The Blood Pit (33 page)

Helen turned the sign on the door to closed and flicked up the latch. If she was upstairs she didn’t want anybody roaming
around the shop unsupervised. Only the other week somebody had pinched an expensive book – a guide to the Bible strangely
enough. The thief had obviously glossed over the Thou Shalt Not Steal part.

The door at the bottom of the stairs stood open. Mr Dean never left it open and Helen suddenly felt apprehensive. She’d never
considered herself a nervous or imaginative sort of person but she felt something was wrong. She took a deep breath and began
to climb the stairs leading up to Mortimer Dean’s flat.

In the silence every sound seemed to be amplified, especially the buzzing of the bluebottle that dive-bombed her head and
then flew round in circles, preparing for another attack. Helen’s hand was shaking as she pushed open the flat door and called
out Mr Dean’s name. Feebly at first then a little louder. But there was no answer. Only silence and the
relentless buzzing of the bluebottle, louder now as though the original insect had been joined by its friends. As she crossed
the threshold, she saw Mortimer Dean lying slumped on the sofa. A glass had fallen on to the carpet by his feet. A whisky
glass – Mr Dean’s favourite tipple was a decent single malt.

She stared at the man in horror. There was no question about it. Mortimer Dean was dead.

Wesley Peterson and Gerry Heffernan – all dressed up in overalls and plastic gloves, just in case – stood together, staring
at the body of Mortimer Dean.

‘Natural causes?’ Heffernan suggested hopefully. With their current workload, the last thing he wanted was another suspicious
death on his hands.

‘Who knows?’ Wesley answered, studying Dean’s face. The dead man looked rather surprised. His mouth was open and his eyes stared
into space.

‘Well it certainly isn’t our Spider,’ Heffernan said with what sounded like relief. ‘Not a drop of blood to be seen.’ He glanced
round. ‘Is someone taking a statement from the lass who found him?’

Wesley answered in the affirmative. Everything was being dealt with. They were just waiting for Colin Bowman to arrive. He’d
been in the middle of a postmortem on a suicide victim when they’d called. He hadn’t sounded his usual cheerful self..

He bent down and picked up the whisky glass that lay on the floor by Dean’s feet. Wesley suspected that it had probably fallen
out of his hand. He brought it up to his nose and sniffed it. Then he handed it to Gerry Heffernan.

‘Does that smell a bit strange to you, Gerry?’

Heffernan sniffed at it and shrugged. ‘Might be worth getting it tested, seeing as our friend here had connections with the
three victims.’

Wesley dropped the glass into an evidence bag.

‘I must say I can’t see anything suspicious, Wes. He could have had a heart attack or …’

But Wesley wasn’t listening. He was making his way to the small kitchen which lay through an arch off the living room. A few
seconds later he emerged holding another glass in his gloved hand. ‘This was on the draining board. Someone had washed it up.
I wonder if Mr Dean was entertaining a visitor when he died.’

‘It might just be a glass he used earlier and washed up.’

Wesley looked at the glass in his hand. Gerry Heffernan could be right. But he’d get it checked for prints just the same. You
never know your luck. He suddenly remembered something he’d been meaning to tell the boss; something Dean’s death had driven
out of his head. ‘By the way, Gerry, when we called in at the station Rachel spoke to me. She’d been to Belsinger and got a
list of former pupils. And guess who was on it.’

‘Surprise me.’ Heffernan wasn’t in the mood for guessing games.

‘Barty Carter. He wasn’t in Tavistock House and I think he was in the year above Marrick and co. but he was there all right.
Funny he never mentioned that he’d known Simon Tench from school.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t. I remember at school we didn’t really mix with people who weren’t in our year.’

Wesley felt rather deflated. But he had to acknowledge the boss was right. Maybe Barty Carter hadn’t even recognised Tench.
‘I’ve told Rachel to check it out anyway.’

‘Let’s just hope the bugger’s got rid of his shotgun,’ Heffernan muttered under his breath.

Wesley suddenly felt uneasy. Carter was volatile, unpredictable. What if he’d put Rachel in danger by telling her to go there
again? But he told himself that Rachel knew what she was doing. She’d be okay. ‘If he was at Belsinger,
Carter might be able to throw some light on this girl Hedge was talking about.’

‘Girl?’

‘The girl who may – or may not – have been connected with the serious incident Hedge mentioned. The one Marrick might have
been involved in.’

‘It’s all so vague, Wes. They’d obviously not discovered the joys of gossip at Belsinger.’

