The Bone Garden (21 page)

Wesley halted in front of the dead man’s caravan, now cordoned off with blue-and-white police tape. He ducked under the tape,
Rachel following silently behind, and opened the caravan door. He stood there, staring at the floor where the body had lain.
Rusty brown splashes of dried blood were still visible on the sides of the bench seats, the drawn curtains and the light brown
carpeted floor. He
shuddered a little and walked on through the narrow kitchen area with its fake oak cupboards and the tiny shower room and
toilet partitioned off to one side, then he entered the bedroom, stripped and bare. ‘What a place to die,’ he said under his
breath.

‘I’ve seen worse places,’ said Rachel.

He turned. He had almost forgotten she was there. ‘I mean, it’s all so impersonal, so empty.’

‘Well, presumably all his things have been taken away,’ Rachel answered pragmatically.

‘The murderer must have had a fair bit of blood on his clothes. And he must have taken the dead man’s T-shirt off. What did
he do with it?’

‘Put it in a bin? Throw it into the sea?’ Rachel suggested.

‘It’s possible. But he’d still be covered in blood. He must have had to clean himself up somewhere. And how easy is it to
get rid of clothes unless you burn them? Also, he must have come here by car.’

‘There are so many cars coming and going from this site that …’

‘I noticed the Wheelers are packing up to go. Let’s have a last word with young Billy.’

‘I’ve no sweets on me,’ said Rachel.

‘We’ll have to send some on to him if he comes up with the goods. Come on.’

He left the caravan quickly, glad to be out of the place.

‘Mrs Wheeler,’ he called as he approached the rusty, laden vehicle which, with luck, would get the Wheelers back up the motorway
system to their Lancashire home. ‘Can I have a quick word with your Billy if he’s about?’

‘ ’Course you can, love. Billy!’ she shrieked at foghorn volume.

Billy appeared at the caravan door and, anticipating sweet rewards, gave Wesley a wide grin. ‘How do? Did you want a word?’

Wesley went up to him and spoke confidentially, man to man. ‘I’ve been thinking about cars, Billy. I’m sure someone must have
asked you this already, but did you see a car around on the night of the murder? I know you saw the man and you’ve given us
a brilliant description, but did you see car near by?’

He held his breath, waiting hopefully. He had read Billy’s statement several times and had noticed no mention of any sort
of vehicle. Perhaps there wasn’t one. Or perhaps the killer had parked it in the bottom field where Craig Kettering had parked
his van. There were so many cars there that an extra one would go unnoticed. But
somehow he couldn’t envisage Brian Willerby walking up the steep fields from the reception carpark. And it hadn’t rained heavily
until Wednesday night, so mud wouldn’t have been a problem. He would have parked close to the caravan if at all possible.
It was a long shot, but Wesley felt he had to ask.

‘Oh aye, there was a car,’ answered Billy matter-of-factly. ‘A Vauxhall Vectra … dark coloured … newish. It was parked right
next to the dead man’s caravan. But I didn’t see anyone get into it. Then I heard me mam and had to pretend I was asleep in
case she came in.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’

‘Nobody asked me. Do you reckon it belonged to the murderer, then, this car?’ he asked with bloodthirsty relish.

‘Are you sure it was a Vectra?’

‘Oh aye,’ said Billy confidently. ‘I know all the makes, me. And the models. Test me if you like,’ he challenged.

‘I’ll take your word for it. I don’t suppose you saw the registration number?’

‘Nah. It were parked in the shadows. There’s no way I could have made out the number.’ He held out his hand expectantly. ‘That’ll
be three Mars bars.’

Wesley delved in his pocket and extracted two pound coins. ‘That should cover it. Keep the change.’

‘Thanks,’ said Billy appreciatively, pocketing the cash. ‘That’ll do nicely.’

‘I think we’d better contact the Lancashire force and tell them there’s a reliable informant on their patch who’ll work for
a steady supply of sweets,’ said Rachel as they strolled down the fields back to the car.

‘Don’t knock it,’ said Wesley. ‘Guess what kind of car Brian Willerby drove?’

‘What?’

‘Would you believe a dark blue Vectra?’

Wesley Peterson drove back to Earlsacre via Tradmouth, feeling rather pleased with himself.

