The Armada Boy (6 page)

They ask for money ... young, dirty.
One of them's got a pesky dog.'

'We've only seen one of them ... are
there more?' Wesley asked, interested.

'Sure are ... about three. Don't
know which rock they crawled out from under but.. .'

'And they actually threatened Norman
Openheim? What happened?'

'They asked for money and he said
no. One of them turned nasty.'

'Which one?'

'Vicious-looking varmint with a
shaved head.'

'Did anyone see what happened?'

'No ... no one. Norman told us about it afterwards."

'So most people knew?'

'I guess so. I suggest you get those
varmints behind bars.. . and fast'

'We'll certainly be having a word
with them.'

'A word. Inspector? There's only one language that sort understand.'

'As I said, sir. we'll be having a
word. Thank you very much for your help. We might want to talk to you again.'

'We're off to London on Wednesday,
don't forget.'

'We'll have to see how our enquiries
progress. Good evening, sir.' Heffernan stood, his face impassive.

Boratski pushed himself painfully to
his feet. "But we've got tickets for
Cats
on Wednesday night...he muttered pathetically.

As Heffernan said to his sergeant
when the old soldier had left the room, the moggies might have to wait.

Nine thirty ... too late to interview
any more of the veterans' party. Those that were still in the bar looked to be
ready for bed. They had got through half of them. The rest could wait until tomorrow.

'Let's get out of here, Wes. Pam
expecting you back?'

'She knows I'll be late.'

'Time for a drink, then?'

Wesley looked at his watch. His
conscience was telling him that he should be getting back. 'Just a quick one.'

'Rach and Steve are making enquiries
in the village pub ... nice work if you can get it. Why didn't we think of that
line of enquiry? Let's see how they're getting on.'

They drove to the Bereton Arms and
parked in the small, half-empty carpark behind the pub. Wesley recognised
Neil's Mini in the corner.

'Isn't that your mate's car? No
spending the night talking about
artefacts ..."

Wesley grinned. 'Not the whole
night, sir. I can't be too long.'

Rachel and Steve were at the bar
talking to an elderly man who had the weather-beaten look of one who had spent
a lifetime on the land. They introduced him to Heffernan as Walter Ambrose, a farmer
who trudged the mile from his farm to Bereton each evening, rain or shine, down
the narrow lanes to partake of several pints of best bitter and keep abreast of
the local gossip.

'I hear there's been a murder. ..
one of them Yanks what turfed us out in the war,' he said to Heffernan, his
eyes glowing with interest and alcohol. This was probably the most exciting
event to hit Bereton since 1944. 'I passed the old chantry on the way
home."

'Did you see anything unusual?'

"I was telling these youngsters
here .. .' He indicated Rachel and Steve. 'I saw someone running out of the
chantry path and off towards the church.'

The inspector looked round for
Wesley. This could be important.
 
But his
sergeant had met up with Neil Watson and his mates and was deep in conversation;
he could catch up on this later.

'Would you recognise who it was?
Could you give a description?'

The farmer looked at Heffernan as if
he were a prize Jersey short of a herd. 'It were about ten o'clock. I always
leave about ten... I got milking in the morning. It were pitch dark ... we
ain't got no street lights in Bereton, you know. I just saw a figure... in
the shadows. It were only a half-moon.'

'Could you tell if it was a man or a
woman? Tall or short?'

Ambrose banged down his empty glass.
'Buy us another pint and I'll have a think about it.' Here, Heffernan thought,
was an astute man. Ambrose took two sips of his new pint before pronouncing authoritatively,
'It were a young fellow ... I'm sure of that. Don't
know if he was tall or small. .. that's your job to find out. I'll only do your
detective work for you if you come and help me out with my milking.' He
chuckled.

'Did you know any of the Yanks who
came over here in the war?'

'Oh. aye... very generous they were.
I were too young for the army ... just a lad. Those Yanks used to hand out
chocolate and that ... us kids loved 'em. There's folk round here who had different
ideas, mind.'

'How do you mean?'

'Whole year's harvest we lost here.
Would you forget if you were turfed out of your home and had to have your herds
destroyed?'

There was no answer to that. Heffernan
decided he would do Pam Peterson a favour and drag her husband away from his cronies.
On the way back to Tradmouth, he asked Wesley for an update on Neil's latest
exploits.

'He's diving in the bay tomorrow.
They've located the wreck of the
San
Miguel
. There's a lot of stuff down in the bay from the war, landing craft
and tanks sunk, but the wreck's well away from that lot, thank goodness. They've
used sonar to locate it and there've been a few good finds already. Lovely
cannon ... virtually
 
intact. It all gets
rushed off to Exeter for conservation so there's not much to see here.'

For once Gerry Heffernan, an
ex-merchant navy officer and lover of all things nautical, listened with interest.
'They're not getting you down there, are they, Wes?'

