The Bone Garden (18 page)

‘I would like to find out more about those skeletons.’

Gerry Heffernan raised his eyes heavenward. ‘Come on. Let’s send Rachel over to Bloxham to help line the pockets of Billy
Wheeler’s dentist, and after we’ve visited Craig Kettering we’ll go and see what Mr Les Cumbernold has to say for himself.’

As they left the stable block, Wesley glanced longingly at the closed door to the archaeologists’ office. He wanted to know
about the skeletons in the walled garden, about the young girl who had been buried alive, choked by the earth beneath the
great stone slab. Somehow he felt that someone owed it to her to discover who had been responsible for her fate. But, he told
himself, he had enough on his plate for the foreseeable future. Perhaps it was for the best that Neil’s attentions were otherwise
engaged.

Gerry Heffernan had been right about Craig Kettering. After a little friendly persuasion he admitted to taking some cash from
the caravan: it had been lying invitingly on the cupboard by the door, he said, and it was a temptation that he had found
impossible to resist. But he denied taking anything else and he swore he’d seen no wallet or credit cards. He had stolen nothing
but the cash. With the body lying there and the flies buzzing about, he hadn’t felt inclined to stick around long enough to
search the place.

Heffernan believed him. So did Wesley. The killer had gone to the trouble of taking a T-shirt off the dead man’s body but
had left sixty-five pounds in cash just lying there in full view. Concealment of the dead man’s identity had been the killer’s
priority: the money hadn’t mattered.

They left Craig alone in his dreary bed-sit and drove back to Earlsacre. As planned, they made straight for Les Cumbernold’s
flashy new bungalow.

Pam Peterson was an avid fan of home improvement programmes, even though she and Wesley rarely had the time or energy to put
their suggestions into practice. So with this wealth of theoretical knowledge behind him, Wesley realised that Les’s lounge
would have given any interior designer nightmares. The richly patterned red carpet clashed with the gold brocade sofas and
the elaborately swagged drapes at the huge picture windows.

The bungalow was large, reeking of money rather than good taste. Mrs Cumbernold, a middle-aged bottle-blonde with the leathery
skin of one who had spent too much of her spare time lying on sunbeds,
brought the two police officers tea with a polite smile then disappeared, leaving her husband to it.

Les Cumbernold waited until his wife had left the room before he turned to Gerry Heffernan, an expression of open candour
on his face. He was a big man with sparse brown hair and an impressive beer gut. An expensive gold watch graced his left wrist
below a tattooed skull.

‘I’ll make no secret of it,’ he began, sitting himself down on the edge of a huge armchair. ‘I didn’t like Willerby and he
didn’t like me and the wife couldn’t stand that stuck-up cow of a wife of his either. We made the effort when we first moved
in – three years ago it was. We went over and introduced ourselves and invited them round for drinks but they made it quite
clear that they wanted nothing to do with the likes of us. Snobs … thought they was too good for us. Never even spoke to us
if they met us in the street. We sent ’em a Christmas card the first year we were here. Never got one back.’

He sank back in the armchair. The Willerbys’ social rejection had clearly rankled.

‘I believe you have been involved in a dispute with Mr Willerby about some trees,’ said Wesley.

Cumbernold looked at him with mild hostility. ‘The leylandii. I planted ’em on the boundary between the houses and let ’em
grow so I couldn’t see his bloody house. I didn’t want to be reminded of that stuck-up shit every time I set foot outside
my own door.’ He leaned forward. ‘And the wife said he used to watch her, you know … when she was sunbathing. Gave her the
creeps he did.’

‘So he asked you to remove the trees?’ prompted Wesley.

‘They’re on my land so I’m not moving them. He threatened me with legal action. I told him to …’

‘Quite, sir,’ interrupted Wesley. ‘It must have been awkward for you at the cricket match, you and Mr Willerby playing on
the same team. Did your ill feeling spill on to the cricket field at all?’

‘Well, I tried not to let it. One of our other players works – er, worked – with Willerby, and he asks … asked him to play
sometimes ’cause it’s hard getting enough men for the team.’ He looked Wesley up and down, his initial hostility seeming to
fade. ‘You weren’t bad. Nice six. Pity about the catch but that young Charles Pitaway’s turning out to be one of our best
players. His family used to own the hall, you know, but he’s a good bloke – not a snob like some I could name. Do you play
regularly for the police team, then?’