14 June 1685

My son, I beg you to persuade your brother, Richard, not to join with the rebels. I myself fought for parliament against this
present King’s father and I long for a return to the liberties of our faith we enjoyed under the good rule of our late Lord
Protector, Master Cromwell. But I fear this King James will tolerate no rebellion and I fear for Richard’s life should he
join the Duke of Monmouth in Taunton as he is resolved to do. I have heard talk that the King will deal most cruelly with
all who oppose him.

While I am away in London I charge you to look to your younger brother and keep him from foolishness. And I beg you, my son,
not to give entry to my creditors. I am in sore debt but pray that my fortunes will recover soon.

Your loving father, John Lantrist

Gerry Heffernan rubbed his hands together with glee when Wesley broke the news. ‘Let’s get down there and pay our respects
to the grieving widow … and get Forensic to give his car a good going over while we’re at it. If he used it to get away from
the murder scene there’s bound to be traces of blood and gore about. And the dead man’s T-shirt; what did he do with it?’

‘All the bins in and near the caravan site have been searched and nothing’s been found. Rachel thinks it might have been thrown
in the sea or burned.’

‘Anything’s possible. Ask the coastguards to keep their eyes open for any clothing washed up anywhere in the vicinity, will
you?’ He
charged out of the doorway of the incident room. ‘Tell Rach to come with us and all.’

Wesley passed on the message and Rachel followed without a word. The three walked down the drive of Earlsacre Hall towards
the village. Heffernan had decreed that a short car journey was unnecessary, unecological and would give advance warning of
their arrival. He also expressed a desire to get more exercise, and Wesley wondered if he could detect Mrs Green’s influence
somewhere in the background.

They arrived chez Willerby five minutes later feeling fitter. And their journey on foot past the home of Les Cumbernold had
allowed them a glimpse through his half-open garage door into the shadowy space beyond. It seemed to be filled with mysterious
shapes that held a promise of being more interesting than the usual assortment of junk stored in the average British garage.
Wesley found the strange, half-seen objects intriguing, but they were there to concentrate on Brian Willerby – his life, death,
and the fact that he was possibly a murderer. His dark blue Vectra stood tantalisingly in the front drive, its inscrutable
tinted windows guarding whatever secrets it held.

Martha Willerby answered the door, her plain face devoid of make-up. She looked tired as she stood aside to let them in.

‘We’re sorry to bother you again, Mrs Willerby,’ said Rachel gently, sensing that she was there to dispense the sympathy –
and probably the tea as well. ‘But we have to ask you a few more questions. We’ll try not to keep you very long.’

Gerry Heffernan began. ‘We went to your husband’s office earlier on this morning. I suppose you know that there’s been a break-in
there?’

Martha looked up with shocked, reddened eyes. ‘No,’ she gasped. ‘No, I didn’t. That’s awful.’

‘Some petty cash was taken,’ said Wesley, ‘and Mrs Potter, the secretary, says that one of the files is missing – a file concerning
his dealings with the Earlsacre estate. I don’t suppose it’s in the house? He might have brought it home for some reason.’

‘He sometimes brings … brought files home to work on. I’ll see if it’s in his study.’

She stood up and Heffernan gave Rachel an almost imperceptible nod, instructing her to follow the widow upstairs.

While they were gone Gerry Heffernan took the opportunity to look around the room. Wesley went over to the window and stared
out into the expansive back garden. ‘I wonder if he burned any garden rubbish this week,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Good way
of getting rid of the evidence.’

‘We’ll ask. And we can ask the neighbour and all … get an unbiased version.’

‘I’d hardly call Les Cumbernold unbiased.’

But before Heffernan could answer Rachel returned with Martha.

‘I’m afraid there’s no sign of that file you mentioned.’ She sat down, omitting to offer the customary tea. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Would you like me to make a cup of tea?’ Rachel asked, making up for her hostess’s shortcomings.

‘Thank you.’ Martha watched the other woman disappear into her kitchen without further comment.

‘There are a couple more things we wanted to ask you,’ began Wesley when Rachel returned with refreshment. ‘You said that
your husband was out last Tuesday. What time did he get home?’

‘I can’t remember … er, late I think. After midnight.’

‘And how did he seem when he got home? Were his clothes soiled at all? Was he carrying anything?’ He thought the question
‘Was your husband covered in blood?’ might be a little tactless at this stage.

