The Blood Pit (39 page)

She had seemed calm enough when he’d left her but he hadn’t taken the book – the journal of the last abbot of Veland – home
with him as he didn’t want to push things. There would be plenty of time to return it to archives.

As he sat there sipping coffee alone in his Exeter flat, he considered his next move. Diane had only been a child when it
had happened so surely there was no chance of her being prosecuted. He had told her this when he suggested that she should
contact Wesley herself and speak to him but she’d said she couldn’t face it and begged him not to betray her secret. He’d
agreed – after all, it had happened a long time ago and a few more days wouldn’t make much difference.

The story she had told him kept running through his head. The isolated woodland, the man, the terrified child. The penknife
that had been her only form of defence against his strength. The shock of metal meeting flesh as he lunged at her. The horrible
gurgling sound as he collapsed in the undergrowth, his hands grabbing at her clothes, blood gushing from his wound.

She’d left him there, bleeding to death, fighting for life and for years she’d pretended that it had never happened. But the
event had haunted her. She’d seen the man in her nightmares. She’d seen him in dark corners, watching her. Reaching for her
out of the shadows beneath her bed; from the recesses of her wardrobe; from every doorway of a darkened street.

The torment had eased over the years and often she went for weeks without thinking of it. And when something did trigger the
memory, she found she could pretend it never happened – that it was only a bad dream that had no substance. After all, no
body had ever been discovered so perhaps she had imagined it all.

But when she’d visited the archives to discover what she could about the Stow Barton site, she’d found the book and Brother
William’s story had hit her immediately like a hammer on the skull. She had known exactly what the man wanted, even back then.
And she had watched his blood spill out on to the earth.

She understood Brother William. She almost felt they were one. Brother William would have known exactly what she went through.

Neil had listened as she’d poured out her story and now he wondered what his next move should be. What if she wasn’t willing
to confide in Wesley? Should he tell him himself or should he keep his new knowledge to himself ?

The police were looking for whoever killed Barry Ickerman, the man in the woods. And he’d told Wesley about the letters so
he could hardly fail to mention the fact that he now knew the identity of their sender. On the other hand, if he said nothing
and the letters stopped, the whole thing would just remain a mystery. Another unsolved puzzle.

It was something that needed a lot of thought.

Vespers was almost over and the chanted prayers made Brother Francis feel a little calmer. He had wrestled in prayer for most
of the day, pleading with God for guidance. And now
he knew what he had to do. He had to seek Father Joseph’s advice.

As he knelt, the images flooded unbidden into his head. The beach. The laughter. They had used a sheath knife, specially sharpened
for the purpose. They had all submitted to the ritual, holding out their forearms for the cold touch of the knife. There had
been no worry about infection in those days. And even if there had been, the fear of Charlie’s displeasure would have trumped
any misgivings about bacteria. Charlie had decreed it, therefore it was law. And shy boys like Frankie Duparc, anxious to
be accepted into the chosen pack, would have walked barefoot over hot coals if Charlie Marrick had told them to.

Charlie was pack leader. His word was law. And he liked to surround himself with boys who were weaker than himself. Simon
– the Swot – Tench. The sensitive, artistic Chris Grisham. And of course there’d been Frankie. Frankie – the weedy child with
the slight stutter – who’d spent his life in penance for what had happened back then.

Vespers was over. He stood up for Father Joseph’s final benediction. Soon he would have to decide whether to reveal everything
to the police. Or to stay silent.

Monday morning dawned bright and sunny. Perhaps, Wesley thought optimistically, they would soon make a breakthrough. Barty
Carter had already given Rachel a detailed description of the person he’d seen in Tradmouth but Wesley wasn’t sure how useful
it was. The fact that somebody might have had associations with Belsinger School at one time hardly made them a murderer, and
it was always possible that Carter was mistaken. But at least it was another line of enquiry.

