The Bone Garden (20 page)

‘The senior partner, Mr Blake, is away as well,’ Imogen said chattily as she arranged herself on a grey upholstered chair.
‘He’s on holiday in the Caribbean for three weeks, lucky sod. He’s going to get a hell of a shock when he gets back next Monday,’
she added with relish.

‘What was Brian Willerby like to work for?’ Wesley asked when Imogen was settled comfortably. Having decided to let Wesley
do the talking, Gerry Heffernan sat back and listened intently.

‘Do you want the authorised version or the truth?’ answered Imogen bluntly.

Wesley smiled. ‘I think the second option is going to be of more use to us, don’t you?’

‘It’s just this taboo about speaking ill of the dead: it gets deep-rooted; makes it hard to say what you really think.’

Wesley nodded. He knew exactly what she meant. The dead weren’t there to defend themselves: the dead don’t answer back. ‘Well,
do your best. Take your time.’ He sensed that Imogen wasn’t a young woman to be rushed.

‘He gave me the creeps,’ she blurted out after a few seconds of silence. ‘It was just the way he looked at me, like he was
imagining me with no clothes on. Sometimes, when I went into his office to take dictation, he would … well, I could tell he
was getting, you know … excited. Sometimes he’d even have his hands in his pockets and …’

‘You mean he was, er … playing with himself?’ asked Gerry Heffernan, incredulously.

Imogen swallowed nervously and nodded. ‘Yes. I mean, I thought he was. His voice would go all …’

‘And you never said anything, never complained?’

‘I mentioned it to Muriel Potter – she’s the senior secretary but she’s nearing retirement – and she said she’d never had
any trouble with him. Not that I’m surprised. She said I was just imagining things, and perhaps I was. I mean, he never actually
did or said anything. There was never any question of harassment or anything like that. It was just looks – what was going
on in his head.’

‘But surely if he was …’ Wesley began in disbelief.

‘I can’t even be certain that he was. He might have just put his hands in his pockets: it might have just looked that way.
I would have made a right fool of myself if he’d turned out to be quite innocent, wouldn’t I? And maybe he was: maybe it was
just my filthy mind imagining things. As I said, he never actually said or did anything. It was just a gut feeling I had.’

‘Would you describe yourself as imaginative?’ asked Heffernan with what sounded like genuine interest.

Imogen squirmed in her seat. ‘Yes,’ she said shyly. ‘I suppose I would. I’m actually in the middle of writing my first novel.’

‘Romance, is it?’

‘Horror, actually.’

‘Plenty of sex and violence?’ asked Heffernan cheekily.

Imogen reddened. ‘Well, er … quite a bit, I suppose. But all essential to the plot, of course,’ she added righteously.

Heffernan and Wesley exchanged looks. ‘Of course.’

When Imogen returned to her duties, they asked her to send in Muriel Potter next. It would be valuable to have another assessment
of Brian Willerby’s character.

‘What do you think, Wes?’ Heffernan asked as soon as they were alone.

Wesley shrugged. ‘Who knows? Perhaps Willerby had an itch in an embarrassing place and needed to scratch it. And one thing’s
for certain: our Imogen has admitted to possessing a rather vivid imagination. A sexually obsessed satyr of a boss would fit
in rather well with her Gothic view of the world, I should say. And, let’s face it, she freely admits that he never actually
did or even suggested anything untoward. It’s pure supposition.’

‘I’m inclined to agree with you, Wes. Mind you, if Muriel Potter comes up with the same story, we’ll have to sit up and take
notice.’

But Muriel Potter was a different animal altogether. She didn’t seem to have an imaginative bone in her body. To her Brian
Willerby had always been the perfect gentleman. With an unexpected splutter of candour, she stated that Willerby had seemed
to her to be a sexually repressed, rather pathetic little man; hardly the voracious lecher of Imogen’s imaginings. She dismissed
the younger woman’s opinions with a patronising smile. ‘Imogen’s a nice girl and she’s good at her job but she does have a
vivid imagination,’ she said. ‘She likes to dramatise everything. She’s writing a book, you know, so I shouldn’t take too
much notice of anything she says.’

At that point a chubby young fingerprint officer poked his head discreetly round the office door and announced that he’d finished.

Heffernan stood up. ‘Mrs Potter, would you be good enough to have a look in Mr Willerby’s office and tell us if there’s anything
missing?’

