The Blood Pit (25 page)

Rachel suddenly saw that Barty Carter was out of his depth. He had had a dream of rural life – the unrealistic dream that
lured so many in. And the dream had backfired, leaving him a pathetic shell of a man who lashed out at anyone or anything
he perceived to be a threat. She almost felt sorry for him.

‘My family have farmed for generations and it’s a tough life even if you’ve grown up with it. Ever thought of cutting your
losses and selling this place?’

He looked up at her, stunned. ‘I don’t know. I … Look what’s this all about?’

‘Simon Tench was found murdered on Sunday morning.’

Carter’s mouth fell open. As far as Rachel could see, he was genuinely surprised. But some people were good actors.

‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it,’ Steve had found his courage again now that the shotgun was out of Carter’s reach.
‘It’s been on the TV news and the papers have been full of it,’ he added with a hint of menace.

‘I don’t get the papers and the telly’s broke,’ Carter replied, a faraway look in his eyes. ‘How was he murdered?’ He glanced
at the shotgun. ‘Look, I never …’

‘Tench was worried about your animals – he threatened to report you.’

Carter shifted in his seat, as though trying to summon up some anger. ‘Bloody bureaucrats. Interfering …’

‘He would have helped if you’d let him.’

‘Look, I don’t know anything about this murder. It’s got nothing to do with me. You can take my gun … do tests. That’ll prove
it wasn’t …’

‘Where were you on Saturday night?’

‘Saturday night I was in Neston. Went for a drink.’

‘Just the one?’ Steve said with heavy sarcasm.

Carter didn’t reply.

‘Which pub was it? And is there anyone who can confirm your story?’ Rachel asked gently.

Carter shrugged his shoulders. ‘I went to the Cat and Fiddle near the castle. Some of the regulars know me.’

Rachel knew the Cat and Fiddle – not Neston’s most salubrious watering hole. If there were any questions to be asked in that
particular establishment, she’d send someone else to do it.

‘When did you last see Simon Tench?’ she asked.

‘Not since he came here that time.’

‘And did he report you?’

‘Some sort of inspector came round. I had to get rid of most of my stock. Just keep a few pigs now. I used to keep more …
and hens. Used to make my own black puddings – sausages too.’

‘But all that stopped.’

‘Had to, didn’t it? I just send the odd pig to the abattoir now. Nothing like it used to be.’

Rachel looked him in the eye. ‘Black puddings. You need lots of blood for black puddings, don’t you?’

‘Yeah. But I’m not allowed to make anything here any more. Hygiene regulations. Bloody bureaucrats. My pigs are okay. Nothing
wrong with them.’

‘Good company, pigs. What is it they say? Dogs look up to you, cats look down on you but pigs are equal.’

For the first time Rachel saw Barty Carter smile. ‘Look, I’m sorry that vet’s dead. I admit I lost my temper with him but
I can seen now that he was only doing his job.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘That’s my trouble, Detective Sergeant. I lose my
temper from time to time. It’s just since my wife left. I …’

Rachel looked him in the eye. ‘If you want my advice, I’d sell up. Cut your losses. In the meantime, muck out those pigs.
Hose the whole shed down and give them fresh straw. There was one in there I was worried about so call the vet out if necessary
– it’s better than losing all your stock. And if you don’t, I’ll report you to the RSPCA. Okay?’

Carter nodded, resigned. ‘I promise. I’ll get ’em sorted. It’s just that …’

‘No excuses. Just do it. I’ll be back to check. And I’ve got another bit of advice for you, when we come calling again – or
anyone else come to that – leave your shotgun locked safely in its cabinet.’

‘You were a bit soft of him,’ said Steve as they got into the car.

Rachel sighed. ‘I saw farming finish a lot of strong men in the foot and mouth outbreak – men who turned their shotguns on
themselves. Carter thought he could play at it … but he was playing with fire and he got burned. I blame all these TV programmes.
Start a new life in the country – run a farm or a restaurant or a hotel and get away from it all. Crap. It’s tougher than
the city life they leave behind. And more isolated. My parents have nothing but contempt for the likes of Carter but …’

‘You feel sorry for him?’ Steve allowed himself a sly grin. ‘Never thought I’d see you turn soft, Sarge. But then he’s not
bad looking, is he?’ he said before snuggling down in the passenger seat, enjoying the view of the rolling landscape as they
sped back to Tradmouth.

