The Bone Garden (12 page)

Wesley was relieved that, now the tourist season was drawing to its close, the roads were no longer cluttered by battalions
of slow-moving sightseers. As he turned into the driveway of Earlsacre Hall he looked at the clock on the dashboard. Twelve-fifteen.
He was early. Perhaps he would be able to have a quick word with Brian Willerby before the match – get it over and done with.

He drove on past the cricket ground where half a dozen cars were already parked on the grass verge and stopped when he reached
the stable block. It shouldn’t be hard to find Neil … unless he was taking a liquid lunch down at the King’s Head.

But Neil had resisted the lure of the local. Wesley found him alone, digging earnestly in the now visible foundations of the
building that had once stood against the east wall of the ancient garden, completely lost in his task.

‘Coming to watch the cricket match?’

Neil looked up from the trench, startled. ‘Bloody hell, Wes, don’t creep up on people like that. You gave me the fright of
my life … or maybe it’s this place making me jumpy.’ He looked down at the object he’d just dug from the ground – half of
a large scallop shell. ‘I’ll try and pop down to the match but I can’t be away from here long. We’re working to a tight deadline.
They want the place excavated as quickly as possible so that they can start restoring and planting the gardens in time for
the opening. Jane and Matt have just gone down to the King’s Head for a sandwich. They’re bringing me one back.’

‘So you’ve not found any more skeletons?’

‘No, thank God. Just a load of seashells, some seventeenth-century pottery, and a couple of late-eighteenth-century glass
bottle seals bearing the name George Lantrist – bit of a status symbol having your own bottle seals, I should think. And Jake
found a piece of beautiful sixteenth-century tile in a drainage gully over by the gatehouse.’ He looked up at Wesley coyly.
‘And I’ve found the most amazing woman; she’s a historian here. I think I’m in love, Wes.’

Wesley was lost for words. He had come across policemen in his time who were ‘married to the job’ and he had always put Neil
in the same category. This lack of concentration on things archaeological wasn’t like Neil at all. ‘What’s her name?’ he asked,
fascinated.

‘Claire O’Farrell.’ Neil said the name lovingly, as though the very sound of it held a special magic.

‘I think I’ve seen her photo. We found a press cutting about Earlsacre at the scene of that murder at the caravan park. She
was in it.’

But Neil wasn’t listening. ‘I thought I might ask her out for a drink tonight. And she’s lent me some books,’ he said, starry-eyed.
Wesley had never seen him like this before. The change was dramatic.

‘Well, I suppose that’s a good start. But don’t let things drift like you usually do. Be more positive.’ Wesley felt duty
bound, as a married man, to offer his friend a little advice. He himself had once benefited from Neil’s vague and casual courting
rituals: when he had first met Pam she had been going out with Neil, and it had hardly been difficult to lure her away. He
could easily imagine his friend watching helplessly while Claire was swept off her feet by someone with more drive.

Neil shrugged. It was hard to break the habits of a lifetime.

‘Why don’t you bring her down to watch the cricket match?’ Wesley suggested helpfully.

‘Might do.’ Neil suddenly frowned, worried. ‘Did you say you found her picture at the scene of that murder? You don’t think
she’s got anything to do with …’

Wesley was swift to reassure him. ‘It was just a cutting from a newspaper; a piece about restoring the gardens. She just happened
to be in it, that’s all.’

Neil looked relieved.

‘I’m going to get changed for the match,’ said Wesley firmly, trying to practise what he preached. ‘I might see you later,
eh?’

‘Yeah,’ said Neil, with a faraway look in his eyes. ‘See you later.’

Wesley returned to his car and drove down the pitted driveway to the cricket field, keeping a lookout for Brian Willerby and
hoping against hope that he wasn’t about to let Bob Naseby and the Divisional XI down.

Billy Wheeler turned out to be a star witness. He built up a photofit picture of the man he had seen emerging from the dead
man’s caravan with the self-assurance of a true professional. There was no hesitation, no doubt. When the picture was finished,
Billy nodded before turning to his mother and younger sister, who were sitting
behind him. ‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘That’s the murderer,’ he added with bloodthirsty relish.

‘Are you sure, Billy? Would you like some more time?’ said Rachel Tracey gently. Gerry Heffernan had asked her and Paul Johnson
to take charge, knowing Rachel to be good with children and old ladies. ‘Is there anything you want to change? Think hard,
now.’