I'll stick to dry land. Talking of
which, Neil wants to know when he can start in the chapel.'

I'll see what SOCO have to say ...
shouldn't be that long '

'So what have we got?' asked Heffernan
after a few minutes of amicable silence. They had reached the outskirts of
Tradmouth. Wesley would have to drive into the cramped centre of the medieval
port to drop his boss off at his small whitewashed house
on the cobbled quayside.

'We know Norman Openheim had a
run-in with one of the beggars and that Farmer Ambrose saw a young man running
away from the chantry at the relevant time last night.'

'We'll have to invite them to the station
for tea and biscuits ...if we can catch them. Then there's Norman's missus
indulging in a bit of hanky-panky with one of his old comrades.'

'Do you suspect her?'

'I don't know, Wes. It's early days
... anything could happen.'

Dorinda Openheim stood naked in front
of the long mirror in her bedroom (spacious and en suite with tea-making
facilities and trouser press). Time and that plastic surgeon at the Aphrodite Clinic
had been kind to her. Her breasts, silicon-filled, stood out proudly and any
excess fat had been liposuctioned away six months ago when she had rid herself
of her second chin. It had been worth every penny. Now that she was a widow,
she would devote her considerable energies to ensnaring somebody who would
appreciate her efforts.

She slipped her diaphanous
nightdress over her head. She wondered if Todd would knock discreetly at her
door. Probably not... he would consider it inappropriate. Todd had a wonderful sense
of what was appropriate.

She walked round the bed to where
the electric kettle stood on a spotless melamine tray on a small polished oak
table. She fancied a coffee.

She let out a cry as she stubbed her
naked toe on something hard. She bent down to see what that something was.
Norman's case ... she should have known. Even in death he was causing her inconvenience.
Those cops would probably want to see it. They were welcome to sift through his
dirty socks and underpants: if she had her way she'd chuck it straight into the
sea.

On a sudden impulse she opened the
shabby leather case. She was right: nothing but underwear. Then she spotted a
corner of paper. She moved a pair of purple boxer shorts aside and took out an
envelope: pale blue airmail with an English postmark addressed to Norman in a
neat, almost childlike hand.

She opened it. Inside was a letter
which she read with growing disbelief. When she had finished she squeezed the
thin paper in her fist.

Who the hell is Marion?' she asked
out loud as she threw the crumpled letter on to the bed.

Chapter Three

There are local records in existence
that tell of what happened on that fateful day in August 1588. Reading them, it
is easy to imagine the emotions of those surviving Spanish sailors, dedicated to
their holy enterprise of returning England to the Roman
Catholic faith, as they swam ashore from their ship, the
San
Miguel
,
run aground on the treacherous rocks of our bay. Many
of their comrades had drowned and those who survived crawled, exhausted and
bleeding, across the hard pebbles of the beach.
Beacons were lit on the headland as a warning and the good folk, of Bereton,
armed with whatever weapons they could lay their hands on, made for the shore,
hoping for pickings from the wreck.

We can only guess at the manner of
reception those Spanish sailors received. And of course those other men who
came from the sea - our American allies in 1944 - would have been received with
the same mixed feelings, as the people of Bereton were ordered to leave the
homes their ancestors had occupied for centuries.

From
A History of Bereton and Its People
by June Mallindale

Wesley Peterson watched as Colin
Bowman, smiling pleasantly and chatting away, made the long incision down the
front of the body and removed the vital organs in an alarmingly casual fashion.
Wesley looked away, feeling slightly sick.

Gerry Heffernan, however, was oblivious
to the gruesome procedure and chatted away, asking questions which the
pathologist
 
answered in a jolly,
conversational way. It was a pity, Heffernan had often thought, that Dr Bowman's
patients were never in a position to appreciate his cheery bedside manner.

Well ...' Colin Bowman stood back
and watched absentmindedly while his technician sewed the body of Norman Openheim
back up. 'I can't tell you much that you don't know already, Gerry.'

When Colin had changed and they were
sitting in his office sipping a cup of Earl Grey, the pathologist decided to
enlighten them further.

'I'll put it all in my report,
Gerry, but I can tell you that my initial diagnosis has proved to be correct.
He was killed by a single stab wound to the heart with a long thin blade.
Either an extremely lucky strike or someone who knew what they were doing.'

'And the weapon?'

'Long thin knife of some kind ...
anything been found?'

'Not yet... still looking.'

'He died pretty well instantly. He
wouldn't have known much about it. As for the time of death, we're lucky to
know exactly when he ate his last meal. From the state of the stomach contents I'd
say ten o'clock or thereabouts.'

'Anything else?' asked Wesley.

'He was a healthy man for his age
... bit overweight but generally in good shape apart from the hearing problem
we know about. As to the fatal wound ... I had a bit of a prod about and from
the angle of entry I should say you're looking for someone a bit
smaller than the victim.'

'Could a woman have done it?'