The Armada Boy (19 page)

'Did your husband meet him?'

'Oh no. Kevin wouldn't be interested
in what my mum got up to in the war.'

'Or your children ... did they know
about their grandfather?'

'My son was keen to meet him. He's
got this idea that all Yanks are rich, see. Thought he was going to get a rich
granddad. I heard him boasting to one of his friends about it over the phone.'
She smiled indulgently at the naive ideas of the young. 'I told him, I said I
bet he's as poor as we are. They're not all rich, you know.'

'Norman Openheim was fairly well
off... he owned a garage business.'

Carole's eyes lit up, greed overcoming
grief. 'Do you think we're entitled to anything, then? I am his daughter.'

'I really couldn't say, Mrs Martin.
You'd have to consult a solicitor about that. There is a widow.'

'But no kids, you said.'

Wesley thought how the need for
money swept aside all else...especially in those who didn't have any. And by
the look of Carole Martin and her house, money was in short supply here.

'Does your husband work, Mrs Martin?'

'No ... been unemployed five years
now.'

'And your son?'

'No jobs round here for the young
ones ... only a bit of seasonal work and that.'

'Your son lives with you, then?'

'Oh no. He's got a flat over in
Morbay,' she said with pride.'He's eighteen now. Too old to live with his
mother ... so he says.'

'Have you any other children?'

'I've got a daughter up in Newcastle.
She's got three kiddies. I hardly see them though ... too far away.'

'Did your son know when his
grandfather was arriving?'

'Oh yes. He said he was going to try and see him.'

'And did he?'

She thought for a moment. 'He would
have told me, wouldn't he? If he'd seen his granddad he would have told me.'

Not if he'd killed the goose that
was expected to lay the golden egg and refused at the last moment, Wesley
thought to himself.

'Can we have your son's address. Mrs
Martin? If he did see Mr Openheim by any chance we'd like to speak to him.'

Carole suddenly looked wary, realising
the direction in which the detective's thoughts were turning. But she could
hardly refuse to give him the address. She wrote it down on the back of a discarded
envelope.

'Let's get over there before she has
a chance to warn him,' said Wesley as they got into the car.

But the phone is faster than the
car, especially when that car has to cross the river on an agonisingly slow car
ferry in order to reach the other side. Wesley drove too fast on the road out
of Queenswear, hurrying past farms and spring fields until they reached the
outskirts of Morbay. Rusticity yielded to suburbia.
The landscape became manicured, dotted with bungalows. Then, as Morbay drew
nearer, the bungalows yielded to pebbledashed semis and rows of shops; the semis
yielded to stuccoed Edwardian terraces - hotels or flats. Then at the centre of
the resort came the promenade and the sands which had attracted summer visitors
for the past century.

Morbay had once been considered rather
swish. The elegant white villas still stood in their lush gardens, though many
were now converted
 
into flats. In recent
years amusement arcades had begun to appear where there had once been tea
rooms; the small hotels that had catered for the middle-income families who now
patronised the campsites of Brittany had started taking benefit claimants to stay
in business. The palm-lined streets now saw the homeless sleeping rough in shop
doorways. Those summer visitors who still holidayed there tended to stay in the
large and unsightly caravan parks on the edge of the town. Morbay. as the older
residents would tell anyone prepared to listen, was not what it was.

Kevin Martin's flat was on the top
floor of a crumbling semi- detached villa on the down-market side of town.
Other villas the street served as fancifully named hotels - the Paradise, the Bella
Vista. Many had faded notices in their windows proclaiming
 
that benefit claimants were particularly welcome.
Wesley thought of Sue and Jim, his neighbours. In a short time they would
inhabit this shabby world. It had only taken a bit of bad luck. He pushed this
thought to the back of his mind and parked the car in the street where seagulls
were busy pecking at the litter on the ground.

'Let's hope his mum hasn't rang
him,' said Rachel, matter-of fact. 'We wouldn't want him to have his story all
worked out would we?'

There was no answer when they rang
the doorbell with his name on it, one amongst several. A grey net curtain
twitched back in a ground-floor window.

Rachel caught Wesley's eye. 'Shall
we talk to the neighbours?'

'Best not. It'll panic him if he hears the police have been asking questions.
Round here they'll be able to smell police a hundred yards away as it is. We'll
let him relax, then we'll come back another time.'

'You're the boss, Sarge,' answered
Rachel with a twinkle in her eye. She could see the merits of Wesley's
argument.

Wesley drove the car some way down
the road to allay any neighbourly suspicions, then radioed through for a check
on the police national computer.

The reply came back to him within
minutes. Kevin Martin had convictions for shoplifting, burglary and possession
of cannabis.

'No wonder his mum looked uneasy.
Old Norman would hardly have been proud of his grandson.' observed Rachel.

'Good job he never met him.'