Wesley grinned. ‘All male community. Positively monastic.’

‘I thought they were usually the worst,’ said Heffernan absentmindedly, picking up a pile of mail that lay on Dean’s sideboard.
The dead had no privacy.

Wesley wandered over to the computer desk that stood in the corner of the room. Dean’s computer wasn’t the latest model but
it was sufficiently up to date to satisfy the technical needs of the average person. Wesley switched it on and, with a few
clicks of the mouse, Mortimer Dean’s e-mails appeared on the screen.

‘He sent a rather interesting e-mail yesterday,’ Wesley said, making himself comfortable by the computer.

Heffernan looked wary. He’d never managed to get along with a computer in his life. If he touched one either the screen turned
blue or the whole thing blew up. ‘How do you mean, interesting?’

Wesley began to read. ‘Frankie, I really must see you. The police have been asking questions. I know it might be difficult
for you but is there a way we can meet? I’m afraid things have got out of hand again. I know it seems strange that our roles
are reversed now but I’m genuinely frightened for our friend and I don’t know what to do about it. Yours ever, Mortimer Dean.’

There was a sharp intake of breath. Then the DCI asked the inevitable question. ‘Who’s Frankie and who’s our friend?’

Wesley noted down the e-mail address. ‘We can get this traced. But Frankie can’t be far away if he wants them to meet.’

‘Not necessarily. He says it might be difficult.’

Wesley had to acknowledge that Heffernan might be right. Frankie, whoever he – or was it she? – was, might be miles away.

They heard voices on the stairs interspersed with inappropriately hearty laughter. Colin Bowman had arrived.

And when he examined Mortimer Dean’s body he announced that he couldn’t say for certain how he died until he conducted the
postmortem. But his first instincts were that he had ingested some sort of poison.

It was possible they might have another murder on their hands.

Rachel felt nervous as she drove out to see Barty Carter. She’d spoken to her mother the night before and received the farming
community’s verdict on the man, which wasn’t good. But Rachel felt sorry for him, her pity mingled with just a hint of admiration
for the way he’d stuck it out on the smallholding. He’d had problems but he hadn’t given up.

However, she was reserving her judgement. He hadn’t told them that he’d been at school with Simon Tench. Perhaps he had something
to hide.

Gerry Heffernan and Wesley Peterson had no idea that she’d gone there alone but she’d thought it best. Carter would be more
likely to confide in her if she didn’t have someone like Steve Carstairs in tow, flashing evil looks, playing the hard man.
Carter needed the gentle touch. A bit of tea and sympathy. But if he hadn’t done anything about those pigs, she’d still give
him a hard time.

When she arrived at the smallholding, she saw that Carter had taken her orders to heart: the pig shed had been thoroughly
mucked out and the pigs were grunting happily in their fresh straw. As she stood watching the creatures one curious sow came
to say hello and Rachel rewarded her with a vigorous scratch on the back of the neck sending the
animal into an ecstasy of joyous rubbing and snuffling. Rachel had always had a way with pigs on her parents’ farm. But it
wasn’t something she wanted generally known around the police station.

‘Hello.’

Rachel swung round to see Barty Carter standing with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, watching her with a nervous half
smile on his face.

‘The pigs look a lot better.’

Carter stared at the ground, contrite. ‘I thought I’d better get my act together.’

‘You’ve done well,’ Rachel said quickly.

After an awkward silence, Barty Carter smiled – a smile that transformed his face and made him, in Rachel’s opinion, the right
side of attractive. ‘So you’re not going to report me, Detective Sergeant?’

Rachel hesitated. It wouldn’t do to seem too soft or to let him think he’d got away with his previous behaviour altogether. ‘I’ll
be keeping an eye on the situation, Mr Carter. But from what I can see, you seem to be making progress.’ She looked round.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

Carter led her into the house and she noticed that he’d made an effort here as well. The place looked a good deal cleaner
and the paperwork that had been scattered over every available surface was stacked in neat piles.

‘I’m trying to sort everything out,’ he explained. ‘When my wife left I went through a bad time but … I’ve decided to get
my life on track again.’ He looked at her, sheepishly. ‘I poured all the booze down the sink the night after you came. I don’t
know, maybe it took a visit from the police to give me the kick up the backside I needed. I just hope I can bloody keep it
up.’