‘Not regularly, no,’ answered Wesley. ‘Can you tell us where you were during the tea interval?’

‘I’ve told the police that already.’

‘Indulge us,’ said Gerry Heffernan, leaning forward. ‘We’re very forgetful; have to be reminded.’

Les Cumbernold rearranged his large frame in the armchair before recounting his movements. He had arrived ten minutes before
the match and just as it was due to begin he saw Brian Willerby arrive from the direction of the hall: he had looked as though
he’d been hurrying … sort of hot and bothered. Wesley and Heffernan exchanged looks. If Willerby had come from the direction
of the hall then this fitted with him talking to the unknown woman.

Les continued his narrative. During the tea interval he’d wandered off to find his wife among the spectators. He hadn’t seen
Brian Willerby going into the woods. He had been aware that a ball, a new one, had been lost among the trees after one of
the police team hit a spectacular six, and he had made a mental note to look for it after the match. Cricket balls weren’t
cheap. The rest of the story was familiar, but was now peppered with pleas of injured innocence.

When they took their leave, Cumbernold saw them out on to the gravel drive shaded by the row of towering leylandii trees growing
to their left. He was walking with them to the gate when his attention was distracted. The pristine white door to the bungalow’s
large double garage was standing half open. Cumbernold rushed over and shut it quickly, returning to the gate with a nervous
smile to see his visitors off the premises.

‘Did you see that, Wes?’ Heffernan asked when they were standing outside Brian Willerby’s elegant Georgian house, well out
of earshot. ‘There’s something in that garage he doesn’t want us to see. Wonder what it is.’

Wesley smiled. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

His mobile phone began to ring and he pulled it from his pocket. After a brief conversation he turned to Heffernan. ‘That
was Rachel. She said Billy Wheeler’s definitely identified Willerby as the man he saw on Tuesday night. And he now says he
thinks he saw him at midnight because he remembers he looked at his watch.’

Heffernan mulled this over. ‘Now correct me if I’m wrong, Wes, but didn’t Mrs Wheeler say she heard voices around one o’clock,
but she didn’t have a clock in there so she couldn’t be sure of the time?’

‘That’s right. She heard raised voices, but Billy claims he didn’t hear anything. Which means that Jones might have received
two visits that night and Billy might have gone to sleep by the time the second person arrived. There was Brian Willerby and
then someone else, someone he argued with.’

Heffernan turned and stared at the house for a few seconds. ‘Has anybody looked through Willerby’s things?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, there’s no time like the present. Get on that phone of yours and tell Trish Walton and Steve to come over and give
us a hand, will you.’

‘Isn’t there the small question of a search warrant?’ Wesley had known his boss to stretch the rules a little from time to
time, but it made him uncomfortable. Not doing things by the book could lead to trouble.

‘All we’re doing is looking through the dead man’s things for any clue to his murderer. The grieving widow can hardly argue
with that, now, can she?’ A smile of angelic innocence spread over Gerry Heffernan’s chubby face. He began to walk up Willerby’s
garden path, but Wesley hung back. ‘Come on, Wes, what are you waiting for?’

Wesley punched out the number of the incident room on his phone and followed the chief inspector up the garden path, praying
that there’d be no repercussions.

Martha Willerby was alone in the house and seemed almost to welcome the company. To Wesley’s relief she invited them in and
told them they could search wherever they chose … if it would help them to find Brian’s killer.

Trish and Steve arrived ten minutes later and joined in the search. Wesley found himself wishing Rachel had been available.
She had an intelligence, an intuition, that Steve lacked – his mind was usually on lower things – and Trish, recently seconded
to CID, was promising but inexperienced. Wesley asked them to make a search of the bedrooms, paying particular attention to
the dead man’s clothes and shoes. Were there any bloodstains? Any incriminating notes in pockets? Was there any sign of anything
that might have belonged to John Jones?