Wesley felt refreshed after the weekend, even though he had spent a good deal of it at work. He had made it to lunch at Maritia’s,
unlike Mark’s friend, Jonathan, who had
had to return to London late on Saturday for some unspecified reason. Wesley had been rather relieved. He hadn’t really taken
to Jonathan – he was far too shallow and materialistic for his taste and he was rather surprised that he and Mark had remained
close. Wesley’s brother-in-law, the Vicar of Belsham, hardly seemed Jonathan’s type. But then they had known each other since
their school days so there was probably some deep bond there that Wesley knew nothing about. He sensed that Maritia wasn’t
that keen on her husband’s friend either. But she had never said anything. Maritia had always been one to keep the peace,
even when they were small.

Pam had enjoyed the lunch, he could tell. But perhaps her good mood was due to the fact that the summer term would soon be
at an end and she was anticipating six weeks of freedom. Wesley had secretly been looking at holiday brochures – weighing
up the options. He fancied France this year. Pam loved France and a slice of sunshine and history would do them all the world
of good.

His dreams of pepper pot towers, mellow medieval squares, good food and abundant wine were interrupted by Lee Parsons. He
had been quiet since disgracing himself with the lady of the press. If Gerry Heffernan had his way he’d make a rapid return
to uniform as soon as the Spider case was resolved. But in the meantime they needed the manpower.

‘Sir, there’s been a call from a DI Heath – Cheshire police headquarters in Chester. He wants you to ring him back. I’ve left
his number on your desk, sir.’

Wesley thanked the young constable who, these days, was the picture of contrition – the sinner repentant. Perhaps he’d have
a word with Gerry and recommend mercy. After all, he was in rather a good mood.

He dialled John Heath’s number, hoping he had something juicy to report, not just a sorry tale of how he’d come up against
a brick wall.

Heath sounded cheerful – almost too cheerful for a Monday morning. Someone had been round to the hotel where Grisham’s girlfriend,
Jenny, worked and had a word with one of her friends – a girl who’d been on holiday when Jenny was interviewed following Grisham’s
death.

The friend – a pretty Polish girl called Magda who seemed to have made quite an impression on the interviewing officer – had
said that Jenny was a quiet girl who never talked about her background. Magda, who spent a lot of time in a local cyber café,
had received an e-mail from Jenny just the other day saying that she was enjoying Germany. As far as Chris Grisham was concerned, Jenny
hadn’t talked about him much and she’d applied for the job in Germany before he died which made Magda conclude that theirs
wasn’t exactly the romance of the century.

Wesley thanked John Heath. He didn’t know whether all this information was relevant. Jenny Pringle up in Chester had gone
out with Christopher Grisham. Grisham had died – supposedly by his own hand – and then she’d taken a job in a hotel abroad.
End of story.

He was about to end the call when Heath spoke again. ‘We didn’t find any pictures of this Jenny at Grisham’s flat but Magda’s
got a photograph of some of the hotel staff and Jenny’s on it. Shall I e-mail it to you?’

Wesley hesitated, wondering if it would be a waste of time and effort. But then he decided that it would do no harm and thanked
John Heath again. They might as well cover all possibilities.

As soon as he put the phone down, it rang and when he picked it up, he heard Neil’s voice on the other end of the line.

‘Wes, can we talk? I’m at the dig. Can you come out here?’

‘Have you had another letter?’

‘No, but I need to speak to you … in confidence.’

‘Look, I’ll come out as soon as I get the chance.’ He looked up and saw Gerry Heffernan approaching his desk. ‘Sorry, Neil,
I’ve got to go.’

He put the phone down. Neil would have to wait.

From the report of John Tregonwell, King’s Commissioner, November 1535

‘
The monks spend much time at the seyney house in Stow Barton which is a goodly house and the rule is there relaxed, encouraging
much worldliness amongst the brothers. The brothers there delight much in playing at dice and cards and therein spend much
money. It was confessed and proved that there was a frequence of women coming to this Stow Barton and I heard of one event
so terrible that the brothers and the servants would not speak of it. But I may yet discover the truth.’

Brother Francis sat in the chair opposite Father Joseph, head bowed in silent prayer.

‘What was it you did, my son?’

‘Something terrible.’ The answer came out in a whisper.

‘Tell me.’ Father Joseph leaned forward, his sad brown eyes full of concern.

