The Bone Garden (11 page)

Rachel touched Wesley’s hand gently. ‘See you later.’

‘See you later,’ mumbled Wesley as he watched Rachel Tracey walk back to her desk.

Still half asleep and dressed in a not-so-fetching ensemble of grubby off-white T-shirt and faded boxer shorts, Craig Kettering
opened the peeling front door of the large Edwardian terraced house wide to let the two officers in. He greeted Gerry Heffernan
with a grunt and looked Wesley up and down with curiosity before leading the way up the uncarpeted stairs to his small bed-sit
on the top floor. In the days when Morbay was the last word in seaside respectability the building would have housed a comfortably-off
bourgeois family complete with loyal servants and distinguished paterfamilias. But now, along with the seaside resort, it
had come down in the world and was divided into six non-too-salubrious bed-sits. The cream gloss paint on the banisters, once
crisp and clean, had been chipped away over
the years to reveal the dark wood beneath. The floors of the hallway and landings were covered in ancient linoleum, the pattern
of which was too worn or dirty to make out.

Craig’s bed-sit wasn’t much better than the rest of the house. A cheap, badly fitted cord carpet covered the floor and a small
kitchen area in one corner was half hidden by a greasy curtain of uncertain design. There was no bathroom: presumably he had
to share.

Gerry Heffernan sat down on the grey-sheeted unmade bed which reminded Wesley of an unsavoury exhibit in an avant-garde art
exhibition – only this one was for real.

‘We just called to say thanks,’ began Heffernan cheerfully.

Craig stood there with his mouth open. He was an unprepossessing youth with lank, mousey hair and a bad complexion. Wesley
caught a whiff of body odour and found himself wondering whether he’d fancy eating a pizza handled by anybody so cavalier
with his personal hygiene.

‘What do you mean?’ Craig asked nervously after a few moments.

‘For the tip-off. The body you discovered in the caravan. We found it all right. Got it to the mortuary, did all the tests.
Did you know it was murder?’

Craig’s face froze in a mask of horror. ‘Murder?’ he squeaked.

‘Yeah. He was stabbed. Didn’t you see?’

‘I just saw there was a lot of blood … and he had no clothes on his top half. I sort of touched him, like. He was cold so
I knew he was dead. Look, it’s got nothing to do with me. I never done nothing,’ Craig pleaded, willing them to believe him.

‘So what were you doing there, Craig? Charity work? Bringing hot soup to the poor … or hot pizzas?’

‘Yeah.’ Craig seized on the suggestion as a way out. ‘That’s right. I were delivering a pizza. Got the wrong caravan.’

‘We can check, Craig,’ said Heffernan quietly. ‘Try again.’

‘Okay, Mr Heffernan, I’ll come clean. I were out looking for stuff. But I never found nothing.’ He looked at Wesley as if
pleading for back-up. ‘Honest. On my mother’s life I never took nothing. And I didn’t break and enter. That caravan door was
open … unlocked. I just opened the door and went inside and then I saw … well, you know what I saw. Look, I never done nothing.’

‘Okay, Craig. But you know we’ll have to question you down at the station, don’t you?’

Craig nodded, resigned to his fate. Although the person who finds a body is often the first suspect, somehow Wesley couldn’t
see the rather pathetic youth standing before him as a vicious killer, even though he sensed that there was something he was
trying to hide. But sometimes appearances could be deceptive.

I find Sir Richard’s wife to be a handsome woman and amiable and so much younger in years than her husband.

One evening when her husband seemed to be in an ill humour she walked with me to the walled garden after we had taken supper.
As I admired the fine sundial in the middle of that fair garden, she seemed most agitated and I asked her what was the matter.
Then she told me of the things that she had heard in the house: most strange noises and apparitions. But the walled garden
she said was the most fearsome. She had felt such terror there that she was loath to go there alone even in the hours of daylight.
Naturally I took it upon myself to comfort the lady in the shell grotto to which she was not averse. I hear she is now with
child.

From Jacob Finsbury’s Account of His Travels around the Houses of England, 1703

Steve Carstairs considered that he was doing PC Paul Johnson a favour giving him a ride in his pride and joy. He parked the
red XR3i in front of the caravan site’s reception. There was no way he was risking his suspension on those muddy fields.

