The Blood Pit (42 page)

The first time had been hard. She had made the hemlock – she knew all about preparing herbs from her aunt who’d been keen
on that sort of thing. She’d found the plant growing wild by a riverbank and had chopped up the leaves, put them in a blender
and covered the pulp with best malt whisky – the kind Chris liked – before straining it and rebottling the poisoned drink.
She knew it would paralyse him. She knew she’d be able to reveal her identity and tell him what he’d done to her as he lay
there helpless. And when she’d pierced his throat with the knife, he had had to lie there just as she had lain there on the
sand, while his life blood drained away. It had been sweet, that first death. And the others had been easier – almost enjoyable.
She had become Nemesis. The avenging angel.

She had called on the others – on Charles Marrick and Simon Tench – in her market research role, armed with official-looking
clipboard and small sample bottles of adulterated whisky. Funny how men can never resist the flattery of being asked their
opinion … especially about something like a fine malt whisky. She flattered and joked and they had no idea who she was. It
had been so easy. She was sorry about Mortimer Dean, but he’d known the truth and he couldn’t be allowed to betray her.

Now it was over. She could hear the sea, pounding relentlessly against the rocks at the edge of the beach. She had brought
death to her tormentors and now it was her turn. This was how it had to end.

She began to walk towards the sea, staring ahead. But suddenly she heard a shout above the noise of the gulls. Someone was
calling her name, running towards her, getting closer. She began to move, her eyes still fixed ahead. They wouldn’t take her
alive.

But she couldn’t resist looking round and she was relieved to see that he’d come alone. Steve Carstairs was getting nearer,
his progress hampered by the soft sand. If she was
going to do it, it had to be now before he could stop her. She began to run towards the waves. Then into the water, gasping
as the cold waves hit her warm flesh. She waded out, frustrated at the weight of sea slowing her steps. She was up to her
shoulders. Her neck. She walked on. He wouldn’t save her. It was over. It had to be.

She could still hear him shouting. He was in the water too, up to his waist now. The current knocked her off her feet and
she let the water take her, going under for the first time then bobbing up for breath.

She turned towards the shore but she couldn’t see Steve. Maybe he had given up – she hoped he had. Suddenly she spotted his
head and arms thrashing about in the water. Then he went under. And she did the same.

When she surfaced again there were sirens. Police cars on the beach. And figures in wet suits coming after her, swimming strongly.

The next thing she knew she felt rough hands on her body, dragging her up on to the sand as she fought, coughing and spluttering. They
were pulling at her arms, hurting her. Just like those boys had hurt her years ago.

Her head began to spin as the effort of the fight became too much. Someone – the woman called Trish she had seen once at Steve’s
flat – was putting a blanket around her shoulders. And someone was shouting, asking where Steve was as she slumped back, shuddering,
and vomited on to the damp, golden sand.

Gerry Heffernan and Wesley Peterson had hardly said a word on the journey back to Tradmouth. Both men felt numb, stunned.
And both experienced a nagging guilt that in life they hadn’t really liked Steve Carstairs. In death, they both knew, Steve
would become a fallen comrade. A hero.
De mortuis nil nisi bonum
. Nobody would ever speak ill of Steve again.

It was Heffernan who broke the stunned silence. ‘Those currents are bloody lethal, Wes,’ he said softly. ‘He was an idiot
to go in there. He didn’t stand a chance.’

‘She did.’

‘She was bloody lucky for once in her life.’

‘I doubt if she’d see it that way. She’s got a life sentence ahead of her.’

‘Or a spell at Her Majesty’s pleasure in a secure psychiatric hospital. Under the circumstances …’

Wesley shook his head. ‘She planned it so carefully. There’s no way any jury’s going to believe a plea of insanity. And she
killed Mortimer Dean just to cover her tracks.’

Gerry Heffernan didn’t answer. Wesley, he knew, was probably right. ‘Didn’t you say you needed to see Neil?’

‘Yes. It seems he’s done our job for us. He’s found out the truth about this skeleton business.’ He gave Heffernan a brief
outline of the facts.

The DCI gave a low whistle. ‘That’s a turn-up for the books. Fancy going to see him now?’ he said like a parent trying to give
a child a treat to distract him from something unpleasant.