*

Wesley Peterson wanted to make a search of Simon Tench’s home, just to see if he’d kept any souvenirs of his school or university
days. Any hint as to how he might have come into contact with Charles Marrick or Christopher Grisham. He’d studied their details
and concluded that the three victims would all have been in the same academic year at whatever educational establishment or
establishments they attended. Surely it couldn’t be a coincidence.

If his instincts served him right, Simon Tench’s academic career – unlike Charles Marrick’s – would be an open book. And if
they could find a link with Christopher Grisham as well, they would – in Wesley’s opinion – be well on the way to catching
their killer. He didn’t put these optimistic thoughts into words of course. But he felt quietly confident.

He left his desk and walked to Gerry Heffernan’s office, longing to share his thoughts. But as soon as he pushed the DCI’s
office door open, the telephone on the cluttered desk began to ring.

He stood there while Heffernan held a short conversation. From the greeting, he knew it was Colin Bowman on the other end
of the line. This was news. As soon as Heffernan put the phone down, he signalled to Wesley to sit himself down.

‘That was Colin. He’s had the toxicology report on Simon Tench. It was hemlock again.’

Wesley flopped down in the visitor’s chair. The news didn’t surprise him. The scene of Tench’s death was far too similar to
that of Charles Marrick for the deaths to be unconnected. And the photographs of Christopher Grisham’s corpse e-mailed down
by Cheshire police, suggested that his murder too, had been committed by the same perpetrator. It seemed that the killer had
struck in Chester and had then travelled down to Devon to continue his gruesome work. He said as much to Heffernan.

‘Or our killer lives here and he popped up north for a couple of days,’ the DCI replied, shooting Wesley’s theory
out of the water. But Wesley had to acknowledge that he could be right. The killer was more likely to be based in Devon and
have made a special excursion to rid the world of Christopher Grisham.

‘Did Colin mention our skeleton?’ Wesley asked. Normally the discovery of an unidentified skeleton would have been a priority
but the murders seem to have pushed it into the background. However, it still intrigued Wesley. It didn’t belong to anyone who’d
been reported missing in the appropriate period so perhaps it was some vagrant who’d fallen asleep in the copse of trees and
never woken up. Perhaps they’d never know.

‘He said there was nothing to indicate the cause of death but he was sending off some samples to see if they could extract
some DNA. He was going on about all this scientific stuff but I couldn’t make head nor tail of what he was saying.’

Wesley smiled. The boss rarely concerned himself with technical matters. ‘I think it’s time we had a search through Simon
Tench’s things.’

‘Mmm. Apparently the wife’s staying in a hotel with her parents.’

‘That’s good. Staying at the scene of the crime doesn’t seem to bother Annette Marrick but Emma Tench …’

‘Is a different kettle of fish. Nice girl. Shame. Must be awful for her.’

‘So we’re not treating her as a suspect?’

Heffernan looked up. ‘Think we should?’

Wesley shook his head. ‘No. Not really. And besides, she’s a nurse. Nurses and doctors have more efficient ways of disposing
of their enemies than hemlock and a knife.’

Heffernan frowned. ‘It’s almost as if it’s some sort of ritual.’

‘I was thinking that myself. But why? What’s behind it?’

Heffernan didn’t answer. He stood up and reached for his jacket. ‘Let’s go and have a look at Tench’s cottage, shall we?’

Wesley followed him out, hanging behind as the boss did the rounds of the desks in the CID office, checking on how the troops
were progressing. Wesley found himself staring at the huge notice board that covered the far wall. The crime scene photographs
of the two Devon victims were up there in pride of place and they had just been joined by the e-mailed image of Christopher
Grisham, the Chester victim. Wesley looked from one to the other. There was no way that Grisham was killed by a different person. The
scene was too similar. The slumped body; the staring, horrified eyes; the blood pouring from the two neat wounds on the neck,
almost like something from a vampire movie.

Half an hour later they arrived at Simon Tench’s cottage and the constable on duty let them in. They entered gingerly, looking
around. The bloodstains still stood out on the pale wood floor and most surfaces in the room had been dusted with fingerprint
powder, giving the place a look of neglect.