They walked up to the top field in silence as Steve made no effort to speak and Paul could think of nothing to say. Paul had
been wary ever since Steve had sneered at his passion for off-duty athletics, saying that he couldn’t see the point of spending
time on the running track: bedroom athletics were more Steve’s style, or so he claimed. And of course there were the remarks
he’d heard Steve make about Wesley, a man Paul had a lot of time for. Consequently, Paul kept his thoughts to himself when
Steve was around.

Paul looked down at his clipboard. ‘It’s caravan forty-eight. A Mrs Wheeler.’

‘Go on, then.’ Steve trailed behind as Paul marched up to caravan forty-eight and rapped on the door.

A buxom woman answered. She was wearing very brief shorts and a T-shirt which pronounced that she was ‘ready, willing and
able’. From the look of her, Paul had no doubt that the claim was true. ‘Mrs Wheeler?’ he asked, flashing his warrant card.

‘Hello, love,’ she said with a seductive twinkle in her eye. ‘It must be me lucky day. It’s not often I have two young men
knocking on me door.’ Her accent was pure Lancashire. ‘Come on in. I’ll put t’kettle on.’

‘Thank you, madam. A cup of tea would be nice.’

Steve followed Paul up the caravan steps and they both sat down on the upholstered bench seat opposite the door. The two men
looked around. The caravan was identical to the dead man’s except this one was cluttered where the dead man’s had been bare.
Children’s toys, clothes and beach equipment occupied every surface. A drying-rack filled with generously sized women’s underwear
stood in front of the unlit gas fire.

‘The kids are out playing,’ announced Mrs Wheeler as she returned from the narrow kitchen area with two steaming drinks in
oatmeal-coloured cups. She put them down in front of the two police officers. Paul thanked her and Steve gave a slight grunt.

‘We only decided to come down here at the last minute,’ she began. ‘We’ve not been able to afford a holiday since their dad
upped and left a couple of years back, but me mam said I needed a break so she paid for a week here, Monday to Monday ’cause
it were cheaper, like. And it were our last chance ’cause they’re back at school on Wednesday. Me mam and dad came to this
site a couple of years back and they said it were nice and peaceful. So I didn’t expect a murder on me doorstep.’

‘No. I hope it hasn’t spoiled your holiday too much, Mrs Wheeler,’ said Paul Johnson sympathetically.

Steve shot him a withering look. ‘Right, then, love. About these voices you heard. What were they saying?’

Mrs Wheeler looked taken aback. Perhaps, she thought, this was how the police operated, just like interrogations on the telly:
nice cop and nasty cop. ‘Well, they weren’t shouting but their voices were raised – angry, like. But I couldn’t rightly make
it out …’

‘Just do your best, Mrs Wheeler,’ said Paul, striving to maintain good relations with the public. ‘Now can you tell me when
this was exactly?’

‘It were on Tuesday night … around one in the morning, I think, though I can’t be certain ’cause I’ve not got no clock in
the bedroom here. Anyroad, I heard these voices. Two men. I went over to the window which looks out to the side but I couldn’t
see nowt so I thought the men might have been out round the back, like. Anyroad, after a while it all went quiet. Then I never
heard no more.’

Steve finished his tea and put the cup back on its saucer with a loud clink. ‘So you couldn’t make out what was said? Think
about it, will you? It’s important.’

‘If you could, Mrs Wheeler, it’d be a great help,’ said Paul apologetically, glancing at Steve.

‘I could just make out the odd word. I think I heard something like “You’re not getting away with it” then the other one said
something … a name … Duke something?’

‘Dukesbridge?’ asked Paul, leaning forward. ‘That’s a town near here.’

Mrs Wheeler shook her bottle-blonde head. ‘No, it weren’t Duke but something like that.’

‘Earlsacre?’ suggested Steve.

‘Yeah. That sounds like it. He said “I’m going to Earlsacre” or “I should go to Earlsacre” … something like that. It wasn’t
long after that it all went quiet.’

After Mrs Wheeler had made a formal statement and they were walking away from the caravan, Steve turned to Paul in triumph.
‘See, it’s no use pussyfooting around – you’ve got to be firm if you want to jog their memories.’

Paul Johnson smiled to himself. ‘Very clever of you to think of Earlsacre.’

‘Well, I’ve had more experience in CID than you,’ Steve replied with mock modesty.

‘Did nobody else hear anything?’

‘Nah. Half the caravans in the top field are empty, the rest are full of wrinklies who had had their Horlicks and were well
away by the early hours. Looks like our Mrs Wheeler’s the only witness.’ His mouth spread in a lecherous grin. ‘See that T-shirt?
Ready, willing and able? I bet she’d be up for it, eh?’

