The Bone Garden (15 page)

‘What is it, Neil? You seem miles away.’ Claire’s voice brought him back to the present.

He took his mobile phone from his pocket. ‘I’ve got to ring my mate, Wesley. I want to tell him about …’

‘No, don’t do that,’ said Claire sharply. Then more calmly, ‘Can’t it wait? I thought we could go out for a drink tonight
when you’ve finished.’ She tilted her head and looked at him appealingly.

Neil put the phone back in his pocket. Wesley would probably be busy anyway. He reached across and touched Claire’s hair and
soon they were kissing, lost in oblivion.

It was six o’clock when Rachel Tracey answered the telephone which stood on the dresser in the cluttered living room at Little
Barton Farm. She had left Tradmouth police station at four and driven home, looking forward to a free evening before starting
work again the next day. The investigation into the death of the man at the Bloxham View Caravan Park meant overtime – lots
of it. However, she was quite unprepared for this latest interruption to her precious leisure time, but the fact that it was
Wesley’s voice on the other end of the line made the imposition a little easier to take.

She broke the news to her boyfriend, Dave, that their planned trip to the cinema in Morbay would have to wait, and drove out
to Earlsacre. Dave was a man of few words at the best of times, and he accepted his disappointment without comment before
settling himself down to watch an action movie on the television with Rachel’s youngest brother.

Wesley met Rachel at the gates to Earlsacre Hall as arranged. She climbed out of her car, her short skirt revealing a great
deal of shapely leg, which Wesley tried his best not to notice.

‘So what’s this about a suspicious death at the cricket match? Someone died of boredom?’ she asked with controlled venom as
she strolled up to him. Then she smiled and her voice softened. ‘How did it go? Did you do okay?’

Wesley shrugged modestly. ‘Scored eight runs and my bowling was nothing to write home about. In fact we were having a good
afternoon until one of the opposing team went missing. Then he was found dead after the match and it put a bit of a dampener
on things.’

‘Is it murder?’

‘We won’t know until Colin Bowman does the post-mortem. It could be an accident. But there’s one thing you should know.’

‘What?’ she asked, curious. She knew Wesley well enough to realise that he had something on his mind; something more than
the sudden death of an anonymous cricketer.

‘The dead man was Brian Willerby, that solicitor; the one who said he wanted a confidential word with me.’

‘Which he never got.’

‘Quite right.’ He hesitated. ‘I just wondered whether it was important … whether someone might have killed him to stop him
talking to me.’

She laughed but saw that he looked worried. ‘That sounds like something out of a spy novel – I think you’re being a bit fanciful
there, Wesley.’ She touched his arm reassuringly. ‘Willerby had a reputation in the station for being a bit of a fussy old
woman, you know. He probably only wanted to discuss some routine case. And who’d know he was going to talk to you anyway?’

Wesley nodded. Rachel was probably right.

‘Have you heard about the photofit?’

‘Yes.’ Wesley thought for a moment. ‘It’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it – that young lad saying he saw a man who looked
like Willerby coming out of the dead man’s caravan. There must be some connection.’

‘You can feel it in your water?’ Rachel said mockingly in a poor Liverpool accent. ‘You’ve been spending too much time with
Gerry Heffernan.’

‘Talking of Gerry, he wants us to go and see Willerby’s widow – break the news and see what she has to say.’

‘Great,’ said Rachel, raising her eyes heavenward. ‘Just what I need on a Saturday night. And what’s the great man himself
doing?’

Wesley smiled. ‘Last I heard Detective Inspector Heffernan was making exhaustive inquiries into a Chinese takeaway at my house
with Pam and a certain Mrs Susan Green.’

Rachel grinned. ‘When the going gets tough, the tough tuck in, eh? Where is this grieving widow?’

‘I’ve got her address. It’s in the village just down this lane.’

‘And she doesn’t know she’s a widow yet?’

‘I’m not sure. I shouldn’t think so. Apparently the Willerbys didn’t mix much with the other people in the village – kept
themselves to themselves.’

‘Don’t they always? Lead on, then. Let’s get this over with.’

Wesley heard a car engine, faint at first, then louder as the vehicle
coming down the drive of Earlsacre Hall drew level with the gates. It was a Toyota, a sporty red model, new. Wesley and Rachel
stepped back on to the grass verge to let it pass, but the driver stopped, wound the window down and leaned out.