Wesley and Heffernan climbed the elegant staircase to the first floor and turned their attentions to Willerby’s study. It
had once been
a small bedroom but had subsequently been furnished with oak bookshelves and a grand antique desk. If the dead man had had
any secrets committed to paper, this is where they would be.

But they were to be disappointed. Willerby’s study contained the paper detritus of everyday domestic life: bills for gas,
electricity, phone and water; council tax demands; unexciting credit card purchases. Then there were the share certificates,
insurance policies, bank statements, passports, birth and marriage certificates. All the paperwork the average law-abiding
citizen manages to accumulate over a lifetime. The fact that there was hardly anything that related to his work indicated
that he had kept his home and working life separate.

There was a door in the corner of the room, probably leading to a walk-in cupboard or an adjoining bedroom. Wesley tried it;
it was locked.

He turned and saw that Heffernan was watching him. ‘This door probably leads into the next bedroom. But I suppose we should
check.’

‘I don’t like locked doors. They’re usually hiding something. Is there a key?’ Gerry Heffernan moved quickly to the desk and
began to search the drawers. But the search was in vain.

Then Wesley had an idea. He went through into the master bedroom where Trish and Steve were searching through the dead man’s
clothes and asked them if they’d come across a key. They had indeed – Trish handed him an impressive key that she’d found
in the inside pocket of Willerby’s jacket.

Heffernan had been right: there was something hidden behind the locked door. And it was likely to be something important if
its owner kept the key in his inside pocket. Wesley returned to the study and tried the key in the lock. It turned smoothly
and the door opened without a sound. He took a deep breath and stepped through into the darkness.

There was silence for a few seconds until Heffernan, unable to bear the suspense, called out. ‘What’s in there? What have
you found?’

‘Come and have a look.’

Gerry Heffernan stepped into the room. It had been pitch dark at first in spite of the brightness of the late summer day.
But now Wesley had found the light switch and the tiny room, not much bigger than a large cupboard, was bathed in an eerie
red light.

‘It’s a darkroom. Nobody’s mentioned to us that Brian Willerby was keen on photography,’ said Wesley, puzzled.

‘Perhaps it belonged to a previous owner,’ Heffernan suggested.

‘Willerby kept the key in his jacket pocket. And it’s been used recently. Look at those chemicals in the trays. They’re not
old. And it’s clean – spotless. Willerby used it. But why keep it locked?’

‘If he developed photographs here, where are they?’

Wesley shrugged. ‘I think we’d better have a word with Mrs Willerby, don’t you?’

Martha Willerby was adamant. She knew nothing of her late husband’s photographic activity. She hardly ever went into his study,
only to clean it once a week, and knew nothing of the darkroom. She knew the powder room, as she called it, existed, but she’d
never had cause to go inside. It had been used by eighteenth-century gentlemen to powder their wigs, she added as an afterthought.
As far as she was aware, photography had never been one of her husband’s hobbies: in fact Brian Willerby had never been much
of a man for hobbies at all, apart from the odd game of cricket when the village team were short of players. That was it.
She sat on the edge of her seat, her hands neatly folded on her lap and her lips pressed stubbornly together. Wesley knew
that they would get no more information out of her that day.

But he also suspected that she was being somewhat economical with the truth. The Willerbys’ house was larger than most, but
surely any woman these days would be aware of what was going on in her own home? Pam certainly would be; and his mother, even
though she pursued a demanding career as a GP. The image of the master of the house keeping the key to a locked room to which
his wife was not admitted seemed like something from a Victorian Gothic novel: it hardly fitted with what Wesley knew of normal
domestic life at the dawn of the third millennium. But there was something a little old-fashioned, a little fey, about Martha
Willerby. Perhaps she was telling the truth after all. Who knew what went on in other people’s marriages?

Steve and Trish had found nothing of interest; no letters, no bloodstained clothing. Gerry Heffernan found it hard to conceal
his disappointment, and the four of them left the house somewhat subdued. The hoped-for breakthrough had not yet come.

Heffernan’s stomach told him it was lunch-time. The King’s Head
looked a good bet, he told Wesley. There was a blackboard propped up outside which promised traditional Sunday lunches at
reasonable prices. It was an offer they couldn’t refuse.