But Wesley hardly felt in the mood for Neil at that moment. Steve filled his thoughts. Steve whom he had never really liked.
Steve who’d given him a hard time. Steve whom Gerry had threatened to return to uniform as soon as the Spider case was over.
He could hardly believe he was dead. That he wouldn’t slouch into the CID office in that leather jacket like Jack the Lad,
fancying himself.

‘I’ll have to go and break the news to his mum,’ Heffernan said quietly. ‘Say what a fine officer he was and that he’d died
trying to rescue someone.’ He sighed. ‘Why is it I feel like such a hypocrite, Wes?’

‘Can’t you leave it to CS Nutter?’

‘No, Wes. I’ve got to do it myself. He was part of my team. Why don’t we see Neil first thing tomorrow, eh? See what he’s
got to say about those bones in the woods.’

‘Barry Ickerman

‘What?’

‘The skeleton’s name. Barry Ickerman. Sex offender of the parish of Luton or thereabouts.’ He sighed. ‘We’ve cleared up two
cases today. Why is it I don’t feel like celebrating?’

Gerry Heffernan touched his sleeve. He knew exactly what Wesley meant.

Wesley was silent as they drove out to Stow Barton the next morning with Heffernan by his side. He parked by the gate and
both men made their way to the excavation. The first person they came across was Norman Hedge. He smiled nervously at Wesley
who greeted him solemnly.

‘Any progress, Inspector?’

The two policemen looked at each other. There was no harm in giving the man the bare facts. After all, he’d suffered at Charles
Marrick’s hands too. ‘We’ve made an arrest, Mr Hedge. A young woman who used to live at Belsinger School. She was the daughter
of the caretaker there – a Janet Blincoe.’

Hedge looked surprised. ‘I remember her. She was a nervous little thing – terrified of her own shadow. She disappeared suddenly
– went to live with her aunt or something. Surely you’ve made a mistake.’

After a few reassuring words, they went off in search of Neil. They found him talking to Lenny. Lenny looked bored: Neil’s
archaeological and historical findings were clearly still at odds with his imaginative version of what went on at Stow Barton.
Blood rituals are far more compelling than the uncomplicated – if old fashioned – medical procedure of blood-letting. Who
needs the facts to get in the way when you’ve already decided on the story? It was a good job Wesley was used to keeping an
open mind or Carl Pinney would still have been behind bars for Charles Marrick’s murder.

Neil spotted the two detectives and beckoned them into the site office. Wesley noticed that he looked pale and drawn.
Not his usual self. He sat on a rickety office chair by a makeshift desk while Wesley and his boss perched on a pair of upturned
milk crates.

‘Are you okay?’ Wesley sounded concerned. He’d rarely seen Neil so agitated, playing with a trowel that had been lying on
the desk, turning it over and over in his fingers.

‘Not really.’

‘Sorry I couldn’t see you yesterday but …’

Neil looked up at him reproachfully.

‘So what happened?’

‘Diane tried to kill herself.’

‘Is she … ?’

‘Still in hospital. But she’ll be fine.’

Gerry Heffernan cleared his throat. ‘Wes tells me you’ve found out who killed our skeleton in the woods. After my job, are
you?’ he said, his mind only half on the question. He knew he had to see Steve’s mother and he wanted to do it sooner rather
than later … to get it over and done with. And there was his father too at Burton’s Butties. He’d almost forgotten about the
father.

‘So tell us about it,’ Wesley said gently.

Neil scratched his head. ‘Okay. Where do I start?’

‘Try the beginning.’

‘Well, Diane was just a kid at the time. She was on holiday at Sunacres and she was playing in the wood when this man tried
to attack her. She had a penknife with her and lashed out, I suppose. It was an accident – self-defence at worst.’

‘She didn’t tell anyone?’

Neil shook his head. ‘She was scared stiff. She just left him there and tried to pretend it never happened. You can understand
it really. Terrified kid. Bad man. It must have been awful for her, keeping that to herself all these years. What a thing to
have to live with … no wonder it sent her over the edge.’