Paul Johnson didn’t reply.

‘Eh, mister,’ called a youthful Lancashire voice. Paul looked round to see a thin, freckle-faced boy, about ten years old,
running towards them from the direction of the site shop. ‘You coppers?’ he asked confidently as he reached them.

‘That’s right, kid. What do you want?’ asked Steve, vaguely menacing. He had no time for kids: to him they were just another
minority group who had got above themselves.

‘Is something the matter?’ Paul Johnson bent his six-foot frame down to the lad’s level. ‘Have you got something to tell us?’
he asked encouragingly, trying to redress the balance.

‘Aye, mister. It were me what saw the murderer,’ the boy said to Paul with relish, having decided wisely to ignore Steve.

‘You wouldn’t be Master Wheeler by any chance?’ The boy nodded. ‘We’ve just been talking to your mum. What did you see exactly?’

‘I couldn’t sleep so I looked out of the window. I saw a man coming out of the murder caravan. Clear as I see you now. It’s
only at the back of ours, you know. And where I sleep the window looks out on it.’

‘Why didn’t you tell anyone this before?’

The boy shrugged. ‘No one asked. And when I told me mam she didn’t believe me. She said I were making it up, but I weren’t.’

‘Did you hear any voices?’

The boy shook his head. ‘Nah. I didn’t hear nowt.’

‘Can you give us a description of the man you saw?’ asked Paul eagerly, still squatting at the child’s level.

‘Like in all them detective programmes?’

‘Just like that, yes.’

‘Oh, aye. I remember what he looked like. I can help you make one of them photofits like on
Crimewatch
.’

Paul Johnson unfolded his body to his full height. ‘Come on, then, Master Wheeler. I can’t keep on calling you that: what’s
your first name?’

‘Billy.’

‘I’m Paul. Come on then, Billy. Let’s go and have another word with your mum. See if you can help us with our inquiries.’

Paul Johnson and Billy Wheeler began to stroll back towards the top field with a reluctant and frowning Steve Carstairs bringing
up the rear.

*

Wesley hovered on the threshold of Gerry Heffernan’s office. ‘I feel bad about going off to play a game of cricket in the
middle of a murder inquiry.’

‘I’ve told you once, Wes. We need someone to keep an eye on what’s going on up at Earlsacre,’ Heffernan replied with a knowing
grin.

‘Well, if that’s the case I can ask Neil to keep an eye on things.’

‘Yes, but he won’t know what to look for.’

Wesley smiled. ‘Let’s face it, neither do I.’

‘Aye, but you’ll know it when you see it. Have you heard the latest from Steve and Paul? Their little trip to the caravan
park has turned up a couple of witnesses: a woman who heard raised voices on the night of the murder and her ten-year-old
son. The kid was awake and looking out of the window when he shouldn’t have been, luckily for us. He claims he saw a man leaving
the dead man’s caravan late on Tuesday night. They’re bringing him and his mum down to the station to try and get a photofit
made. The mum heard two men talking in raised voices and she says she heard one of them say the name Earlsacre. Which means
now there’s even more reason for you to get down there and see what you can find out. Now have you got everything?’

‘A friend of Bob’s from Traffic has lent me some kit and Bob’s lending me one of his own bats.’

‘Good. I’ll be along later to cheer you on.’

‘Must you?’ said Wesley quickly. This was all he needed.

Heffernan blushed visibly. ‘I’m, er, meeting someone there.’

The inspector was hiding something. And there was something in his manner, a sort of suppressed excitement, which suggested
that he was looking forward to that afternoon. Wesley wondered why.

‘I’ll see you later, then.’

‘Don’t forget your meeting with Brian Willerby, will you? Did I tell you I saw him last night when I was on my way home from
choir practice? Lurking around, he was, like a burglar in one of them silent films – all he needed was a mask and a bag with
“swag” written on it. He crept into one of them houses opposite St Margaret’s like he was on some top-secret mission. I don’t
know what on earth he was up to but maybe you’ll find out today. Maybe that’s what he wants to talk to you about.’

‘Maybe.’ Wesley hesitated, suddenly reluctant to leave.

‘Good luck, Wes. Off you go and knock ’em for six. Nothing like
the sound of leather on willow, eh?’ Heffernan chuckled as Wesley walked slowly out of the CID office.