The Bone Garden (17 page)

At eleven o’clock Heffernan looked at the clock on the dashboard and sighed. ‘I’ve had to miss church, Wes.’

Wesley tried to look sympathetic. He knew his boss hated to let the choir down, but it couldn’t be helped that morning.

‘We’ll have to get this cleared up by the end of the month. It’s harvest festival. You coming?’

Wesley nodded. ‘Probably. The stuff you keep singing around the office sounds pretty good. And Pam seems quite keen to go.
She mentioned it the other day.’ He smiled to himself. ‘When we got married we had all these warnings about how difficult
a mixed-race marriage can be. But one of the biggest cultural differences was that my family were never away from church on
Sundays while Pam’s mother had never allowed her near one.’ He raised his eyes to heaven at the mention of Della. ‘Did I mention
that my mother-in-law rang us after midnight last night? She sounded as if she’d had too much to drink. She was threatening
to come round with her latest boyfriend.’

Heffernan chuckled. ‘I’ll have to rewrite my book of mother-in-law jokes. And did she arrive?’

‘Thankfully, no. She just woke Michael and he screamed half the night. I could have done with a lie-in this morning.’

‘Not much chance of that when we’ve got a murder inquiry on, more’s the pity.’

Wesley swept the car round into the drive of Earlsacre Hall and drove slowly past the now deserted cricket field. The carpark
was packed, mostly with police vehicles, but he managed to find a space next to Neil’s distinctive Mini. The two men got out
and strolled towards the stable block.

The incident room was almost operational. The phone lines were in and the computers were being tested by earnest young men.
The stable block had already been modernised with white-painted walls and carpet-tiled floors in preparation for the day when
it would become an education centre for the hall and gardens. So all the police had to find now was a source of tea, the liquid
that oiled the wheels of any investigation.

Rachel greeted them. She was already installed at a desk sorting through statements.

‘Could you get us a cup of tea, Rach? I’m spitting feathers here,’ said Heffernan boldly as he marched towards his chosen
desk.

Rachel didn’t answer. Wesley smiled at her sympathetically: he knew her opinions on female officers being asked to provide
refreshments. ‘Found anything interesting in the statements yet?’ he asked her, trying to make up for the boss’s faux pas.

‘Not really. A couple of witnesses saw Willerby disappearing into the trees on his own when the rest of the team were going
in for tea.
But nobody saw anyone following him.’ She paused and pulled a statement from the file. ‘And there’s this. One of the cricketers
who arrived early – sixth-former at the local comp – said he thought he saw Brian Willerby near the stable block before the
match talking to a woman. But he wasn’t taking much notice so he couldn’t be certain.’

‘Is there a description of the woman?’

‘The boy was some way away and she had her back to him. He could see that she had long hair but little else.’

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘You can get into those woods from the direction of the house, of course. Perhaps the murderer
wasn’t at the cricket match at all. Perhaps he or she was up at the house and arranged to meet Willerby in the woods.’

‘He wouldn’t have known what time the tea interval would start, surely.’

‘Unless he – or she – was waiting for him.’

‘Which broadens the field a bit.’ Rachel sighed. ‘There were a lot of comings and goings. Most of the people working on the
Earlsacre project were watching the cricket match at some time or other, if only for a few minutes, which makes things more
difficult.’ She stood up. ‘I’d better organise tea for the boss. Trish,’ she called to a young WPC working in the corner of
the room. ‘Can you get the inspector a cup of tea, please?’

‘Make that two,’ said Wesley, admiring Rachel’s style.

She relayed the message to Trish and sat down again with a satisfied smile. ‘I’m developing the art of delegation,’ she explained
in a whisper.

‘Still after the Chief Constable’s job?’

‘Just watch me.’ She looked at Wesley inquiringly. ‘I hear congratulations are in order, Acting Inspector Peterson.’

‘Word gets round.’

‘Tradmouth police station’s grapevine beats all your e-mail and instant communications,’ Rachel said with a grin. ‘I don’t
suppose you need an acting sergeant?’

‘Stan Jenkins’ sergeant is coming to give us a hand. He’s good, apparently … been on lots of courses.’ He detected a look
of resentment on Rachel’s face. ‘But I’ll try and put in a word for you if I get the chance, okay?’