‘I didn’t see him. I’d already gone to bed. We don’t share a bedroom,’ she added coyly.

‘What happened to the clothes he was wearing that night?’ asked Rachel, ever practical. ‘Did you see them in the morning?’

‘I really can’t remember. Brian was a tidy man; he always put his dirty laundry straight into the linen basket in the bathroom.’

‘When you did your washing did you notice any bloodstains on anything?’ Gerry Heffernan, not one to believe in beating around
any bushes, said bluntly.

Martha Willerby stared at him, shocked. ‘I don’t think so. He did have a nosebleed and he got some blood on his shirt collar
and his handkerchief, but I think that was later in the week; Thursday probably. Why? Why do you want to know?’ She took a
sip of tea, just for something to do with her fidgeting hands.

Wesley removed a photograph of John Jones from his top pocket. It had been taken after his death but Jones had been tastefully
arranged for the camera to look his best. ‘I wonder if you’d have a look at this photograph for me,’ he said, passing it to
Martha. ‘Have you seen this man before?’

She stared at the picture for a few seconds. ‘Is he … is he dead? It looks as though he’s dead.’

‘I’m afraid we didn’t find any photographs of him taken when he was alive. Do you recognise him?’

She handed the picture back and shook her head vehemently. ‘No. I’ve never seen him before.’

Something in her manner told Wesley that he shouldn’t give up just yet. ‘Please, Mrs Willerby, have another look. Have you
seen him before, however briefly? Please think.’

She took the photograph back and held it by the very edge, as if she didn’t want her hands to come into contact with the dead
image. ‘There is something familiar about him but I don’t … No, I’m sure I’ve never seen him.’

Wesley took the photograph from her as Gerry Heffernan waded in. ‘We’ll have to examine your husband’s car, love. We’ve arranged
for it to be done before lunch. Okay?’

Martha Willerby looked at him with distaste. ‘I don’t suppose I’ve got much choice in the matter,’ she said with a first,
tentative show of defiance.

‘Could you tell me if you’ve had a garden fire recently?’ asked Wesley politely, trying to make up for his boss’s lack of
finesse.

‘We have an incinerator at the end of the garden. I think Brian burned some garden rubbish in it on Wednesday … or it might
have been Thursday, I’m not sure.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Willerby. You’ve been very helpful.’ He stood up.

Martha looked worried, as if she’d given too much away. But she made the best of it and saw them off the premises with confident
civility. For a woman described by her own brother as a nonentity, she wasn’t doing too badly.

The forensic team were just arriving to examine Willerby’s car as they left. Heffernan strolled over to have a word with them.

‘What do you think?’ Wesley asked Rachel as they stood watching the team go about their business.

‘That photograph meant something to her, I’m sure it did.’

‘Yes, I’m sure she knows more than she’s letting on.’

Gerry Heffernan returned, having issued loud orders to the forensic team to examine the contents of the incinerator in the
back garden while they were about it. Rachel and Wesley looked at each other: there were times when Gerry Heffernan pushed
his luck. They
just hoped Martha Willerby wasn’t well up on the ins and outs of search warrants.

‘Me belly thinks me mouth’s gone on strike. Anyone fancy coming to the King’s Head for a butty?’ called Heffernan loudly,
approaching with a wide grin on his face.

Following the maxim that silence gives consent, Wesley and Rachel fell in behind their boss without a word and walked the
fifty yards to the ancient hostelry that stood, white-painted and creeper-clad, at the centre of Earlsacre village.

This time the lounge door was locked and they had to enter through the public bar. Some men standing at the bar, ostentatiously
local, stopped their conversation in mid-sentence when Wesley walked in and stared at him for a few moments before turning
away and taking up where they’d left off. Gerry Heffernan returned their stare boldly, then marched through into the lounge,
a place more suitable for strangers and those wearing suits.

‘Don’t you lot ever do any work?’ he said loudly as he spotted Neil hunched in a corner of the lounge with Matt, Jane, Jake
and Charles Pitaway. ‘Every time I see you you’re always swelling the profits of some brewery or other.’

Neil looked up from his pint with calm amusement. ‘I could say exactly the same about the police force.’ He beckoned to Wesley.
‘Come and sit down, Wes. I’ve got something to show you.’