The Armada Boy (7 page)

Bowman thought for a second.' As it
missed the ribs it wouldn't have needed that much force. A fit woman - or an
angry one — could have done it certainly.'

Wesley looked at his boss. 'Maybe
the young man Farmer Ambrose saw running away was really a woman.'

'Aye. From that distance and with
that many pints of best bitter inside him, he'd have been hard pushed to tell
the difference.'

'And I've got another interesting
little snippet for you, gentlemen.' Bowman leaned forward. 'Do you remember
that rat you found by the body?'

'How could we forget?' said Heffernan.

'Well, I did as you asked and examined
it. You were right. It had been stabbed, and probably with the same weapon.'

'Whoever did it must have been fast
to get a moving rat with a knife," said Wesley incredulously.

'Oh no. Sergeant. The rat was dead
already ... been dead about a day when the deed was done, I should think.'

'So it wasn't just a healthy young
rat going about its lawful business when the murderer struck?' said Heffernan
with a grin.

"I think it might have been
poisoned. I could test for it if you like.'

'Yeah... if you would, Colin.
Thanks.'

'So where do you think this unfortunate
rodent comes into it, Gerry?'

'Wish I knew. But it didn't get
there by accident and it's got something to do with why the poor sod was
murdered. I can feel it in my water. But why?'

They drove in silence back to the
small incident room that had been set up in Bereton village hall, contemplating
this question. Why the rat?

The room the police had been allocated
in the village hall had been hurriedly cleared to accommodate them. A pile of
play equipment belonging to the village playgroup was pushed into a corner and
the desks and computers moved in.

Wesley went through the house-to-house
reports, trying not to think that at that moment Neil would be diving beneath
the cold grey waters of Bereton Bay and watching the uncovering of a ship that
had sailed with the Spanish Armada. He dismissed the image from his mind and
returned to his own bit of uncovering. But there was nothing to discover house-to-house
had drawn a blank. The entire population of Bereton had been sitting dutifully
in front of their television sets watching
Inspector
Morgan
, a TV detective
who, needless to say. never wasted time on useless house-to-house enquiries and
who never had paperwork to catch up on.
Inspector Morgan's days were filled with intriguing clues and car chases.
Wesley looked around at the team beavering away at their desks and computer
screens. Routine and paperwork... Inspector Morgan wouldn't last five minutes.

One report caught his eye. Apple
Cottage. Rachel's neat, legible handwriting recorded her opinion that although
the inhabitants of Apple Cottage denied having seen anything on the night of
the murder, they might be worth another visit. Reading between the lines,
Wesley knew that this meant they were probably lying through their teeth. He
reported this to the inspector.

'What are we waiting for, Wes? Let's
get round there.'

Not being of country stock, Heffernan
and Wesley didn't notice the quality of the apple trees as Rachel had done. The
battered door opened slowly ... first an, inch, then another. A head appeared,
wrinkled as a walnut and topped with fine winning
white hair. The old woman peeped myopically round the door.

'Can we have a word, love? Police,' Heffernan
said quietly, showing his warrant card.

But the old woman wasn't looking at
the inspector. As soon as she spotted Wesley standing behind him she fixed her
watery eyes on him and started to scream. 'I'm not going. It's my house ... you're
not having it. Get away .. . go on ..She let out a terrified
shriek as she was grabbed from behind by a plump, shabbily dressed woman.

'That's enough. Mother. You'll have
one of your turns again.'

'It's them ... the Yanks... there's
a black one there... I ain't going ... I ain't going.' The old woman shook off
her daughter and stood her ground.

Heffernan had dealt with drunks and
violent armed robbers but white-haired old ladies left him lost for words.
'It's okay, love,' he tried. 'Nobody's going to take you anywhere. We've come
to see your daughter, that's all.'

'It's him.' She pointed at Wesley
accusingly. He too was speechless. 'He's come to put me in the truck.'

'No one's going to put you in any
truck. Mother. Calm down... come back upstairs. Shall I ring for Dr Pargiter?'
The plump woman put her arm round her mother and tried to draw her towards the
stairs.

'I'll not go.' The old woman's words
held a finality that brooked no argument. Heffernan noticed a stream of
glistening liquid running down her bare leg. The urine left a dark patch on the
threadbare, patterned carpet.

'Oh, Mother, look what you've done
now.' The old woman looked down as if she weren't aware of what she had done.
She suddenly fell silent and acquiescent. Her daughter led her towards the
stairs, crooning reassuring words in the old woman's ear.

'Quite a reception,' said Heffernan
as they hovered awkwardly on the doorstep.

To their relief the woman returned
after a few minutes, apologising profusely. 'You'll have to excuse Mother ...
She thinks she's back in the war half the time.' She looked at Wesley and blushed,
embarrassed. 'It was you being ... you know. The GIs... the Yanks ... some of
them were black and she'd not seen no black people before ... not round here.
She thought...'