‘Well, hello again,’ Charles Pitaway said with a smile that showed off a row of even teeth. He looked appreciatively at Rachel.
‘Can I give you two a lift anywhere?’

‘No thanks. We’re only going as far as the village.’

Charles nodded and looked at Rachel expectantly. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us, Wesley?’

Wesley looked round at Rachel. ‘This is DC Rachel Tracey.’ Rachel smiled shyly at the man in the car. ‘We’re just on our way
to see Brian Willerby’s widow, so we’d better …’

‘Of course,’ said Charles quickly. ‘In that case I mustn’t keep you. Nice to see you again, Wesley … and, er, Rachel. Goodbye.’

Wesley noticed Charles’ and Rachel’s eyes meet briefly. Then Charles flicked on his indicator and drove off smoothly with
a friendly wave of the hand.

‘He’s nice,’ said Rachel as casually as she could manage.

‘Yes. He seems a pleasant sort of bloke. He used to own Earlsacre Hall. He sold it to the trust just after he inherited it.’

‘Oh,’ was Rachel’s only comment.

They walked on in silence towards the small village of Earlsacre, which lay just fifty yards down the road. Brian Willerby’s
house wasn’t difficult to find. It was a double-fronted, Georgian building; a giant doll’s-house set back from the main village
street behind a regimentally neat garden. In contrast, next door to it stood a modern bungalow with a large double garage.
Separating the two houses was a row of trees; leylandii – tall and getting taller.

‘Must be a lot of money in soliciting,’ commented Rachel as they walked up the garden path towards Willerby’s well-proportioned
house. But as they approached the front door her expression became serious. There was no place for the flippant humour used
between colleagues to lighten grim tasks when they were about to confront bereaved relatives. Wesley stood a little way behind
Rachel as she rang the doorbell. It was a part of the job that he hated.

The door was answered by a scrawny woman, probably in her fifties. Her long mousey hair was held back by two tortoiseshell
slides. She looked at them with suspicion, especially Wesley. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked defensively.

They showed their warrant cards and introduced themselves with appropriate solemnity. Rachel knew that it would be up to her
to break the news – and she dreaded it. ‘May we come in, Mrs Willerby?’ she asked gently. ‘I’m afraid we have some rather
bad news for you.’

‘If it’s about Brian I know already,’ she said, matter-of-fact.

‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Willerby, I know this must be a distressing time for you, but if we can just come in and have a word.
We won’t stay long,’ said Wesley tactfully.

As Mrs Willerby stood aside to let them in, a tall figure emerged from a back room. Martin Samuels stopped dead when he saw
Wesley, obviously unprepared for the encounter. Then he rearranged his features into an expression of solemn concern.

‘Sergeant Peterson. I suppose you’ve come about Brian. Terrible business … terrible.’ He shook his head as though trying to
come to terms with the tragedy. But his eyes betrayed him: there was no real grief there; Martin Samuels was going through
the motions. ‘I suppose it was natural causes? It must have been. One’s always hearing of unfit middle-aged men collapsing
after taking part in some sporting activity. Terrible. Such a shock.’

‘Did you know Mr Willerby well?’ Wesley asked as casually as he could. Martin Samuels, Director of the Earlsacre Trust, was
the last person he had expected to find comforting Willerby’s newly widowed wife.

‘Er, yes.’ He looked at Mrs Willerby and rested a protective hand on her shoulder. ‘Martha here is my sister. Brian Willerby
was my brother-in-law. I came over as soon as I heard he’d been found dead. I thought Martha should know as soon as possible.’

‘Of course.’ Wesley exchanged a glance with Rachel, who was standing quietly by his side. She looked relieved that the burden
of breaking the tragic news had been lifted from her shoulders. ‘We’re very sorry to intrude.’

Martha Willerby, who had seemed to be in a daze, stepped away from her brother’s protective hand and suddenly became alert,
as if she’d just remembered her manners. ‘Please come into the drawing room. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Thank you, Mrs Willerby. That would be lovely. I’ll give you a hand,’ said Rachel, giving Wesley a sideways look which said
‘I’ll get her talking while you find out what he knows’.

Moments later Wesley and Samuels were sitting facing each other
beside a fine marble fireplace. A vase of blood-red flowers stood on the hearth. It was an elegant room, the décor and furnishing
pale and tasteful. There were obviously no sticky-fingered children here, and Wesley found himself wondering whether there
ever had been.

