An Unhallowed Grave (9 page)

"Just try and keep me away. St. Margaret's, is it?"

Wesley nodded. "We were there last week sitting near the back." He smiled. "The choir were very good."

Each Sunday morning Gerry Heffernan was to be found in the choir stalls of the parish church of St. Margaret's, Tradmouth, singing his heart out. Wesley had heard rumours that he had an excellent voice, but last Sunday had been his first opportunity to confirm this for himself.

"I didn't know you'd started' to come to St. Margaret's, Wcs. Why didn't you say?"

"It was a condition of getting Michael christened. I had a bit of trouble getting Pam there she wasn't brought up with it like I was. In our house Sunday meant church and Sunday school."

Gerry Heffernan nodded, his mind wandering back to his own days as a choirboy in the huge red sandstone church in the Liverpool suburbs where he had read comics and given cheek to the verger between anthems and evensong.

Wesley looked around again. "Nothing here, sir. Where to now?"

"Worthy Court. Was this D'estry character really skinny-dipping in the pool there?"

"Apparently. In front of a former magistrate too." Wesley grinned.

"Well then, Wcs, I think it's about time we paid a little call on Mr. Julian D'estry. Let's hope he's found himself something to wear."

John Fleecer while drunk did cause disturbance to Marjorie Snow at the hour of midnight and did, by his noise, affright Master Snow's horse and cause it to bolt. Fine I2d.

Felicia de Monte is a scandal monger and a great provoker of discord. She did strike her son, Thomas the stone carver when she came upon him talking with Alice de Neston and did call the said Alice a common whore. Alice doth plead that she hath been sorely slandered. Felicia de Monte is fined 2d.

Ralph de Neston pays the lord 3s as fine and relief for Alice, his daughter, to receive the inheritance of her mother Matilda's land.

From the Court Rolls of Stokeworthy Manor

Julian D'estry's Mercedes was parked in its allocated space, gleaming, shiny as a bullet.

"Looks like he's home. What about the other places here?"

"They should all have been seen by now. Rachel and I spoke to the people in number seven ourselves. They couldn't tell us anything."

"Surprise, surprise." Heffernan looked around the courtyard. "Posh, isn't it."

"Very."

"Look at that swimming pool. Where do people get the sort of money to buy places like this just as second homes, eh?"

"Crime?" suggested Wesley with a grin.

"It wouldn't surprise me."

It took Julian D'estry several minutes to answer the door, and when he did so he appeared in a dressing gown with no hint of anything underneath. In spite of his sartorial disadvantage, he stood aside to let them in with a confident, even cocky, air.

A slender blonde wafted out of the bedroom dressed in a swimsuit made decent by the addition of a brightly coloured sarong. D'estry introduced her as Monica, his partner.

They sat down. D'estry lay full length on the white leather sofa, propping himself up like a Roman emperor contemplating an orgy. Monica hovered behind the sofa. If D'estry was displaying no sign of nerves, she was.

"Now, Mr. D'estry." Heffernan decided to do the talking. "I don't know if you're aware that one of your neighbours has been found dead in the churchyard and that we're treating her death as suspicious."

"I heard something. What's it got to do with us?" His accent was East End cockney. Somewhere along life's precarious path, D'estry had made a steep financial ascent.

"The dead woman's name was Pauline Brent. Did you know her?"

"Course I didn't. We don't mix with the yokels round here." He smirked unpleasantly.

"What about you ... er, Monica? Have you met Pauline Brent?"

Monica shrugged and shook her head. Then she sat down by Julian D'estry's feet, her sarong falling open to reveal bronzed and slender legs. Wesley averted his eyes.

Heffernan put on his puzzled 'thick copper' expression. Wesley had seen it before. He knew exactly what he was up to. "They must have got it wrong, then."

D'estry fell for the bait. "Got what wrong?"

The people who heard you threatening Miss Brent. What is it they said?" He nudged Wesley, who, playing along with the act, made a great show of consulting his notebook.

"That she was an interfering old bitch who should keep her nose out of other people's business. You knew where to find her and you knew how to deal with people like her."

