The Armada Boy (3 page)

Jane spoke first. 'You know I was
off to Jamaica?' she gushed in well-bred tones. 'Well. I've decided to stay
round here for a while. Same thing . .. underwater archaeology. I'll get a bit
of experience here before I go further afield.'

'Underwater?' Wesley hadn't
envisaged anything quite so exotic. Jane, who managed to look up-market in her
torn jeans and mud-caked sweatshirt, was about to enlighten him when Matt took
over. Wesley wondered if this incongruous pair still had a thing going ... and
whether Matt was the reason for Jane's decision about Jamaica.

'An Armada wreck ... in Bereton Bay
... only recently discovered. There's quite a story behind it.' said Matt. He
looked at Wesley accusingly. 'Is it you who's holding up our dig at the chantry?'

'Not me personally. A dead elderly
gentleman ... possibly American by the look of his gear.'

'If it's one of that lot at the Clearview
Hotel, it'll ruin their reunion, poor things,' said Jane earnestly.

'Whose reunion?' At last a clue to
the corpse's identity.

'A party of American veterans. They
were here in the war and they've come on a reunion trip ... some are with their
wives. We were talking with some of them yesterday ... telling them about the
Armada wreck.'

Malt nodded. 'They're having some
kind of service at the memorial by the beach this morning. Some of their
comrades were killed practising for the D-day landings on Bereton Sands. It was
interesting talking to them . .. hearing firsthand about what
went on.'

'Did any of them ask about the
chantry?'

'Yes. They saw us with our diving
gear and asked us what we were doing. We told them all about the wreck and the
dig at the chantry.'

'So one of them might have decided
to go up there and have a look.'

'It's possible. But if they were
here in the war they'd have known about it anyway.'

Neil, who had been listening quietly
as he savoured his beer, asked the next question. 'You didn't notice any of
these Americans wearing a baseball cap. did you?'

Jane emitted a tinkling laugh. 'Neil
.,. they all had baseball caps. I joked with them about it. I said that I
noticed they were still in uniform. I don't think they saw the funny side, do
you, Matt?'

'And a baseball jacket with a name
on...'

"The
Buffalo Bisons
?' said
Wesley helpfully.

'No. I don't remember that. Do you. Matt?'

Matt shook his head obediently.

Wesley raised his glass to the
double act. 'Cheers. Thank you for helping the police with their enquiries.
There's just one more thing. Why are some of you working on the old chantry and
some of you on an Armada wreck?'

'There's a connection.' said Neil.
Apparently some sailors, we don't know how many, got off the
San Miguel
alive and staged a sort of
invasion of the village. There's a local legend that they were killed by the
villagers and buried at the chantry which wasn't being used by then. The
villagers refused to have them in the churchyard with all their nearest and
dearest... very charitable.'

'You can see their point.' said
Jane. 'If you were being terrorised by a gang of hairy Spanish sailors ..,'

'So you're looking for their graves?'
Wesley was becoming so interested that he was almost forgetting the time.

'Yeah ... and any artefacts that
might be in them. And we'll be taking the opportunity to have a look at the
chantry buildings too. . . killing two birds with one stone while the funding's
available. Any idea when your lot'll be finished so that we can get going on
the dig?'

This brought Wesley back to reality.
'Probably a couple of days... I'll see what I can do.' He stood up to go.

'Love to Pam,' said Neil softly.
Wesley nodded and strolled out of the pub into the spring sunshine.

Wesley told Heffernan the news. The
inspector grinned broadly.

'Those mates of yours aren't as useless as they look. Come on ... Rachel and
Steve'll be along soon to do a house-to-house. Let's go down and have a look at
these Bereton Sands. Got your bucket and spade?'

The name Bereton Sands was cruelly
misleading to the unsuspecting holiday maker. There wasn't a grain of sand in
sight. The flat, wide sweep of beach round the shallow bay was entirely made up
of pebbles on what seemed like a gravel base. Okay for
skimming stones, if you liked that sort of thing.

The sea glistened, calm and benign,
on this fine March day. A road ran above the beach. On one side of it was a
carpark,
 
 
practically empty this time of year. In front
of the carpark was a carefully tended area topped by a tall granite pillar. The
war memorial.

It bore the words
'To the memory of those
members of the US forces killed during the preparations for the D-day landings
in April and May 1944 ... we shall not forget.'

Another small white marble stone
stood to one side
. 'To the people of
Bereton and the
surrounding countryside who gave up their homes so that the D-day operations
could be rehearsed in this green and pleasant land.
'Their sacrifice was not in vain. With grateful thanks from the
armed forces of the United States of America.'

The small group of elderly people
who had been clustering round the memorial began to disperse, shaking hands
with the young clergyman in the crisp white surplice who had presided over the
proceedings. The group drifted back towards a white hotel that stood beside the
road at the far end of the beach.