‘That’s him. I don’t want to change nowt. That’s what he looked like. Do I get my sweets now?’ He looked expectantly at Paul
Johnson, who began to delve in his pocket.

‘What’s this, Paul? Bribing a witness?’

Paul blushed as he handed over a Mars bar. ‘I think the lad’s deserved it, Rachel. He’s done very well,’ he said defensively.

Rachel grinned to reassure him that she was only joking. ‘Yes, you’re right. Do you mind waiting while I show this to the
inspector?’ she said to Mrs Wheeler as she picked up the finished picture. ‘I shan’t be a tick.’

She dashed into Heffernan’s office and laid the picture on the desk before him. Heffernan looked at it with his mouth open.
‘Is he sure?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s very confident. No hesitation. He went straight for it.’

‘I think I’d better have a word with the lad.’

‘Why, sir? Is something wrong?’

‘I’ll tell you in a minute.’

Heffernan lumbered out into the main CID office where young Billy had been holding court and drew up a chair beside Mrs Wheeler.
‘You’ve done very well here, Billy. Great. But are you absolutely positive this was the man?’

Billy Wheeler looked at the inspector as if he were a Smartie short of a packet. ‘ ’Course I am. Why does everyone keep saying
am I sure? ’Course I’m sure.’

‘Right you are, Billy. Thanks. Rachel, can I have a word?’

She followed the inspector back into his office. ‘What is it, sir?’

‘This face … I know it. I know who it is.’

‘Really, sir. Who?’

‘It’s a solicitor called Brian Willerby … or his twin brother.’

Rachel stared at the picture again. ‘Yes. I thought it looked familiar. I’ve seen him once or twice around the station.’

‘I know where he’ll be this afternoon … the cricket match at Earlsacre. And he said he wanted to have a word with Wesley.’

‘To confess?’ she suggested tentatively.

‘How should I know? I’m meeting someone there later anyway, but I’ll get down there now. You stay here and hold the fort with
Paul and Steve, eh?’

‘Right, sir.’

As they stepped back into the main office, a high-pitched voice with a distinctive Lancashire accent was making its demands.
‘I want another Mars bar before I go and one of them big packets of Smarties. And I want a lift back in a police car … fastest
you’ve got. And I want sirens … and lights.’

‘That lad’ll go far,’ mumbled Gerry Heffernan as he disappeared out of the office.

Wesley Peterson, clad in pristine white, tucked the bat under his arm and stepped through the pavilion doors out into the
sunshine. A polite ripple of applause rose up from the onlookers dotted about the edge of the field as Wesley passed PC Napier
from Neston, who had just been given out lbw. Napier smiled and nodded. ‘Just watch that bowler … he’s a sneaky bugger,’ he
advised under his breath as they passed.

Wesley thanked him, trying to conceal his sudden attack of nerves. He was relieved that his team had elected to bat first.
At least his ordeal would soon be over.

He took his place at the crease and looked around. He could see Pam sitting on a deckchair a few yards from the boundary,
the baby on her knee. She was sitting quite still, as if holding her breath. Gerry Heffernan sat beside her, grinning widely
and giving a thumbs-up sign. This was the last thing Wesley needed … an audience.

He searched the field for Brian Willerby. Because the solicitor had turned up late, Wesley hadn’t had an opportunity to talk
to him. But he spotted him now, standing out on the boundary. There was, however, something much more urgent that required
Wesley’s attention – a bowler six foot two inches tall, who doubled as a rugby forward in the winter months, was pounding
towards him like a charging elephant.

The ball shot from the bowler’s hand. Wesley’s grip tightened on the bat as he tried to recall the advice his cricketing great-uncle
had given him as a child on holiday in Trinidad. Keep your eye on the ball, keep the bat straight. As his eyes followed the
swiftly moving red sphere, he imagined himself back on that warm, palm-fringed beach and executed a perfect forward defensive
stroke which
scored no runs but made Wesley feel rather pleased with himself.

The bowler ran up again, his bovine face set in determination. This time Wesley relaxed and swung at the ball, which soared
through the air and landed just beyond the boundary. The white-coated umpire raised both hands to signal a six. Wesley looked
round and saw that Pam and Gerry Heffernan were applauding enthusiastically.

Wesley’s next stroke produced a couple of runs and a look of frustration from the large bowler. It was at this point that
he realised that he was beginning to enjoy himself. After a couple more unproductive defensive strokes came what Wesley considered
to be his very best shot: a heart-warming crack of leather on willow which sent the ball sailing up into the air for another
certain six.