Heffernan leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. No longer the amiable Mr. Plod. "So how did you deal with her, Mr. D'estry?"

"I don't have to talk to you without my solicitor."

"Right, then. You call him and we'll go down to the station in Tradmouth."

His bluff called, Julian D'estry backed down. "I didn't do anything. It was just something I said to put the wind up the old cow. I didn't even know her name ... when you mentioned it before it didn't click. I didn't mean anything by it. I never touched her."

"How about telling us what happened in your own words ... sir," Wesley suggested, trying to be polite. He didn't like D'estry, and he knew exactly what the beautiful neighbour Jane Wills had meant when she had described him as a vulgar little man.

"We was down a couple of Saturdays back ... me and Monica and a few mates from the smoke. We went into Neston to get some booze and we was driving back when this kid runs out into the road. I nearly hit him but it weren't my fault. Then this woman comes across yelling that I was driving too fast ... said I could have killed the brat. She threatened to call your lot out."

"Was she alone?"

"At first. Then the kid's mum comes out of one of the cottages, and another old bird ... short dark hair. I drove off before they could put their two-penn' orth in," he said with satisfaction.

"Do you deny using the words my sergeant read out ... about dealing with people like her?"

"I might have said something like that. Can't remember." D'estry was beginning to look uncomfortable. "I didn't mean anything by it. I wouldn't hurt a fly. Monica'll tell you ..."

"It's not flies we're discussing, Mr. D'estry. Where were you last night?"

"I was here. Monica'll tell you. We was having a swim. That old bag from number ten'll tell you. She chucked my CD player into the pool. And that husband of hers was there watching ... and that red-headed hint from number seven was there and all with an old geezer. And her husband's supposed to be a bloody lawyer... standing for Parliament. Now I could report them for ..."

"I wouldn't bother, sir. There is such a thing as causing a disturbance, you know." Heffernan looked him in the eye, challenging. "What time did this lady throw your CD player in the pool?"

"After midnight. Why?"

"Thank you, Mr. D'estry ... madam. I think that's all for now. You'll let my sergeant have details of when you plan to return to London ... and your permanent address."

D'estry turned towards Wesley and looked him up and down with disdain. "Long as he calls me Bwana." He smirked unpleasantly.

Wesley and his boss exchanged looks. "If you'll just give me the details, sir," Wesley said calmly.

D'estry, sensing that he was pushing things a bit far, recited his London address with surprising obedience and added that they planned to stay down until late on Sunday to indulge in some jet-skiing. Heffernan grunted with disapproval. As a serious sailor, he hated the noisy things.

"Tell me, Mr. D'estry," he said, 'what is it you do for a living?"

"I'm in the City ... dealer," D'estry said with satisfaction, hoping he'd impressed.

"I'd like to lock that toe rag up and throw away the key," Heffernan said softly to Wesley as they left. "He's bound to have committed some offence. How about "being in possession of an obnoxious personality"?"

That's not a crime, sir." Wesley smiled.

Then it should be. What do you reckon? Do you see him as our murderer?"

"Just because the man's thoroughly unpleasant doesn't make him guilty."

"He's not got an alibi... only the bimbo, and she'd back him up whatever he said. The irate neighbour didn't do her bit for peace and quiet till after midnight."

"I think he's all mouth," said Wesley. "I can't really see him murdering Pauline then stringing her up. His type would just have a go at her verbally make life unpleasant. Actually I see him more as a victim than a perpetrator: there must be a lot of people in this village and probably in London who'd like him out of the way."

"Well, he's not exactly endeared himself to us, has he? Check him out on the PNC when we get back to the incident room."

Wesley nodded and looked at his watch. Half past four. He hadn't realised it was so late. They drove back to the village hall, windows down. The car interior was like an oven and they wished they had chosen the healthy option and walked.

The village hall was bathed in sunshine. Nearby, outside the small village shop, Leanne and Jo sat on a wall, swigging from cans of cola, watching the comings and goings from the incident

Arms ... your local," he said, forcing himself to smile.

"I was thinking of going in myself tonight. I might see you there."

