we're interested in is catching whoever killed Pauline Brent. And it would help if you told us the truth about where you were and what you saw. Okay?"

Gaz nodded. "We were stoned ... acid. We saw her hanging in the churchyard ... all in white, like an angel." He spoke quietly, the image returning to his mind.

"Did you see anyone else?"

Gaz put his head in his hands. "Can't remember."

"What about Lee? Did he see anyone else? Did you split up at all?"

"Yeah. We were hanging out round the village, then he went off to get the stuff."

"The acid?"

"Yeah ... and some grass. Some friends of ours wanted it..."

"Leanne and Joanne, for their little ritual. A quantity of cannabis was found scattered on the churchyard path."

Gaz looked up in disbelief. "What a waste."

"Was it them?"

"I'm not saying."

"So where did Lee go to get the stuff?"

"He had it at home. He'd bought it in Morbay last week."

"Would he have passed the churchyard on his way home?"

Gaz nodded. "Suppose so."

"What time did you split up?"

"About ten. I don't know exactly."

"And then Lee came back to meet you?"

"Yeah. That's right. I was with Leanne and Jo. He gave them the grass, then they went off home."

"What did you do after that?"

"Just hung around. Got stoned." Gaz was suddenly on his guard. Wesley had the feeling he was holding something back.

"When did you see Miss Brent's body hanging from the tree?"

"Not till later ... about half eleven. She was dead by then," he added helpfully.

"And you didn't think to tell anyone?"

"We were out of our heads ... didn't know what was real and what wasn't."

Wesley leaned forward. "This could be very important, Gary. Pauline Brent was murdered at around half ten. Did you see anything suspicious? Or did Lee mention that he'd seen anything when he went off on his own? Please think. We're not concerned with your drug-taking activities at the moment. We just want to find this murderer ... and find Lee."

Mrs. Sweeting chose that moment to re-enter the room. "Hey, what's this about drug-taking?" She turned on the two policemen. "What have you been asking him? He's not saying anything else without a lawyer present." She had clearly been watching too much television.

Wesley tried to calm the situation. "Your son's not under arrest. He's just answering a few questions. We can continue at Tradmouth police station with a solicitor present if you wish, but I can assure you there's no need."

"That's right, love. There's no question of an arrest. Your son's just helping us with our inquiries," said Gerry Heffernan, trying to be helpful.

"And we all know what that means," Mrs. Sweeting said, losing her enthusiasm for the fight. "All right. But I'm staying here." She sat down with firm defiance.

Wesley restated his last question, hoping Gaz's mood of co-operation hadn't passed. "Did Lee mention to you that he'd seen anything suspicious ... anything out of the ordinary?"

"He said he'd seen something ... but he wouldn't tell me what it was. He said he wanted to keep it to himself, like."

"Why?"

Gaz shrugged. "I don't know. Lee never said. I thought he was just trying to make himself look important, like."

"Can you remember exactly what he said?"

"Not really. Just something like he thought he'd seen the murderer. I thought he was just bullshitting ... didn't take much notice."

Heffernan stood up. "Thanks, er ... Gaz. I think that's all for now. If you remember anything else, you'll let us know, won't you?"

Gaz nodded, relieved to be let off so lightly. His mother scowled at Heffernan, who took the hint. They left.

"So we have a possible witness to our murder who's disappeared," Heffernan said thoughtfully as they walked back towards the incident room. "I don't like it, Wcs. I think it should be our top priority to find this Lee as soon as possible."

"So you believe him? Gaz didn't and he was his friend."

"I don't know ... but I'm not willing to take the risk. And another thing that occurred to me. Don't you think that the whole thing about the hanging tree's a biter ... theatrical. If she'd been found dumped in the creek, fair enough. But someone went to a great deal of trouble to hang her from that tree."

"I've been thinking that myself. Unless the killer thought it was a handy way of covering up his crime ... making it look like suicide."

That fits with Lee witnessing something. I've got a bad feeling about this one, Wcs." He looked at his watch. "I think it's about time we got off home. Pam'll be thinking you've been kidnapped by the Vegans."