Wesley was beginning to understand.
'So she thought we were American troops coming to move her from her home in
1944?'

The woman relaxed a little. 'It's the
one thing that's stuck in her mind ... when she was evacuated. Always on about
it she is.'

Wesley nodded, feeling some
admiration for this woman, who treated her senile mother with such patience. He
introduced himself and showed his warrant card.

The woman was suddenly on her guard.
'Two of your lot came round yesterday. I told them I didn't know nothing.'

'If we could just have a quick
word.'

'Long as it's quick. I've Mother to
see to.'

'Can we come in then, love?' Heffernan
said, realising the invitation
 
wouldn't
be forthcoming. The woman stood aside reluctantly to let them in.

The ceilings of the cottage were low
and beamed. But this was no tastefully decorated rural retreat. The furniture
was either fifties tat or cheap veneered chipboard. The settee which dominated
the small room was stained Dralon. The carpet was purple nylon, spotted with
filthy marks, the origin of which could only be guessed at.

'Anyone else live here?'

'My son, Wayne. He's got special
needs,' the woman said almost with pride.

'And your husband?'

'He buggered off ten years back.'

'So there's just the three of you?'

She nodded. 'I've got no time for
twenty questions, you know... I've got to see to Mother.'

'I'm sorry. Mrs...'

'Restorick ... Annie Restorick.'

'We just wanted to ask you if you
saw anything suspicious orunusual the night before last... Sunday. Between 9
and 11 pm. We've had a report of someone running out of the old chapel in this
direction. Did anyone pass here at all?'

Wesley thought casual charm might
work best. 'To tell you the truth, Mrs Restorick, we don't have much
information ... so anything you could give us, however small, would be of great
value.'

'No, I didn't see nothing. We were
watching
Inspector Morgan
'

'Can we talk to your son?'

'He didn't see nothing. He was with
me watching telly.' Defensive.

'Is he in?'

She nodded warily.

'If we could just have a quick word …

'It wouldn't be any use. He was here
with me all night. I don't like him going down that pub. He's not too bright,
you see. People take advantage.'

'Was he at the pub on Sunday night?'

She shook her head vigorously. 'He
was here all night... I've told you already.' She stood up, clearly anxious to
be left alone.

'I've got to see to Mother now. She'll get sore.'

'You've got a lot on your plate, Mrs
Restorick . .. seeing to your mum and your son being... having special needs. It
can't be easy,' Heffernan said with sympathy.

'Wayne's not backward, you know ...
he's just a bit slow. People lake advantage.'

'As you've said. Thanks for your
help, Mrs Restorick. We'll leave you to it.'

She saw them to the front door, but
before she had a chance to see them off the premises, a young man came down the
stairs, overweight and pale. He stared at them for a moment then lumbered back
upstairs again. Mrs Restorick closed the door as
soon as the policemen were over the threshold.

'What do you think, Wes?' asked Heffernan
as they reached the lane.

'She's hiding something.'

What?'

'The son ... the lady doth protest
too much, methinks.'
'

Eh?'

'
Hamlet
.
It means she's going over the top in giving him an alibi. I reckon he was at
the pub.'

'We can easily find out. He must be
well known in a place like this.'

'And if he wasn't at the pub?'

'That's anybody's guess, .. out
stabbing Americans, perhaps.'

'Whatever he was up to, I'll bet you
ten quid he wasn't lucked up on the settee with
Inspector Morgan
.'

Rachel Tracey was a tactful young
woman, good with children and beloved of elderly aunts. She was also, as
Inspector Heffernan had generously pointed out to the Chief Superintendent, a
good police officer. Bui dealing with Dorinda Openheim was stretching
even Rachel's talents to the full.

She had been prepared to be sweetly
sympathetic to the bereaved widow; to let her do the talking while she listened
carefully for hints of guilt and provided tissues and cups of coffee. So she
was abashed when Dorinda looked at her defiantly and refused to say a word: not
because she was struck dumb with grief, but because she didn't want to. Grief
didn't come into it.

'I'm sorry to have to ask this, Mrs
Openheim,' Rachel said gently. "I know it's an upsetting time for you.'

Dorinda shrugged.

'We'd just like to have a quick look
through your husband's things. It's merely routine. Would that be all right?'

Dorinda pressed her scarlet lips
together impatiently. 'Sure, honey. Do what the hell you like. Take his things
if you want. He won't be needing them where he's gone.'

Rachel was lost for words. It was a
well-known fact in the police force that most murders were perpetrated by a
spouse or close relative of the victim. But, she thought, if Dorinda
Openheim had killed her husband, surely she would have put on a show of grief
to throw them off the track. And her attitude towards her late husband
indicated indifference rather than hatred.