‘Thanks, er … I suppose I should call you sir now, shouldn’t I?’ She turned away. He couldn’t see the expression on her face.

He wished there were something he could do to further her promotion – she deserved it if anybody did. But he was only too
aware that he was a relative newcomer, that he had to tread carefully himself. Maybe he would try to have a word with Gerry
Heffernan when the time was right.

He strolled over to Heffernan’s desk, which was set apart from the others at the end of the room.

The newly appointed chief inspector, seemingly sinking beneath a mountain of files and papers, looked up eagerly, like a drowning
man anticipating imminent rescue. ‘Wes, come and sit down. Is that tea on its way?’

‘I think so.’ At that moment Trish appeared bearing steaming cups. Wesley looked at his boss, deep in paperwork, and concluded
that now wasn’t really the time to broach the subject of Rachel’s promotion. ‘Any thoughts on where we should start?’

‘Right, Wes, let’s go over what we’ve got and see if it makes any sense.’ Heffernan looked down at a dog-eared piece of paper.
‘First of all I think the two murders are linked. Do you agree?’

‘Yes. I think the cutting about Earlsacre and the fact that Billy Wheeler saw a man who resembled Willerby coming out of the
first victim’s caravan gives us every reason to conclude that there’s a link. Any clue to the identity of the man in the caravan
yet?’

‘Not a thing. His fingerprints aren’t on file so he has no criminal record. There’s a report of a missing man from Chipping
Campden in the Cotswolds who might fit the description. We’re still waiting to hear from quite a few other forces, so something
else might turn up.’

‘So who’s this missing man from the Cotswolds?’

‘The local police there faxed through a photograph. Tell me what you think.’ He handed Wesley a fuzzy black-and-white photograph
of a dark-haired young man. ‘His name’s Michael Patrick Thoresby. He’s a postgraduate student at Warwick University – been
missing a fortnight now.’

Wesley studied the photograph. ‘It looks like his passport photo. It’s a lousy picture … could be anyone.’

‘But could it be our man?’

‘It’s possible, I suppose. Has he any links with this area?’

‘According to his parents he’d been on holiday around here a few times when he was a kid, but nothing apart from that.’

‘So he’s a possible. I’ll get Paul Johnson to ask his local force for a few more details.’

Heffernan looked down again at his grubby sheet of paper. ‘No sign of the knife used in the first murder. It’s probably been
washed and been shoved away in someone’s cutlery drawer by now. No forensic to speak of. And the ground was dry at the time
of the murder: it didn’t rain till late on Wednesday, so it’s no use looking for footprints in the mud. SOCOs found some vomit
in the hedgerow behind the caravan but Craig Kettering’s admitted it was his.’

‘What about Craig Kettering? He found the body.’

‘I get the feeling that there’s something Craig’s not telling us. I reckon there’s a distinct possibility that he nicked something
from that caravan; money, I should think, ’cause Craig’s always been a bit wary of credit cards. He’s like me … not one for
modern technology. Not that I think our friendly neighbourhood pizza deliverer would really have anything to do with brutal
murder.’

‘So do we pay him another visit?’ Wesley’s voice was unenthusiastic as he anticipated another trip to Craig’s unsavoury flat.

‘All in good time, Wes. I don’t think he’ll be going very far. We’ll pop over when we’ve had our tea.’ He chuckled wickedly.

‘So you don’t see Craig as the killer?’

Heffernan shook his head. ‘I don’t think murder’s his style. Have a shufti at this, will you, Wes. Forensic report on the
John Jones murder.’

He handed him a sheet of typed paper which had already been stamped with Chief Inspector Heffernan’s customary tea stain from
the overflowing cup on his desk. Wesley read it quickly. ‘ “The threads found in the wound almost definitely came from a white
cotton T-shirt.” Not much help to us, is it?’

‘Not really, but that’s the best there is, I’m afraid.’

Wesley sat down, taking his jacket off and making himself comfortable. ‘We’ve got to remember that whoever killed him must
have thought it was important, otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered taking the T-shirt off the body, would he. Let’s say it
had something printed on it … like the name of a pub or an organisation.’

‘That’s a possibility. I reckon that if we knew who the dead man was, it might tell us who killed him.’

