The Bone Garden (22 page)

Charles Pitaway stood up and greeted Rachel with a smile, which she returned shyly.

‘Don’t mind us – that’s the best offer you’re going to have all day,’ said Heffernan. ‘Go on, Wes. If it’s anything to do
with our murders you’ll let us know, won’t you?’ He handed round the drinks and sandwiches and retired to a window seat with
Rachel, leaving Wesley to join the group in the corner. Pitaway’s eyes followed Rachel. Wesley noticed. If it weren’t for
Gerry Heffernan, Charles would have been over there trying his luck. And from the signals Rachel was giving out, he might
not have been wasting his time.

Wesley turned back to Neil. ‘So what do you want to show me?’

Neil extracted a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of his jeans. ‘This is just a photocopy. Claire found the original
among a load of old papers to do with Earlsacre Hall. The papers are all mixed up in an old trunk so it’s possible there could
be more letters still waiting to be discovered. They’ve been given by the Wilton family, who lived at Earlsacre from the late
1940s to the early 1960s, but
they’re just dumped in the trunk; not sorted or anything. Claire’s not rushing it: she’s cataloguing them one by one.’ He
handed Wesley the paper as Matt, Jane and Jake took their leave, anxious to return to their excavations.

Charles Pitaway left with them. Rachel watched him go, and Wesley saw him give her a smile on his way out. He turned his attention
resolutely to the letter. When he’d read it he let out a low whistle. ‘This is amazing. So this John Lantrist was Richard’s
father and he’s writing to his elder son to ask him to persuade the younger brother, Richard, not to go off and join the Duke
of Monmouth’s rebels?’

‘That’s about it. We just need to find some more correspondence now to fill in the gaps. We’ve got Richard Lantrist as a hot-headed,
idealistic young rebel in 1685, then when we meet him again eighteen years later in Jacob Finsbury’s account of his stay at
Earlsacre he’s turned into a grumpy old fart, to put it bluntly. I’d just like to know what happened to him in between. And
what turned him into a murderer. It must have had something to do with his experiences when he was transported to the West
Indies as a slave. That’d be enough to change anyone, I suppose.’

Wesley looked down at his glass. ‘Too right. Man’s inhumanity to man, eh?’ He was silent for a few moments.

Neil watched him, not knowing quite what to say. ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he muttered after a while. The conversation was getting
a bit deep for him.

‘Whereabouts in the West Indies was Richard sent?’ asked Wesley quietly, thinking of his family connections.

‘Dunno,’ Neil replied, glad their talk had returned to bare history, to facts. He was comfortable with facts. ‘It just says
the West Indies in all the books I’ve read. Anyway, he got back somehow and claimed the estate after his dad and elder brother
died. I wonder how he managed to get back. And how he knew he’d inherited.’

‘Things might have eased up for the Monmouth rebels once James II had gone and a new king was on the throne. He might have
been able to persuade some sympathetic sea captain to give him a passage back. If so, he was luckier than most,’ Wesley added
softly, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

‘If Claire finds more letters we might get to know. It’d be brilliant if we could learn the whole story and find out what
turned an idealistic young lad into a double murderer.’

‘And find out who the skeletons were. Perhaps they were people
who betrayed him to the king’s army during the rebellion,’ Wesley speculated.

‘One of them was only a young girl who probably wasn’t even born in 1685. Try again, Acting Detective Inspector.’

Wesley picked up his glass and drank. Neil was right. ‘Did I tell you my mother’s maiden name was Lantrist?’ he said suddenly.

Neil looked at him, surprised. ‘No. Maybe you’re related. Do you know of anyone English in the family?’

‘We’ve all sorts in our family: African, Spanish, Venezuelan, bit of Indian. Trinidad’s one of the most cosmopolitan places
in the world, so there’s a good chance there’s some English in there somewhere.’

‘Funny if you turn out to be related to these particular Lantrists.’ Neil looked Wesley in the eye. ‘How would you feel about
having an ancestor who’s a double murderer?’ he asked bluntly.

Wesley took another pull at his drink. It was something he hadn’t considered before and he didn’t want to think about it now.
He saw again in his mind’s eye the delicate bones on the mortuary trolley, and imagined once more her slow agonising death;
her battle to move and breathe beneath the weight of the earth. There was no way he could be linked by blood and genes to
the creature who would do that to another human being. It was unthinkable. He needed to change the subject. ‘How’s Claire?’

‘Okay,’ answered Neil non-committally. He studied his soil-stained hands. He had known Wesley a long time; he knew he could
trust him. But he also knew that, as a police officer, Wesley would consider it his duty to investigate anything he was told
that might have a bearing on Brian Willerby’s death. Claire was innocent, he told himself firmly. There was no need to bother
Wesley with the fact that Brian Willerby’s name had been scored angrily out of her address book … no need at all. There would
be some simple explanation.