Muriel Potter, the good citizen, trotted enthusiastically towards Willerby’s office and opened the door. It was a mess, the
chaos enhanced by a liberal dusting of fingerprint powder. ‘Oh dear,’ was Mrs Potter’s only comment as she picked her way
over the files scattered on the floor.

She began to gather them up, placing them back in their cabinet in alphabetical order. She was a woman who knew her way around
a filing system as London cabbies know their way around the streets of their city. The two policemen watched her work with
some admiration.

‘Can you tell if anything’s missing yet?’ asked Wesley, suspecting that it would be early days.

‘Oh yes,’ the secretary said confidently, stuffing files back into the grey metal cabinet. ‘There’s no sign of the Earlsacre
file. All the others seem to be here but that one’s missing.’

‘You seem very sure,’ said Heffernan.

‘Oh, I am, Chief Inspector. All this mess looks much worse than it is. Look, they’ve not even tried to open the safe.’ She
pointed to a small safe in the corner which squatted on the floor, smug and apparently untouched.

‘Perhaps the safe was too much for ’em if it’s just kids seeing what they can find,’ said Heffernan dismissively. ‘What’s
in it?’

‘A few cheques usually; clients’ monies.’

‘What about his desk?’ asked Wesley. ‘Is anything missing from the drawers?’

She walked slowly over to the large oak desk and looked down at the open drawers. On the floor beneath the desk lay a petty-cash
box, discarded and gaping open.

‘Only the petty cash by the look of it.’ She knelt down. ‘May I?’ She looked up at Wesley inquiringly. He nodded and she picked
up the box to examine it. ‘All the money’s gone. There was about fifty pounds.’

‘Was it locked?’

‘Not usually. I’m afraid we’re rather lax about security. Of course, that’ll have to change after this.’

‘So all that’s missing is the money and the Earlsacre file. Could he have taken the file home for some reason?’

‘That’s always possible. You’ll have to ask his wife about that.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Potter. You’ve been a great help. By the way, what exactly was in the Earlsacre file?’

‘Nothing very exciting. Mr Willerby’s involvement with the Earlsacre estate was mostly on the conveyancing side, routine stuff.
I’m afraid most of the more interesting work to do with the trust Mr Samuels set up was handled by a larger firm, in London.’

‘So there weren’t likely to be any sensitive or confidential documents in the missing file?’ Wesley wanted to make sure of
his facts.

Mrs Potter shook her curly, grey head. ‘Nothing like that, not that I can recall. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s okay, Mrs Potter. Thanks for your help.’ Wesley gave the secretary a friendly smile. He suspected that she would be
a useful ally, a reliable informant on the inside of Blake, Willerby and Johns.

There was nobody left to interview. Blake was sunning himself in the Caribbean, oblivious to the chaos awaiting him on his
return – and furnished with a perfect alibi. Johns would return later in the day from a long weekend spent with a clergyman
– another impeccable alibi. Gerry Heffernan shambled down the stairs and pushed open the glass door which led on to the street.

Wesley’s mobile phone began to ring. ‘You should get that phone of yours to play one of them tunes, Wes. Music while you work,’
was Heffernan’s only comment as he waited expectantly to hear the outcome of the brief conversation.

‘That was Rachel,’ said Wesley as he returned the phone to his
pocket. ‘She says the woman who owns the caravan park, Dilys Fielding, wants a word. She asked for me.’

‘Oh aye, Wes. How come they never ask for me? You want to watch that one, Wes. I saw how she was looking at you.’

‘How is Mrs Green, by the way?’ asked Wesley mischievously. ‘When are you seeing her again?’

His boss’s cheeks reddened. ‘Oh, er, it depends on how soon we can get this case cleared up. We’re just good friends, you
know.’

‘I believe you. But will the station gossip machine?’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’d better get going. I’m meeting Rachel at
Bloxham View.’

He left Gerry Heffernan wandering down the High Street towards Tradmouth police station and took the chugging car ferry over
the River Trad to Queenswear: Bloxham was a short drive away through hilly green countryside. Rachel Tracey, true to her promise,
was waiting in her car by the entrance to the caravan park.

‘Mrs Fielding asked for you personally,’ she said as she climbed out of the driver’s seat. ‘You must have made quite an impression.’

‘Don’t you start. I’ve had enough of that from the boss. So what exactly did Mrs Fielding say? Why does she want to see me?’

‘She just said she wanted to talk to you and that her husband’s out all day.’ She grinned meaningfully. ‘I hope she’s not
too disappointed when she sees me.’

‘Think I need a chaperone, do you?’

