The Blood Pit (10 page)

Once the waiter had brought the coffee with long practised unobtrusiveness, Wesley gave the sommelier a businesslike smile.
‘Nothing to worry about, Monsieur Montfort. Just a chat really. I understand you’ve been having some problems with your wine
supplier.’ He took a sip of coffee and waited expectantly for the answer.

Jean Claude hesitated for a few moments before replying. ‘Yes,’ he began. ‘I wanted to call in the police. After all, it is
a fraud, is it not, to put expensive labels on cheap wine bottles? Of course when Chef and I select the vintages, we taste
all the wines and I assure you what we tasted were wines of the best quality and at first all was well. The problem came when
the last order arrived. Everything seemed as it should be until the customers began to complain. And when I tasted the wines
for myself …’ He let an expressive shrug of the shoulders finish his sentence for him.

‘What did you think of Charles Marrick?’

‘He seemed very charming and I know that he and Chef were friends at one time but I … He was rather – how do you say it –
sure of himself. That English public school confidence with no substance beneath.’ He looked Wesley in the eye. ‘Do you understand
what I am saying, Inspector?’

Wesley nodded. ‘I think so. Yes. You say he and Monsieur Colbert were friends?’

‘
Oui, c’est ca
. They drink together. They go out to nightclubs together.’ He looked Wesley in the eye. ‘One does not
cheat one’s friends, Inspector. But Charlie Marrick did. I do not care even if he was in financial difficulties, you do not
cheat your friends.’

‘Indeed you don’t, Monsieur,’ said Wesley with feeling. The more he was finding out about Charles Marrick, the more he was
starting to dislike the man.

‘I understand you’ve now found a new supplier for your wines?’

The sommelier nodded. ‘We have returned to our old supplier, Varney’s Vintages. A very old established firm in Neston with
a reputation second to none. The discounts are less generous but they are reliable.’

And you can add the increased cost to the bill, Wesley thought. But he didn’t put his suspicions into words. He merely nodded
politely. ‘You visited Varney’s on Wednesday afternoon, I believe.’

‘
Oui
. Chef and I went over there to taste some wines and discuss our requirements.’

‘One of my officers contacted Varney’s. They said you and Monsieur Colbert left around three thirty. He’d told us you were
there all afternoon.’

For the first time Montfort looked uncomfortable. He poured himself another coffee from the cafetière after asking Wesley
and Rachel if they required more with practised politeness. It was difficult, Wesley thought, to interrogate someone who was
so anxious to please … but who could still be telling huge porkies to defend his chef … and his job.

‘I really can’t remember,’ the sommelier said unconvincingly. He wasn’t a good liar.

‘It’s not that long ago, monsieur. Please try to think. It might just be a mistake on Monsieur Colbert’s part. He’s a very
busy man and busy men aren’t very good at remembering details like that. My boss is exactly the same,’ Wesley added smoothly.
Strike up a rapport. Get the man on your side.

‘It might have been three thirty. It might have been later. I was back here in good time to prepare for the evening opening
so …’

Wesley leaped on the personal pronoun like a cat on to a hapless mouse. ‘I? You mean you came back here on your own. Monsieur
Colbert wasn’t with you?’

Montfort swallowed hard. He was cornered. ‘I … I came on ahead. Chef wished to call at a shop. He told me to go back and make
sure everything was as it should be in the restaurant. Our new maître d’ has only just started. He is very experienced – he
was at one of the big London hotels – but he is still finding his way about, if you understand me.’

Wesley nodded. He understood only too well. ‘So what time did Chef get back from his shopping trip?’

Montfort shrugged. ‘I do not think he look very long. He was not late back.’

Rachel leaned forward and smiled. ‘So you left Varney’s Vintages in Neston at half three and you saw Monsieur Colbert what
… ? Five o’clock?’

‘I cannot be sure. You must ask in the kitchens. He will have gone straight to the kitchens.’

‘Thank you, we will,’ said Wesley, glancing at Rachel. It was time to go. They’d learned all Montfort had to tell them. And
now, just before the lunchtime rush, was no time to intrude on the kitchen. They’d send someone over that afternoon to take
statements. Without doubt there’d be someone in that kitchen willing to dish the dirt on Chef.