Wesley Peterson and Gerry Heffernan
stood by the car, contemplating their next move. The clergyman hurried past
them, his surplice draped over his arm. He was in his early thirties; too young
for the war to be even a distant childhood memory.

'Excuse me, sir. Police. Can we have
a word?'

The clergyman immediately looked
guilty; a natural reaction, Heffernan had noticed, of many members of the public
whose lives were beyond reproach.

The fair-haired, bespectacled young
vicar of Bereton made the conventional polite noises of regret but could tell
them nothing apart from the name of the veterans' former commanding officer who
had made the arrangements for the memorial service at which
he had just officiated. They released the vicar to go about his business
 
and strolled after the slow-moving gaggle of
Americans.

'No hurry,' said Heffernan casually.
'Let 'em get settled back, have a piss, rest the arthritic joints. Wonder why
they haven't reported one of their group missing? You considered that, Wes?'

'Maybe they don't know he's missing
yet'

'Let's find out. shall we.' They
began to approach the hotel's double-glazed porch.

'Got the price of a cup of tea,
mister?'

Wesley and his boss turned to see a
young man standing behind them. He was in his late teens; thin with blotchy,
pallid skin. A dirty woolly hat covered his hair. He wore a tattered army
overcoat; filthy but warm-looking. He stared at them with defiant grey
eyes. 'Just a cup of tea .. . I'm homeless ... haven't got nowhere to live.' He
spoke with a cockney twang that Wesley found familiar. East End ... south of
the Thames.

'You're a long way from home."
said Wesley; he spoke quietly, trying not to inject any aggression into the
situation.

The lad's eyes widened as he heard
Wesley's well-spoken voice. 'I thought you were with them Yanks.'

'Only beg from Yanks, do you?'

'They got money. You haven't got a
quid, have you?' The youth added hopefully.

The two policemen exchanged glances
and each one delved into his pocket. But their surge of generosity was interrupted
by a smartly dressed middle-aged woman who sprang through the glass swing-doors
of the hotel like an angry lioness.

'Get away. I've told you before,
this is private property. I'll call the police if I see you here again ... go
away.'

The beggar raised two fingers to the
woman and held his hand out Wesley found a pound coin; the beggar took it with
a grin.

'I mean it' the woman shrieked. 'If
you don't clear off I'm calling the police.'

"We are the police, madam.'
said Heffernan.

The woman looked him up and down
with disbelief. His unkempt hair, crumpled

shirt and dirty old anorak, coupled
with his strong Liverpool accent, clearly didn't inspire confidence. He
extracted his warrant card from an inside pocket and the beggar, realising his
luck was about to run out, ran off towards the beach.

The Clearview Hotel was described in
the brochures as "family-run, comfortable, convenient for the beach, with
delightful views over the bay; all rooms en suite with tea-making facilities'.
The angry woman introduced herself as Mrs Dorothy Slater, the owner
of this desirable paradise. She led them into a deserted lounge where the red
patterned carpet clashed alarmingly with the green flock wallpaper.

'How can I help you. gentlemen?'

'Your American guests ... are they
all staying here?'

'Yes. They've come in a party.'

'When did they arrive?'

"The day before yesterday . . .
Saturday. They're here till Wednesday, then they're off to London to see the
sights.'

"Would you know if any of them
are missing?'

Mrs Slater looked surprised. 'Nobody's
mentioned anything to me. Is that why you're here?'

'It could be, Mrs Slater. Nothing's
certain yet,' said Wesley reassuringly. 'Would it be possible to speak to your
American guests? Just routine ...'

'I don't see why not. Most of them
are in the bar but some have gone to their rooms.' She looked the policemen up
and down. The young black one seemed respectable enough . . . very well spoken.
But the other one... she was afraid he might lower the tone of her establishment.
She hoped they wouldn't stay long.

It wasn't long before they had a
name ... Norman Openheim.
Nobody had seen him since last night

Wesley took Dorinda Openheim to one
side. 'Mrs Openheim,' he said gently. 'I'm sorry to have to ask you this but
we'd be grateful
 
if you'd come down to
Tradmouth Hospital. A body's been found and we're very much afraid it may be
your husband. I'm very
sorry but it is necessary ... we wouldn't ask you if it wasn't."

Wesley always felt awkward with grieving
relatives, but Dorinda Openheim, small, compact and immaculately coiffeured,
sat there impassively. There was no anxiety, no tears, just an uninterested
nod. I'll do it. Just tell me when.'

'As soon as possible, if that's all right.
I'll ask a woman officer to go with you if you prefer."

She looked at Wesley. She liked him.
He was thoughtful ...very English manners. She liked a thoughtful man; Norman
could never have been described as thoughtful.

The next question had to be asked.
Wesley braced himself. 'Could you tell me where you were last night .. .
between nine and eleven?'

There was no show of indignation.
I
 
was here ... in my room... reading.'