Wesley groaned inwardly. That joke must have been festering in his boss's brain since their encounter with Squirrel.

"First thing tomorrow we'll pay a call on this Dr. Jenkins ... break the bad news and see what he's got to say about his late receptionist."

"Let's hope he can throw some light on where she came from."

"Yeah. At the moment it looks as if Pauline Brent landed here from outer space fifteen years ago with no friends, no family and no past. She's a model villager, kind and concerned about everyone ... too good to be true. A sort of Stepford Spinster."

"Apart from her lover, sir."

"Whoever he was. And what do you reckon about this missing lad?"

"We'll find him, sir. Don't worry." Wesley tried his best to sound confident as he made his way back to the village hall.

Alice de Neston, being of good repute, is hired as nursemaid to the son born to my lady of the Feast of the Annunciation.....3.0

For the wet nurse Felicia de Monte...................................2.6

For the grey pony for my lord's son, Simon................. 2.3.4

For Thomas de Monte, the stone carver to carve my lord's arms above the great door Ł1.5.6

From the household accounts of Stokeworthy Manor

Pamela Peterson had had an awful day. Michael had cried non-stop from noon to half past three. She'd rung her mother, who'd diagnosed colic. By the time Pam had weighed up in her mind whether to believe her mother or ring the doctor, Michael had gone to sleep. When Wesley returned home at six o'clock the baby was wide awake and gurgling happily, his previous bad behaviour forgotten. Angry with her husband, the police force and anything else that came to her mind at that moment, Pam slammed Wesley's meal down on the table, dislodging several pieces of pasta from the congealed pile on the plate so that they fell, staining the tablecloth tomato red.

"Your son's been a little monster today. Screamed non-stop for hours. Give me a class of thirty kids any day."

Wesley knew he would have to tread carefully. "Sorry I couldn't be here. But this murder ... A teenage boy's gone missing too, so ..."

"All right, all right. I know," she said impatiently. She had known what to expect when she had married a police officer.

"Look, when it gets nearer the christening I'll try and help. I know it's bad timing but... I'll help. Promise."

"You'd better," she said, before sweeping from the room.

Wesley picked up the Sunday paper that was lying on the floor and began to flick through the pages absent-mindedly until a face caught his eye. He read the caption underneath. "Timothy Wills, the new Labour parliamentary candidate who is to fight the forthcoming Bloxham by-election and his wife Jane." Jane Wills smiled out at the camera, serene and beautiful, her long auburn hair tumbling almost to her waist, not the usual stuff of which politicians' wives are made. Wesley read the short article underneath, skimming through the politics. "Timothy Wills," it said, 'is keen to buy a house in Bloxham, his chosen constituency. In the meantime he is staying at his holiday home in the village of Stokeworthy with his wife Jane, his children, Jeremy and Sarah, and his parents. He loves this part of Devon, he says, and he would find nothing more rewarding than representing the people of Bloxham as their MP."

Wesley put the paper down wearily. Too many brushes with the worst side of human nature had rendered him cynical about politicians and their motives. He closed his eyes, dozing until Pam returned a few minutes later, somewhat calmer.

"I've been invited to a coffee morning." She said the last two words with heavy irony. "If anyone had told me a couple of years ago I'd be going to coffee mornings, I wouldn't have believed them."

"Don't knock it till you've tried it," said Wesley, encouragingly. "It'll be a chance to meet other people with babies, and ..."

"And talk about brands of disposable nappies?"

"I'm sure it's not like that. Where is this great social event?"

"Other end of Tradmouth ... some posh place near Battle Creek. Let's hope the house isn't too impressive or I'll never be able to invite them here."

"I thought you wouldn't want to," Wesley said sharply, sensing the contradiction.

"I'm keeping an open mind. Apparently tomorrow we're watching a video."

"Nothing obscene, I hope."

"Chance'd be a fine thing. To be honest I don't know what to expect." Pam sat down, a small worried frown clouding her face.

Something was bothering her, Wesley could tell. He asked her what it was but she shook her head. "Nothing," she said unconvincingly. "I rang one of the child minders on that list I was given."

"Any luck?" asked Wesley, half listening.