And at least now they knew that Fabrice Colbert’s alibi for the time of Charles Marrick’s murder was as brittle as the crust
on one of his famous crème brulées. Remarkably easy to crack.

‘Dr Watson, I’m a bit pissed off. Why have I been moved out of trench three?’

Neil looked at Lenny and searched desperately for a
plausible explanation. Why had he moved Lenny out of trench three? A hunch? A gut feeling? If Neil’s suspicions about what
he and Diane had found last night were correct, Lenny was bound to interpret the scene as a place of human sacrifice. What
is it they said? Never let the facts get in the way of a good story … or a version that suits your own peculiar view of the
past.

Lenny stood there, sulky as an overgrown teenager in the wide brimmed hat that he probably thought made him look like Indiana
Jones. He wore three strings of ethnic beads around his neck and both ears contained a fair amount of metalwork. He stared
at Neil, making him feel uncomfortable. His eyes were pale blue. Cold.

‘I … er, want to give everyone a wider overview of the site,’ Neil said. He thought the answer was rather a good one, considering
he had thought it up on the spur of the moment.

Lenny didn’t look convinced but he headed towards trench one without further protest. A small victory for Neil in what he was
afraid was going to turn into a long battle. Lenny was booked in for another three weeks.

Neil strolled over to trench three, trying his best to look casual. Muriel and Norman were scraping away earnestly at the
bottom of the trench, their faces a study in concentration as Norman poked the point of his trowel carefully underneath the
edge of an oyster shell. Diane was there at the other end of the trench, kneeling on the foam pad she guarded jealously, her
trowel gently scraping at the strange feature they’d uncovered the previous night. He asked her permission to enter the trench
– archaeologist’s etiquette – and when he’d found a spare pad he knelt down beside her.

‘What do you make of it?’

For a few moments she didn’t answer. Then she looked at Neil, a slightly concerned expression on her face. ‘It looks as though
a hole’s been dug to dispose of something …
some liquid or … It’s no casual rubbish pit … look at the stones around the edge.’

‘Any ideas about this dark deposit inside?’ Neil poked his trowel into the darker earth. ‘It’s not excrement. In fact I’ve
not seen anything like it before.’

Before Diane could reply, something made him look up, a movement caught out of the corner of his eye. Lenny was standing at
the edge of the trench, staring down at them. Neil was tempted to order him back to trench one but he stopped himself – this
man was paying for the privilege of taking part in the excavation. He couldn’t speak to him like a naughty schoolboy.

‘That’s where the blood drained away. I told you it was a ceremonial site, didn’t I?’ Lenny sounded smug. Norman and Muriel,
busy at the other end of the trench looked up at him, all ears.

Neil took a deep breath. The worst thing was that Lenny could be right. Tests could prove that the dark deposit was blood –
gallons of it, poured into the pit over a period of many years.

He counted to ten before he replied. ‘I’m going to send some soil samples for testing.’

‘Then maybe you’ll believe me.’ Lenny smirked down at Neil who was still on his knees. He looked triumphant. The man who was
about to be proved right.

‘Lenny, you didn’t send me a letter, did you?’ he asked as Lenny turned to go.

Lenny turned back to face him, his face expressionless. ‘A letter? Why should I send you a letter?’ he said quickly.

Norman, the retired schoolteacher, looked up from his digging, a worried expression on his gaunt face. ‘Is something wrong,
Dr Watson?’

Neil forced himself to smile. ‘No, Norman, it’s nothing. How are you getting on?’

As Norman gave a detailed description of his discoveries,
Neil noticed him glance over at Lenny warily. Almost as if he was afraid.

The coffee at Le Petit Poisson had given Wesley Peterson an appetite so he picked up a sandwich from Burton’s Butties on the
way back to the police station.

As he entered the shop he almost collided with a fair-haired young woman who was carrying a large wicker basket filled with
sandwiches over her arm. She wore a name badge that said ‘Joanne’ and smiled shyly as he made his apologies.

He was served by a man wearing a man wearing a badge that told the world he was ‘Robbie – Manager’ – Steve’s father himself. Wesley
kept the conversation to a minimum, wondering whether Steve had mentioned that there was a black inspector in his department
who thought he was God’s gift to detection – and that would be the good version. Wesley left the sandwich shop with his tuna
mayonnaise baguette, as anonymously as he’d gone in.