"Great." Wesley Peterson forced himself to sound enthusiastic. Then he took his leave, wondering if they'd be able to get a baby-sitter at such short notice.

The smell hit Wesley as he walked into the living room. He put his hand to his nose. "Do you have to do that in here?"

Pam, who had been bending over the plastic changing mat on the floor, looked round, defensive. "What do you mean?"

"It stinks." He opened a window.

"Well, that's what babies do. Put this in the bin outside, will you?" She handed her husband a folded-up disposable nappy.

"Do you realise the amount of pollution these things cause? My mother says she always used real ones. They're far more environmentally friendly. I thought you were into things like that."

"Fine if I had the time. I'll be back at work soon. Your mother didn't go back till you were older."

"She did a couple of clinics when we were small... to keep her hand in."

"Hardly the same as teaching full time," Pam snorted resentfully.

"Then go part time. We could manage. I know Gerry's recommended me for promotion, so ..."

"Come on, Wesley. Live in the real world. How would we pay the mortgage?"

"Okay," he sighed. "Any chance of getting a baby-sitter tonight for a couple of hours?"

Pam looked up at him, tired. Little Michael, clean and fresh in his new nappy, kicked happily on the mat; a healthy, handsome child with golden brown skin and a shock of straight black hair. "Where are you thinking of going?"

"Neil said he'd be in the Tradmouth Arms ..."

"Neil?" She raised her eyebrows but made no further comment. She thought for a moment. "I'll ask Gaynor down the road."

"She's only fifteen. Will he be okay with her?"

"Don't be so fussy. He'll be fine. Lots of teenage girls baby-sit for a bit of extra pocket money. How's your murder going? Arrested anyone yet?"

"It's early days." Wesley didn't like talking shop at home. "What have you been doing today?"

"Mixing in high society," Pam said mysteriously. "Someone I met at antenatal class suggested we had a get-together. I went round to her house and we talked babies for ages ... pretty boring. Then she asked me about going back to work and had I chosen a child minder and we got talking about nannies the live-in sort. You should hear what they charge ... and some of them expect their own car and self-contained flat."

"Out of our league. You shouldn't have married a policeman: you should have held out for a millionaire."

Pam, whose boyfriends had never been the sort of which millionaires are made, shrugged. "From what this woman said, her friends don't trust their nannies very much."

Wesley was starting to lose interest in all this baby talk. The colour supplement from that day's newspaper lay open on the coffee table, and a large coloured photograph on the exposed page caught his eye. It was a familiar face: one often seen on the television screen spouting opinions on the world of business and social policy. Philip Thewlis, proud owner of Stokeworthy Manor, posed in his oak-panelled office, looking every inch the captain of industry. Wesley read the caption underneath.

Philip Thewlis, the man chosen to head the government's new National Children's Welfare Council, photographed here in his office at his lovely Devon home, Stokeworthy Manor. The office was used as a courtroom in the Middle Ages, Philip told our reporter, and he has renovated the entire house sympathetically, using local craftsmen to restore the many ancient features of the Grade One listed building. Philip (tipped by many to receive a peerage in the next Honours List) said that, as a devoted father of two young children, he was delighted at his new appointment and hopes to achieve much for the young people of the nation.

Wesley looked up and realised that he still had the nappy in his hand. He wrinkled his nose. "I'll just go and get rid of this."

"Okay. I'll pop round to Gaynor's. I'll take Michael with me." She picked up the baby and kissed him. "She won't be able to resist a date with him."

Two hours later the baby-sitter, a plump, sensible girl, was safely installed with a supply of crisps and cola. Wesley and Pam walked arm in arm down the steep narrow streets to the centre of the town. They could tell that the tourist season was beginning. Holidaymakers mostly young couples and the elderly as the schools hadn't yet finished for the summer promenaded along the quay side and stood staring at menus in restaurant windows. The evening was warm, and Pam wore a long sleeveless dress, a cardigan draped round her shoulders. She looked good, Wesley thought; better than she had done since Michael's birth.

"How is Neil?" she asked as the Tradmouth Arms came into view.

"Fine. He's doing a dig in the village where our body was found."