‘Where shall we start?’ Wesley asked.

‘Where do you keep all your old school photos?’

Wesley made for the sideboard under the window. He squatted down to open one of the three cupboards and when he found it full
of crockery, he tried the next. This time he struck lucky. Beneath a tower of photograph albums was a pile of school photographs
in cardboard frames. Half were Emma’s but it was Simon’s that interested Wesley. He pulled one out triumphantly and studied
it. The name of the school had been printed thoughtfully in gold letters beneath the photograph of twenty-five adolescent boys
– probably, Wesley guessed, in the sixth form – wearing striped ties and smart blazers.

‘He went to St Peter’s School in Morbay,’ Wesley announced, turning the picture over. ‘There are names on the back but I can’t
see Charles Marrick’s or Christopher Grisham’s.’

‘Bang goes that theory then. They didn’t know each other from school. Or university because Marrick didn’t go.’

‘Perhaps when we find out more about Christopher Grisham …’

‘We’ll be just as confused. Do you think this could be a psychopath, Wes? A random killer who just stalks his victims and …
?’

Wesley shook his head. ‘No. The victims trust the killer enough to let him in. There’s no sign of a break-in and, somehow,
they’re persuaded to take hemlock.’ He looked at his watch. There was just time to have a quick look through Simon’s things
and get back to Tradmouth. Although their search would be more for inspiration than for any concrete clue.

An hour later they returned to the CID office in low spirits.

But the message waiting for them on Gerry Heffernan’s desk, raised the mood a little.

The computer had just come up with a match for the DNA extracted from the bones found in the woods. There was no name but
somebody with that particular DNA profile was responsible for the rape of a schoolgirl in Luton.

It was a cold case that had just become red hot.

‘Police appeal for information about skeleton found in woodland.’

The writer stared at the words until they were a swimming mass of grey then pushed the newspaper to one side and began to
type.

Brother William had been put to work in the scriptorum copying holy words on to vellum. This was work he loved. Scratching
away on the vellum, exact, precise. In the scriptorum his only fear was that he might make a mistake with his lettering. But
out of the shelter of the scriptorum, Brother William knew he was in danger. Danger not only to his body but to his soul.

You might wonder, Neil, how I came by the information, but I assure you it is there for anyone to discover if they possess
the wit and the tenacity. How puzzled you are by the game. Perhaps you are not as worthy an opponent as I had hoped.

The writer stood up. Enough had been written for now. The rest needed some thought.

‘I don’t believe this.’ Gerry Heffernan waved the local paper in the air in a distinctly threatening manner.

Wesley sat in the visitor’s chair in the DCI’s office,
watching his boss, his expression impassive. ‘What does it say exactly?’

‘Read it for yourself.’ He thrust the paper into Wesley’s hand.

Wesley began to read. ‘Police are hunting the killer they are calling “the Spider”.’ He looked at Heffernan, unable to keep
a smile from his lips. ‘The Spider? Where do they get that from?’

‘Keep reading.’ Heffernan had begun to pace up and down the office. Always a bad sign.

‘They are calling him the Spider because he administers a drug that paralyses his victims before he kills them.’ Wesley raised
his eyebrows. ‘Well, they’ve got that bit right. But how did they know? That’s something we’ve been keeping quiet.’

Heffernan shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea. Maybe Fabrice Colbert – or do we call him Darren Collins? – put two and two together
when we were asking about the quail.’

‘I can’t see it myself. Not many people would know about quail and hemlock surely.’

‘He’s a chef. Perhaps he does.’

‘It could be anyone. Some mortuary attendant who’s seen the toxicology reports.’ He paused. His next suggestion was bound
to raise the boss’s blood pressure. ‘Or it could be someone here.’

‘It’d better not be.’ He marched to his desk and picked up his phone. ‘I’m getting on to Ray Davenport at the
Tradmouth Echo
.’

‘Journalists aren’t supposed to reveal their sources, Gerry.’

‘If he wants to be first in line for our press releases, he better had. This isn’t supposed to be in the public domain.’ He
took a deep breath and put the receiver down again. ‘Perhaps I should wait till I’ve calmed down a bit.’

‘Good idea, Gerry. We don’t want to fall out with Ray, do we? I think a little tact is needed here.’