That fact had already occurred to Wesley. ‘So it’s possible the killer is a relative of some kind? Or a close friend … business
associate? Certainly someone with a connection to the victim.’

‘Mmm. What if John Jones had some kind of hold over Brian Willerby? Maybe he’s a relative. Grasping brother? Embarrassing
long-lost illegitimate son? We’d better ask Mrs Willerby if there are any skeletons in the family closet.’

‘And what about Willerby’s murder? Was it revenge for the first? Or were the two victims in cahoots with each other and both
were killed to stop them revealing something? Perhaps that’s why Willerby was so anxious to talk to me – he had something
he wanted to tell me.’

‘Anything’s possible at this stage. But my bet’s on the first option. I think Willerby killed the man in the caravan then
someone else killed him. Of course, there’s always a chance that the two deaths aren’t linked – that it’s just coincidence
after all. Perhaps young Billy was mistaken.’

‘There’s one way to find out. We can show him a photograph of Willerby among some others from our rogues’ gallery that look
similar and see what he says. If he insists unprompted that Willerby’s the man he saw coming out of the caravan on the night
of the first murder, I think we’ll have to take his word for it. I’ll ask Rachel to go and work her charms with Billy.’

‘Tell her to pay a call at the sweet shop first … I’ve never known a witness so susceptible to sweeteners as Billy Wheeler.’
He looked down at his piece of paper again and sighed. ‘Any thoughts on our second murder?’

‘There’s a witness, a young lad playing for the Earlsacre team who claims he saw Willerby talking to a long-haired woman near
the stable block before the match. But he was too far away to see who it was.’

‘And too far away to see if it was Willerby or another of the cricketers?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Long-haired women. Who have we got?’

‘Jacintha Hervey?’ said Wesley with a smile. ‘She seems to pop up everywhere. And Martha Willerby, of course: the wife always
has to be a prime suspect. And there must have been a few women with long hair watching the match.’

‘See if anyone else saw Willerby before the match … with or without this mysterious woman in tow.’

‘Right you are, sir. I’ll put someone on to that right away.’

‘What about Martha Willerby and that brother of hers, Martin Samuels? Anyone checked his alibi for last Tuesday? … or hers?’

‘Yes. She said she was at home on her own and a Ms Glenda
Torrington backs up Samuels’ story – he lives with her at a very swish address on the upmarket side of Morbay. However, when
PC Wallace questioned the guests they were supposed to be having dinner with, they said that Samuels slipped out at half eleven
… said he’d left some important papers at Earlsacre and he needed them for a meeting the next morning in London. The guests
left at half past midnight and Samuels hadn’t returned.’

‘Interesting, Wes. Very interesting. Where was Samuels when Willerby died?’

‘He watched the match for a while then went back to his office here in the stable block to do some work just before the tea
interval, so he says. No witnesses.’

‘So he could be our man.’

‘He could be.’ Wesley stretched out his legs. ‘I’ve heard that Les Cumbernold, the man who found Willerby’s body, was going
to be sued by him over those trees that were cutting out Willerby’s light. We only have Cumbernold’s word that he went into
those woods and got distracted by Jake and Jacintha’s … er … performance. He might have killed Willerby during the tea interval
and gone back to check that he’d left no evidence.’

‘What do we know about Cumbernold?’ asked Heffernan, scratching his head.

‘Apparently he’s a bit of a rough diamond – a builder who used to live in the middle of Plymouth and moved out into the country.
He’s not very well liked in Earlsacre village, by all accounts. But that doesn’t stop him turning out for the cricket team.
He’s a pretty good batsman, so I suppose they’re glad to have him.’

‘Put him down on our little list, then, Wes. Anyone else?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. I’ve a feeling that this case is going to be like turning over a stone in a garden … all sorts of
vile things are going to come crawling out into the daylight once we start digging.’

Heffernan looked up at him and grinned. ‘That’s very poetic of you, Wes. I’ve not seen your mate Neil yet. What’s he up to?
Lurking in the undergrowth?’

Wesley leaned forward confidentially. ‘I think he’s been struck by Cupid’s dart. A young lady called Claire who works as an
historian here. He was with her briefly at the cricket match.’

‘So he was. Very attractive girl – I don’t know what she’d see in your mate, but there’s no accounting for taste. Does this
mean you won’t be running off every five minutes to dig things up?’