When he got back to the station, climbing the stairs rather than taking the lift, he found a report on his desk. It was from
Colin Bowman and as soon as he’d read through it, he abandoned his lunch and made straight for Gerry Heffernan’s office. He’d
want to know about this.

The DCI’s office was glass fronted. A goldfish bowl for a publicity-shy goldfish. On several occasions Heffernan had threatened
to bring a set of net curtains to give him more privacy as he sat with his feet on his cluttered desk, contemplating the workings
of the criminal mind.

He looked up, saw Wesley approaching, and signalled him to come in. Wesley was clutching Colin’s report to his chest and he
placed it in front of his boss with a flourish.

‘Remember Socrates?’

‘Didn’t he play for Manchester United?’

‘The Greek philosopher.’

‘Bit before my time, Wes. What about him?’

‘He poisoned himself with hemlock.’

Heffernan sat back in his mock-leather executive swivel chair and it emitted a loud groan. ‘And?’ He wished Wesley would get
to the punch line.

‘Hemlock was found in Charles Marrick’s body.’

Heffernan sat for a few moments in stunned silence. ‘Hemlock? You mean he was poisoned then someone stabbed him in the throat?
Why didn’t they just leave him to die of the poison?’

‘Belt and braces? They wanted to make sure?’ Wesley said the words but he wasn’t really convinced. If you went to the trouble
of poisoning someone, why not just let the lethal substance do its job? Why risk detection by hanging around and getting yourself
covered with blood? It didn’t make sense.

He took the report off Heffernan’s desk and began to reread it. He hadn’t taken in the details the first time and now he noted
every point. ‘Colin’s given us a useful list of the effects of hemlock.’

Heffernan scratched his head. ‘Go on.’

‘Its effects are similar to those of curare although it’s slower acting. It paralyses the muscles.’

Heffernan held up his hand. ‘Maybe that’s why there were no defensive wounds. Colin was puzzled about that, wasn’t he?’

‘It says here that the symptoms of poisoning can take a while to appear and the victim can take several hours to die. There’s
a gradual weakening of the muscles resulting in paralysis and eventual failure of the lungs but the victim’s mind remains
clear until death occurs.’

‘So when he was stabbed he would have known exactly what was going on. Whoever did this must be a sadistic bastard.’

‘Colin makes one interesting observation. Did you know that quail can eat hemlock seeds and be immune to the poison? Then,
if someone eats the contaminated meat, it can kill them.’

Heffernan raised his eyebrows. ‘Wasn’t Marrick’s last meal quail or something like it? Do you think that’s what happened? Do
you think he ate contaminated quail? Perhaps the killer called and found him there helpless and took the opportunity.’

Wesley considered this scenario for a moment: it was a possibility. ‘But whether or not this quail theory’s correct, we need
to know where Marrick ate lunch on the day he died. I’ll send someone round all the local eating places with a photo.’ He
paused for a few moments. ‘Fabrice Colbert seemed most offended when I suggested he was serving quail at the moment. Apparently
it’s out of season and all the ingredients he uses are fresh. But if he happened to have a quail stuck away in his freezer
…’

‘He might have treated the man he knew had cheated him to a free lunch.’

Wesley smiled. ‘And we all know there’s no such thing, don’t we?’

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. DC Paul Johnson was standing there with a sheet of paper in his hand. And he
looked excited.

Heffernan gestured to him to come in and Paul opened the door. ‘Fingerprint reports are back, sir.’ He looked from one man
to the other, his eyes keen as a gun dog, anxious to make a good impression.

‘Well?’ said Wesley, wondering when Paul was going to let them into his secret.

‘There’s two reports here. First one concerns a letter sent to a Neil Watson – standard computer paper, self-seal envelope
and a few smudged prints but nothing that matches our records.’ He paused as if he was saving the best till last. ‘And the
second is from the Marrick murder – Foxglove House.’

Paul placed the sheet of paper on the desk in front of the DCI. ‘There were several clear prints that didn’t belong to
family members or cleaners, sir.’ He paused for effect. ‘They belong to a Darren Collins. He’s from London and he did three
years for a post office robbery fourteen years ago.’

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. This brought a whole new dimension to the case. And it muddied the waters that were
just beginning to clear.