Rachel smiled. ‘Look, if you want any advice on farming or … I’m sure my dad or one of my brothers would be able to have a
chat … pass on their experience.’ The Traceys didn’t
have a high opinion of posh people from the city who had the same attitude to farming as Marie Antoinette had to shepherding
– a pretty game. But Rachel could be very persuasive when she put her mind to it.

Barty Carter gave her a shy, grateful smile. ‘Thanks. I can’t go on calling you Detective Sergeant, can I? What’s your first
name?’

‘Rachel.’

‘Thanks, Rachel. Er … did you come to check on the pigs or is this just a social call?’

‘Neither really.’ She paused. It was time to slip back into the role of police officer. She’d have to put her sympathy on
hold and watch out for lies and evasions. ‘Last time I visited you didn’t mention that you’d been to school with Simon Tench.’

‘I didn’t think it was relevant. He was in the year below me and I didn’t really know him. In fact I didn’t know him at all. We
weren’t in the same house so our paths never crossed.’

The explanation sounded perfectly plausible to Rachel. There were girls in the year below her at school she would walk past
in the street and not recognise. But she had to continue with the questioning. There might be something – some snippet of
apparently irrelevant information – that might be of some help. ‘Did you know Charles Marrick or Christopher Grisham?’

Barty Carter shook his head. ‘I don’t recognise the second name but the first one rings a bell. I seem to remember someone
nudging me in the corridor and whispering ‘That’s the famous Charlie Marrick.’ But I didn’t take much notice at the time.
I had other things on my mind.’ He grinned. ‘I was in the lower sixth and we used to sneak out to the nearest pub. I think
there were a couple of local girls who took my fancy. Consequently, I didn’t take much notice of the famous Charlie Marrick.’

‘Can you tell me anything about him?’

Carter shrugged. ‘I think he was usually in trouble for
something and I heard a whisper there was an incident with a girl but … Sorry I can’t be more help.’

‘You never thought to tell us you knew Marrick?’

‘I didn’t know him.’

Rachel usually had a suspicious mind – it probably went with the job. But there was something in Carter’s manner that made
her think he was telling the truth.

‘Is there anything else … anything at all? You might not think it’s relevant but …’

‘Sorry, that’s all I know. But there is something I’d like to ask.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Any chance of us going out for a drink one night?’

‘Nice try,’ Rachel muttered. Then, after a few moments’ thought, she said, ‘We’ll see,’ with a businesslike smile.

As Carter watched her drive off, her wheels churning up the mud produced by the leaking tap near the gate, he suddenly felt
more optimistic than he had done for months.

Brother Francis sat by his computer and stared at Mortimer Dean’s e-mail. Dean had kept in touch with him since he’d left
Belsinger. There’d been a rapport between housemaster and pupil. Nothing sexual, more a recognition of a sympathetic soul. They’d
exchanged letters at first then later, with the advent of technology in the ordered world of Shenton Abbey, they’d corresponded
by e-mail. Nothing profound or spiritual – Dean had been a devout atheist – but pleasantries and news of old boys.

There had been no mention of Charlie Marrick, of course. By tacit agreement it was never spoken of. As if ignoring it would
make it vanish as though it had never happened.

But Brother Francis knew it had happened. He’d been there. It was something he’d shared with his confessor before he took
his vows; something for which he knew he’d received forgiveness. But even though he’d received his absolution, the
very thought of that terrible time made him feel physically sick. It was an indelible stain on his life. Something he could
never get rid of by reason and prayer. He still dreamed about it, even after fifteen years. It would be with him until he
died.

Brother Francis hadn’t concerned himself with Greek mythology since his school days at Belsinger. But he knew Nemesis was
the goddess of retribution. And, in spite of his higher calling, he could sense that she was very near. Just biding her time.

Ever since they found him, I’ve been longing to tell the truth but somehow I can’t find the words. Perhaps if I write more
about Brother William, you’ll understand.

You’ll wonder why I’ve chosen you, Neil. But the truth is, I don’t know. Why are any of us chosen for anything?

Imagine those monks at the seyney house. How they must have been back then – warm and relaxed after their blood-letting. Brother
William must have been at ease, unsuspecting, and I’ve been wondering about his relationship with Brother Silas before it
happened. Those tragic events at the seyney house can’t have come from nowhere. There must have been a preparation. Watching
eyes, full of desire. There must have been some hint of sin. Perhaps Brother William had been too innocent to recognise the signs.

Sometimes I feel as if I’m about to go mad. As if all this putrid filth will burst from my body and I will die like I deserve
to.