‘Were you close to your brother-in-law?’ he began quietly.

‘No. Brian was a very private person. He wasn’t an easy man to get close to. Our dealings were mainly of a professional nature.
I used his services when I bought my house in Morbay and he did some of the legal work for the Earlsacre Trust. Not all of
it, of course: dealing with the Simeon Foundation in the USA and the various national bodies in this country needed lawyers
with a little more clout than a solicitor in a small Devon town can provide, so I use a big firm in London.’

‘What kind of a man was he?’

Martin Samuels looked up sharply. ‘That’s a strange thing to be asking, Sergeant. He did die of natural causes didn’t he?
That’s what they were saying at the cricket club. Heart attack, wasn’t it?’

‘We won’t know that until after the post-mortem, I’m afraid.’

‘I heard someone say he’d been hit on the head by a cricket ball. Could that be true, do you think?’ Martin Samuels was beginning
to sound concerned.

‘All sorts of rumours start flying around in a situation like this. I really couldn’t say yet. We’ll have to wait and see.’
He decided to repeat his question. ‘What was Brian Willerby like?’

The answer when it came was brutal. ‘He was a nonentity, Sergeant. Wouldn’t say boo to a sparrow, never mind a goose. No drive,
you see.’ He paused and glanced at the door leading to the kitchen. ‘Martha used to work as his secretary. I’m afraid my sister
was an ugly duckling who grew up to be an ugly duck. Neither was she over-endowed with the work ethic. She wanted to get married
and she was flattered when one of the partners in the firm made her an offer … probably the best she was likely to get. Mind
you, I suppose they suited each other: two nonentities together. Good job they had no children.’

Wesley fell silent, rendered temporarily speechless by Samuels’ blunt cruelty. He awaited more revelations but they didn’t
come.

‘Neil Watson tells me you got a first in archaeology. Is that true?’

‘Er, yes,’ said Wesley modestly, wondering how he could steer the conversation back to Brian Willerby. He decided on the direct
approach. ‘Brian Willerby rang me on Thursday. He said he wanted
to speak to me confidentially. Have you any idea what that could have been about?’

Martin Samuels looked genuinely puzzled. ‘No. Why should I?’

‘He said he would speak to me at the cricket match but he died before he had the chance. Did he seem to be worried about anything?’

‘No. I’m sorry, Sergeant, I can’t help you.’

‘He set out for the match half an hour before it was due to begin but arrived late. Did you see him at all before the match?’

Samuels shook his head. ‘Can’t say I did. No.’

‘Do you know where your brother-in-law was on Tuesday night?’

Samuels looked mildly surprised. ‘I really have no idea.’

‘And where were you that evening?’ Wesley asked formally.

‘I was at home on Tuesday evening with Glenda, my partner. We had people round for dinner. You can check if you like.’ He
handed Wesley a business card. On it was an address on the upmarket side of Morbay and three numbers; phone, fax and e-mail.
‘I can’t help you, I’m afraid,’ he said with finality. The subject was closed.

As Wesley and Rachel left the house they began to compare notes.

‘Mrs Willerby said she had no idea why her husband wanted to see you but she’s definitely hiding something,’ said Rachel as
they walked back up the steep lane towards the car.

‘Same with Samuels. He became very candid at one point … and was hardly flattering about his sister. I had the impression
he looked upon the Willerbys with something approaching contempt, almost as if he thought they were beneath him; the country
cousins.’

‘But Martha said he used Brian Willerby for his legal work.’

‘Only the simple, routine jobs. He said he had a big London firm to deal with the more exciting stuff.’

‘According to Martha her brother made his fortune in the City,’ said Rachel. ‘Ended up a millionaire. But he’d always had
an interest in old gardens. He’d worked as a National Trust volunteer once when he was a student, and historic gardens became
a sort of obsession with him. When his first marriage broke up he took early retirement, and he discovered the Earlsacre estate’s
existence when he visited Martha. From then on he threw himself into the project of restoring it. He’s not an expert himself
but he acts as a sort of Mr Fixit, getting experts together and sorting out funding.’

‘It sounds as if you found out more than I did,’ Wesley said with admiration. Rachel had a valuable knack of getting people
to talk. And her talents obviously hadn’t been wasted on Martha Willerby.
‘Did you ask her where her husband was on Tuesday night when young Billy Wheeler saw the man coming out of that caravan?’