‘Perhaps.’ She began to march towards the Fieldings’ bungalow.

He caught up with her and they walked side by side up to the bungalow’s ugly front door, a plain sheet of hardboard painted
a bilious green.

Rachel’s instincts had been right. Dilys Fielding answered the door and she greeted Wesley with a coquettish smile. But as
soon as she spotted Rachel standing beside him, the smile disappeared. She stood aside to let them in and led them into the
living room. Sitting on the edge of the sofa was the girl they had seen serving in the site shop: her plain, pasty features
were arranged into an expression of studied boredom and her mousey hair was scraped back into a limp ponytail.

‘You’ve something to tell us, Mrs Fielding?’ asked Wesley.

Dilys glanced awkwardly at Rachel. ‘It’s Kimberley here. She overheard the dead man talking on the phone. There’s a pay-phone
in the shop,’ she added by way of explanation.

Kimberley looked at Wesley, her boredom replaced by uncertainty.

‘What did he say, Kimberley?’ he asked. ‘Try and remember. It might be important.’ He leaned forward, waiting expectantly
for the reply.

‘The policeman who saw me told me to say if I remembered anything.’ She hesitated. ‘I didn’t think about it at first but then
I remembered. I’m sure it was on the Monday at around six. He just came in here to use the phone – loads of people do. Anyway,
he’s talking all sort of quiet, like, and I didn’t get to hear much, but I think he said something like “I need to talk to
you” … all sort of serious, like. Then he said something like “Could you come here?” and he gave directions. I can’t remember
anything else. Someone came in and I had to serve them.’

Wesley nodded. The girl was probably in the habit of eavesdropping on people’s calls, he thought. Anything to relieve the
tedium of her days.

‘That’s great, Kimberley,’ said Rachel encouragingly. ‘Is there anything else?’

Kimberley shook her head.

‘Can you remember what he was wearing?’ asked Wesley. It was worth a try.

Kimberley thought for a few moments. ‘He had a white T-shirt … with writing on.’

Wesley felt his heart beating faster. ‘What was the writing, Kimberley? What did it say?’

‘How should I know what it said? It were in foreign.’

Wesley took a deep breath. ‘What kind of foreign? Please think carefully.’

‘I don’t know. It were like one of them shields or a coat of arms with a name underneath. I don’t know what it said. I wasn’t
taking much notice.’

‘Well, if you remember any more, please let us know.’ He handed Kimberley his card, which she regarded with suspicion.

Dilys Fielding looked at Rachel with some hostility, then she leaned forward and whispered in Wesley’s ear. ‘You’ve not forgotten
I promised to take you to sample those crab sandwiches at the Trawlerman’s Arms, have you?’

Kimberley stifled a giggle.

‘Another time perhaps,’ he said awkwardly. ‘We’d better go.
Thank you, and if either of you remember anything else be sure to let us know. We can see ourselves out.’

Dilys watched them go, her disappointment as clear as a beacon on a hillside. Wesley suspected he’d had a narrow escape.

‘What did you make of Kimberley’s phone call?’ asked Rachel as they walked away.

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘He says he needs to talk to whoever it was and asks them to come to the caravan park. But Kimberley
herself admits that she didn’t hear it clearly. He could have been ringing a long-lost auntie for all we know.’

‘Or his murderer?’

‘Possibly. What did you make of the T-shirt with the coat of arms and foreign writing on?’

‘It would help if we knew what kind of foreign.’

‘Mmm. It could be anything. Could even be Latin if it’s underneath a coat of arms,’ Wesley said, frustrated by Kimberley’s
lack of observational skills.

‘What did you think of Dilys?’ asked Rachel.

‘Not a happy lady, I suspect.’

‘It’s a good job I came with you or she would have eaten you alive,’ said Rachel with an uncharacteristic giggle.

Wesley thought it best not to comment and carried on strolling up the fields full of caravans towards the top field, where
John Jones’ life had been brought to an abrupt end. Somebody had felt strongly enough about Jones to kill him, and destroy
any clues to his identity … whatever that identity was. But why?

The mud in the field had dried up a little. Wesley picked his way over the ruts. He noticed that the Wheeler family were packing
a rusting Japanese car up to the roof with the detritus of a completed holiday. Suitcases wrapped in black bin-bags were perched
perilously on a roof rack, and the open boot was devouring sandy beach equipment and dirty towels. Mrs Wheeler spotted Wesley
and waved cheerfully. He waved back, looking for young Billy, but he was nowhere in sight.