What if he did?'

'We're in the realms of speculation
here, Rachel.'

It's possible.'

Wesley sighed. 'Anything's
possible.'

Gerry Heffernan reached a natural
break. He was awaiting some information which wouldn't come for another hour at
least. It was a good opportunity to take an early lunch. He suggested this to Wesley,
who had just arrived back from Morbay, and the idea met with no opposition. A
ploughman's lunch in the Bereton Arms was a tempting proposition.

The church door stood open when they
passed. It wouldn't take long to have a quick look inside. Both men enjoyed
mooching round old churches, Wesley's motives being more academic than his
superior's. Without a word they walked down the long straight
path that ran between the graves of Bereton's dead and entered the church.

The great oak door was remarkable in
itself, studded with elaborate
 
metalwork
with a huge iron ring set in its centre.

The inspector touched it. 'Quite a knocker
... probably to wake 'em up if they fall asleep in the sermon.'

'It's a sanctuary ring,'

The two policemen turned round. The
woman who had spoken was slim with long straight blond hair. The lines around
her eyes, mouth and neck were the only things that betrayed her age; without
them she would have passed for a young girl in her long
diaphanous skin. She carried a huge bunch of spring flowers clutched to her
chest as if for protection.

'And what's a sanctuary ring when
it's at home?' Heffernan asked, interested. Wesley could have told him but he
left it to the woman, not wishing to intrude on her territory.

'If a wanted man got to the church
and touched it, he was allowed sanctuary from his pursuers.'

'Good job they don't have 'em today,
eh. Sergeant? It'd make our life harder if all the villains started making for
the churches.'

'You're policemen?' She didn't sound
surprised.

'That's right, love. We're
investigating the death of that
American
tourist found
in the chantry chapel. I suppose you've heard about it'

'Oh yes. I had two policemen round
the day after it happened. Do you know who did it?

'We will,' said Heffernan with a
confidence he didn't feel.

'You've not seen a scruffy individual... mid-twenties... shaved head?'

'Is that who you're looking for?'

'Let's just say we'd like a chat
with him ... share a cup of tea and a plate of biccies….'

'You're from Liverpool,' she said
accusingly. The woman smiled - a warm, sunny smile.

'Gerry Heffernan ... Inspector' He
held out his hand. 'And this is my sergeant, Wesley Peterson. He's the station
intellectual... degree in archaeology.' He made the last fact sound like a secret
vice.

'So you'll be interested in the dig
at the chapel. Sergeant.'

Wesley nodded. 'A friend of mine's in charge ... Neil Watson. Have you met
him?'

'No ... but I'm interested in the
history of this place.' She looked down modestly. 'I wrote a little book a
couple of years ago... about the village and its history.'

Wesley smiled. 'You're not June
Mallindale by any chance?'

'That's right.'

'Neil Watson's read your book and
he's lent it to me but I've not had a chance to...'

She looked mildly embarrassed. 'It's
not very scholarly, I'm afraid . .. not what you'll be used to. I wrote it
mostly for the tourist market. I hope your friend didn't find it too ...'

'Oh no ... he said it gave him a
flavour of the place before he began the dig,' Wesley said tactfully.

'Has he found anything yet... the
skeletons?'

' It's early days ... these things
take time. You must go up there and introduce yourself. Do you know about the
Spanish sailor buried in the church?"

The smile disappeared. I did hear
something. Do come and have a look at the rood screen ... it's one of the finest
in the district.'

Politeness dictated that they did
the tour of the church and dutifully admired its architectural features. But
something was unsettling Wesley - in addition to his rumbling stomach, which was
anticipating the ploughman's lunch waiting at the Bereton
Arms.

As they stepped outside into the
spring sunshine, Gerry Heffernan spoke. 'She didn't want to talk about that
grave inside the church, did she?'

'I thought it was just me imagining
it."

'She was definitely rattled.'

'Probably forgot to mention it in
her book.'

'That'll be it... professional embarrassment.'
He paused. 'Er, she's very ... attractive, isn't she, Wes?'

Wesley smiled to himself. 'Very, sir.'

Rat pushed his body down firmly
against the back wall of the cellar of the Clearview Hotel. He was hidden by
the drums of cooking oil. He couldn't be seen by anyone who came down to the cellar
to fetch supplies for the kitchens, he was certain of that.

The cellar door opened, showing a
rectangle of daylight at the top of the short flight of steps. A fluorescent
light flickered on. Still... he must keep still. He held his breath.

Whoever it was didn't stay long -
just found whatever it was they were looking for and left.

Rat emerged from behind the drums,
his eyes adjusting to the dim light from the high, barred windows. Half the
cellar was above ground, half below, with an entrance that led on to the yard at
the back of the building. The door had been easy to force. He wondered if
anyone had noticed yet that the lock was broken.