But a cheer had gone up from the opposing team and Wesley saw that a tall, dark-haired fielder stationed on the edge of the
boundary near the trees on the far side of the pitch had flung himself energetically on to the ground to catch the ball. One
glance at the umpire’s face confirmed it, and Wesley tucked the bat beneath his arm once more and began to remove his gloves
as he walked back to the pavilion. Eight wasn’t a bad score, considering.

When he reached the pavilion he was greeted by Bob Naseby, who slapped him heartily on the back. ‘Well done, Wesley. Bad luck
about that catch; if someone hadn’t been on their toes I reckon you could have made fifty at least. So what was all that about
you being no good at cricket? Hiding your light under a bushel, that’s what you’ve been doing,’ he said good-humouredly, taking
off his floppy cricket hat and placing it squarely on the head of a garden statue – a haughty nymph standing incongruously
to the side of a row of shabby metal lockers.

To Wesley’s genuine surprise he hadn’t disgraced himself and, contrary to his expectations, he had actually enjoyed the experience.

He took off his pads and sneaked round the edge of the pitch to join his wife and his boss, feeling that inner glow of satisfaction
of every hero returning in triumph. Pam planted a kiss on his cheek and he gave her a hug. ‘You were great,’ she said. ‘You
looked really confident out there.’

‘I didn’t feel it,’ he said modestly. He sat down by Pam and held his hand out to Michael, who was sitting in his pushchair.
The baby grabbed his finger and started exploring it with his mouth.

‘No escape now, eh, Wes?’ chuckled Heffernan. ‘Next season Bob’ll have you playing every Saturday and …’

‘Not if I can help it,’ said Pam with quiet determination.

‘Perhaps occasionally,’ said Wesley with a finality that declared the subject to be closed. He turned to Heffernan. ‘There’s
Brian Willerby fielding over the far side by the boundary near that bloke who caught me out. I didn’t have a chance to speak
to him before the match because he turned up late.’

Heffernan leaned towards his sergeant conspiratorially. ‘You haven’t heard.’

‘Heard what?’

‘I want a word with Willerby myself. A little lad staying in a caravan near to John Jones’ – if that’s his real name – was
looking out of the window in the middle of the night, and guess what?’

‘What?’ said Wesley impatiently.

‘He only drew up a photofit picture of a man he saw leaving the dead man’s caravan. And you’ll never guess who it looked like.’

‘Who?’

‘Brian Willerby. I suggest we collar him as soon as they stop for tea or whatever it is they do. Normally I’d be round at
his house for a spot of questioning but if we can do it more tactfully …’ He turned to Pam. ‘Sorry, love, but there’s no rest
for the wicked. I’ll let you have him back as soon as possible. Promise.’

Pam nodded with resignation and adjusted the sunshade on Michael’s pushchair. ‘I’m used to it,’ she said in a martyred voice,
giving Wesley a reproachful smile.

‘Hi, Gerry. Long time no see,’ said a female voice with a hint of an American accent.

Gerry Heffernan sprang to his feet and swung round. Standing there behind the deckchairs, smiling patiently, was a tall woman
in her fifties with short, jet-black hair. Her pleasant face, unadorned by make-up, was dotted with freckles, and she wore
a long floaty dress of a vaguely ethnic design.

‘Susan,’ gasped Heffernan. He glanced at Wesley and Pam before leaning forward to kiss the newcomer awkwardly on the cheek.
Social kissing was as alien to Gerry Heffernan as the fertility customs of some exotic lost tribe from deepest Borneo, but
somehow it seemed appropriate at that moment.

The woman smiled shyly. ‘I told you I’d make it.’

‘You know Wesley, don’t you? And Pam?’

‘Sure. How are you?’ She leaned forward and touched Michael’s hand. ‘And this must be Michael. Hey, you sure are cute,’ she
said as the baby gave her a welcoming gummy grin. ‘Say, is anyone going to tell me the rules of cricket? I’ve lived in this
country for years now and I’ve never been able to figure them out.’

‘I think they call them laws, not rules.’ Pam smiled. ‘That’s how seriously they take it. And I’ve never been able to grasp
the intricacies myself, so you’re not alone.’

‘You’ve just missed Wesley batting. Brilliant he was,’ Heffernan boomed, causing the spectators near by to turn round and
stare.