Brother Francis slowly rolled back the left sleeve of his habit. There was a faint scar just above the wrist. Father Joseph
looked at him, shocked. ‘You tried to take your own life? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’

Brother Francis bowed his head. ‘I was sixteen. Little more than a child. There was this other boy. He …’

‘What did he do, my son?’

‘He chose us. It was like a madness. I can’t explain.’

‘Go on,’ Father Joseph prompted gently.

‘He cut us. We had to drink each other’s blood. It was a ritual he thought up – to prove our loyalty to the group.’

Father Peter smiled. ‘Becoming blood brothers? It’s not unknown in certain tribes, I believe. A rite of passage. Is that all
you have to tell me?’

There was a long silence. But Father Joseph was a patient man and he knew there was more to come.

‘One day it all went too far and the bleeding wouldn’t stop. We ran away. Something terrible happened and we did nothing. We
ran away.’

Father Joseph could see there were tears in the brother’s eyes. He touched him gently on the shoulder, a gesture of reassurance. ‘What
was this terrible thing that happened, my son?’

A tear trickled down Brother Francis’s face and glistened on his chin.

Trish Walton watched as Steve Carstairs preened himself in the small mirror he kept in his desk drawer, well away from Gerry
Heffernan’s gaze. If the boss had seen him, he wouldn’t have heard the end of it.

‘Going somewhere nice this lunchtime?’ Trish said, trying to make the question sound innocent.

‘No.’ Steve sounded defensive. He looked at his watch. It was coming up to one o’clock. ‘Just to the sandwich shop – meeting
my dad.’

‘Your dad gives you a discount, does he?’

‘Something like that,’ he replied quickly. He didn’t mention that the real attraction at Burton’s Butties was Joanne. But Trish
could see right through him.

‘How is she, then?’

‘Who?’

‘Joanne. The one who works with your dad in the butty shop.’

‘She’s fine. And for your information the shop job’s just temporary. She’s after a career in marketing.’

‘Selling sandwiches, you mean?’ she said with a grin.

Steve turned away. He wasn’t having his ex-girlfriend belittling his latest. But there was always the possibility that Trish
was a bit jealous and he found this thought rather gratifying.

He hurried out of the office. ‘Enjoy yourself,’ Trish called to his disappearing back. But he ignored her. Or perhaps he was
just too preoccupied to hear.

‘Trish, have you got those statements from Simon Tench’s colleagues?’ Trish looked round. Wesley Peterson was coming towards
her, a frown of concentration on his face. ‘I’d like to speak to them again – and his widow. Can you see to that first thing
this afternoon, please? And Chester police are going to e-mail a photograph but they’re having problems with their computers.
See if it’s come in, will you? When it does I want Rachel to take it over to Barty Carter’s as soon as possible.’

Trish smiled sweetly. More work. As Wesley walked away, she checked the computer. Chester’s e-mail was coming in and she clicked
on the attachment. A smiling group of young people suddenly appeared on the screen, probably in a pub on a night out. Trish
stared for a while. Then she rushed after Wesley, a worried look on her face.

‘The picture’s come in.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I recognise one of the people on it. But it can’t be. It doesn’t make sense.’

Wesley looked her in the eye. ‘Well, aren’t you going to let us into the secret? Who is it?’

Wesley had been hoping to get home at a reasonable time but with Trish’s revelation, everything had changed.

Gerry Heffernan had sent Rachel along to Barty Carter’s smallholding with a copy of the photograph. Carter had told
Rachel that he’d seen someone he recognised from his schooldays in Tradmouth. According to Rachel, he’d been quite certain
– but Wesley, who had never been very good with faces, had his doubts. However, if Carter confirmed that the face on the photograph
belonged to the person from his distant past, everything might begin to make sense. Or not as the case may be.

Steve was still out and Wesley was just about to try his mobile number when the phone on his desk rang. It was Neil again. ‘Look,
Neil, can it keep till later? All hell’s broken loose here and …’

‘Wes, I need to see you … it’s about that skeleton in the woods.’

Wesley tried to keep the impatience he felt out of his voice. There were times when Neil let his imagination run away with
him. ‘Can it keep, Neil? I’m just in the middle of … I could send someone from uniform round to take a statement. Is that
okay?’