‘I’m sure no charges will be brought,’ said Wesley. ‘But we’ll need to speak to her.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ He reached across the desk and picked up a pile of papers. Photocopies. ‘Annabel found these. Extracts from
the Comperta – the report John Tregonwell, Henry VIII’s commissioner, made about Veland Abbey.’ He paused. ‘Diane found the
abbot’s journal in the cathedral archives in Exeter too and something in it reminded her of what happened … brought it all
flooding back. Here, take this copy. I’ve got another. It makes for interesting reading.’ As he handed the papers over to
Wesley he looked from one man to the other. He’d been so engrossed in Diane’s problems that he hadn’t noticed until now that
the two policemen seemed more subdued than usual. ‘What’s the matter? You look as if you’re off to a funeral.’

‘Steve’s dead … DC Carstairs. He drowned trying to rescue a suspect.’

Neil’s mouth fell open. ‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered. ‘That’s bad.’

Annette Marrick passed the man in the High Street. She almost didn’t recognise him dressed like that. Last time she’d seen
him he’d been wearing shorts. On the day she’d found Charlie dead he’d been walking across the drive of Foxglove House with
a woman. She stared back at him for a second then turned away.

If he’d witnessed anything, he would have told the police. And, if she was honest, she didn’t really care any more. Charlie
was dead and she was glad. It saved the expense of a divorce and this way she kept the house.

But something made her pick up the phone and dial DI Peterson’s number. She’d rather liked him. And, since Petronella had
gone back to Bath, she wanted someone to talk to.

The atmosphere in the CID office was tense. One of their own was dead. It didn’t matter if he’d been an awkward
bastard. He was one of them. His mother and father had been told. His father had also been informed about the involvement
of his assistant, Joanne. He’d said he didn’t believe she was the killer they’d all been calling the Spider but he didn’t do
much arguing. Steve was gone and the world and its priorities had changed in a moment.

Janet Blincoe was safely under lock and key. She’d be notorious for a while then she’d drop from the public’s radar only to
be resurrected from time to time in true crime books. Wesley had told Heffernan he felt a bit sorry for her. But the DCI had
replied that he was too soft. Always had been. Had he ever considered a career as a social worker?

There seemed little to do now apart from tie up the loose ends. Wesley had a headache coming on after comforting a sobbing
Trish Walton. The depth of her grief surprised him. He suspected it surprised her too.

He needed a distraction so he picked up the papers Neil had given him and began to read. First he tackled the report of King
Henry’s commissioner, John Tregonwell, into the state of Veland Abbey with its intriguing remark at the end about an event
so terrible he could not speak of it. Then, before he could make a start on the abbott’s journal, his phone rang.

It was Annette Marrick. She had something to tell him. It probably wasn’t important but she’d seen a couple walking away from
the gates of Foxglove House on the day her husband died. She’d thought they were just out for a walk so she’d forgotten all
about them. But she’d seen the young woman since in that sandwich bar on the High Street in Tradmouth. And she’d seen the
man today – that’s what had triggered the memory. Wesley asked her to describe him and Annette was happy to oblige. In fact
she sounded eager to talk. It must be lonely, he thought, in that rambling house alone with the bloodstains and the memories.

He thought about the call as he began to read the extract from the abbott’s journal.

Then he told Gerry Heffernan he was going out. He had something to do.

Father Joseph left them alone. He answered to a higher authority than the police but he didn’t believe in rocking the boat.
If an inspector wished to see Brother Francis that was okay by him.

‘How are you?’ he asked as Francis sat down opposite him in the plain little visitors’ room with the large crucifix in the
centre of the wall.

‘Shaken. She is all right?’

‘She’s been taken into custody. But I’m afraid one of our officers drowned trying to rescue her.’

Francis looked shocked. The colour drained from his face as he made the sign of the cross and muttered a prayer for the dead.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, his head bowed. And he sounded as though he meant it.

Wesley decided on the element of surprise. ‘What were you doing with Janet Blincoe at Foxglove House on the day Charles Marrick
died?’

The monk looked stunned. Then he put his head in his hands.

‘She didn’t work alone, did she? I was wondering how she came to know about poisons. You work in the gardens here, don’t you?’

Francis nodded. ‘Yes, but I assure you that Janet’s knowledge of poisons didn’t come from me. She already knew all about hemlock.
The aunt who took her in was a keen herbalist. She’d taught her a lot.’

‘Whose idea was it to get your revenge on Charles Marrick?’