"She said I could go round tomorrow, but ... well, she didn't sound too friendly and there was a dog barking in the background. I don't really think ..."

"It's early days yet," Wesley said absent-mindedly, picking up the newspaper. "You've got until September."

Pam opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it.

At eight thirty precisely on Monday morning, Gerry Heffernan and Wesley Peterson stood at the door of Dr. Jenkins's surgery, which occupied the ground floor of a small brick-built semi on the edge of the village. It stood in the no-man's-land between the older village and the council estate, this neutral position confirming that it served all villagers, rich or poor, as well as several surrounding communities. The doctor didn't live on the premises, and the top floor of the building was converted into a flat for the elderly couple who acted as caretakers.

When the police had telephoned Dr. Jenkins, who lived on the outskirts of the ancient port of Tradmouth, they were told by his teenage daughter that the doctor and his wife were away for the weekend visiting relatives in Swansea. The teenager hadn't been told the reason for the call. Pauline Brent's death would come as a shock to her unprepared employer.

There was nobody at the surgery when they arrived. And when Dr. Jenkins, a cheerful-faced Welshman in his late fifties, eventually turned up, he looked somewhat bewildered to see the two detectives waiting for him.

"Sorry about this. I can't understand why my receptionist isn't here to open up ... she's always here by now. New patients, are you'?" His accent was strongly Welsh and lilting. He fumbled for his keys and opened the surgery door. "Please, come along in. I shan't keep you long."

Wesley decided it was time to put the doctor straight. He produced his warrant card and introduced himself. The doctor's expression changed to one of anxiety; but the anxiety that anticipates bad news rather than immediate arrest. He hurried the two men into his surgery and asked them to take a seat.

It was Wesley who broke the news, Gerry Heffernan sitting beside him, watching the doctor's reaction. Nothing, however, sounded any warning signals in Heffernan's brain, tuned as it was to detecting signs of guilt. The doctor expressed shock, then disbelief, then a seemingly sincere willingness to help the police catch whoever had deprived him of his receptionist. His own alibi was provided. At half past ten on Friday he and his wife had been at his mother's in Swansea, visiting for the weekend. They had set off straight after surgery finished at six o'clock. Pauline had been fine when he had left, had even wished him a good weekend.

"Has she seemed worried about anything recently?" asked Wesley.

"Now that you mention it, she has seemed a little preoccupied ... but that could be my imagination," the doctor said with a sad smile.

"So what was she like as an employee? As a person?"

"She was a very nice lady. Efficient, hard-working, good with people, which is very important in her job."

"Did she ever clash with anybody? An irate patient wanting an appointment; somebody she thought wasn't ill enough to see you who later died anything like that?" Wesley suggested, thinking of all the horror stories about a GP's life he'd heard from his mother.

"Nothing like that, nothing at all. She was very sympathetic ... not the traditional dragon at the gate, I assure you. She knew most of the people in the village and, as far as I know, she was popular. She was a quiet, gentle woman, kept herself to herself; very fond of children. There were times when she'd persuade me to see a child as an emergency even though I knew there was nothing wrong that a bit of Calpol wouldn't cure. No, Sergeant, I can assure you she made no enemies through work. In fact I'd be surprised if she had any enemies at all." He shrugged, as if mystified by the whole thing.

"Did she have a boyfriend, do you know?"

"She never confided in me if she did. But then she was a discreet woman; not the sort to ..."

"Quite. How long has she worked for you, Dr. Jenkins?"

"A long time." The doctor paused, the reality of Pauline's death beginning to sink in. Theirs had been a long and contented working partnership. He began at that moment to contemplate the implications of her death. "Fifteen years," he said softly. "She got the job when she first came to the village."

"What happened? When she got the job, I mean. She must have had references and

"It's so long ago, it's all a bit hazy. I think I advertised in the local paper: that covers Neston and Tradmouth and all the surrounding villages. I had several applicants, some local women who, how shall I put it, might not have appreciated the need for complete confidentiality." Wesley nodded knowingly. "I interviewed and there was something about Pauline I liked ... a sort of calm efficiency."