‘I’d better go,’ said Wesley, taking the last bite of his sandwich. ‘I might come and see you later, introduce myself to Claire.’
He hesitated. ‘Was that her I saw before the cricket match? She was in the carpark by the stable block talking to someone,’
he said, feeling as low as a dung-beetle for uttering such a blatant lie.

‘Could have been.’ Neil shrugged. ‘She disappeared off somewhere. Don’t know what she was doing.’

Wesley forced himself to sound cheerful. ‘When Pam’s settled
down again at work you’ll both have to come round for a meal.’

Neil attempted a smile which turned out to be more of a weak snarl. He hoped Wesley hadn’t noticed.

Gerry Heffernan looked around the incident room for Wesley, but he was nowhere to be seen. Steve Carstairs was sitting near
by, his eyes glued to a computer screen but his mind elsewhere.

‘Fancy a bit of fresh air, Steve?’ the inspector called over. ‘Come on, tear yourself away from that thing and we’ll take
a stroll around the grounds. There’s someone I want to see.’

Steve rose without a word and followed his boss out into the daylight, his hands firmly in the pockets of his designer jeans.

‘How are you getting on with our Acting Inspector Peterson these days?’ Heffernan asked as they walked towards the hall.

‘Okay,’ Steve replied sulkily.

Heffernan turned to the younger man, his eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve heard tales that you’ve been mouthing off in the canteen … saying
he’s only got promotion because he’s black. What was the phrase you used? Political correctness gone mad?’

Steve flushed. ‘Well, I … well, he hasn’t been here five minutes.’

‘So the fact that he’s a bloody good officer and deserves the promotion has never crossed your tiny mind? Do I look like the
politically correct type, Stephen? Have I been making nice cups of tea for female officers? Have I started a refuge for one-legged
gay foxes? Would you associate me with political correctness in any way, shape or form?’

Steve was forced to answer in the negative.

Heffernan’s expression became serious, all trace of humour gone. ‘I’ll just say this once,’ he hissed, putting his face close
to Steve’s. ‘If I hear that anything else like that has been coming out of your thick, ignorant gob, I’ll make bloody sure
you’re not only chucked out of CID but out of the job too. Do I make myself absolutely clear?’

Steve backed away slightly, swallowed hard and nodded.

‘And I think Inspector Peterson’s shown a remarkable degree of tolerance – something you’re sadly lacking. You should be grateful
to him. Think about that, will you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Steve almost whispered, stunned.

Gerry Heffernan held his gaze for a few moments, just to make certain that he had got the message across. ‘Anything else bothering
you?’ he asked, a little more gently.

‘No, sir,’ Steve said, trying to sound confident. Then he hesitated, wondering if he should mention the money that he had
lent the old man while under the influence of the fair Jackie. He had waited for the post each morning since, but the promised
cheque had so far failed to arrive. But, on reflection, he decided to say nothing.

‘Right, then,’ said the chief inspector. ‘I’ve said me piece so let’s get on. Do you think we’ll need hard hats to go into
that hall? Looks a bit precarious with all that scaffolding.’

‘Dunno, sir.’

‘Well, go and ask one of those workmen over there and find out. And while you’re about it ask where Martin Samuels is. Say
we want a word with him.’

Steve scuttled off obediently and returned, much to Heffernan’s surprise, with Samuels himself. Maybe things had begun to
improve already.

‘Ah, Chief Inspector Heffernan. Any news about our statues?’ Samuels asked anxiously as he approached. ‘I really did think
they’d be safe in the pavilion.’

‘Some people’d pinch anything that’s not screwed down,’ observed Heffernan, his mind on other matters. ‘We’ve been having
a word with your guests.’

‘Guests?’ Samuels repeated, puzzled.

‘The guests who ate at your house last Tuesday night.’

‘Oh yes?’

Heffernan had to admire the masterful way in which Samuels was hiding his irritation. ‘They mentioned that you left your house
at approximately half past eleven saying you were coming here to pick up some important papers that you needed for a meeting
the next day. When they left at midnight you hadn’t returned.’

‘Well, a round trip between here and the far side of Morbay does take longer than half an hour, Inspector,’ Samuels replied
with a smug smile. ‘It’s quite true that I slipped out. I’d only just remembered that the papers were still here and our guests
were about to leave anyway. I needed the documents urgently for a meeting in London the next morning.’

‘What were the documents?’

‘Mainly financial. Balance sheets, projections – you know the sort of thing.’

Heffernan nodded solemnly, trying to look as though he was well
up on accountancy matters. ‘Why did you forget to bring them home in the first place if they were so important?’

‘I thought I had them until I checked everything for the following day. It was a simple mistake. I forgot them.’

‘And what time did you find they were missing?’

‘About eight o’clock. I couldn’t go for them then because our guests were due to arrive for a meal. I got away at the first
opportunity. Why are you asking all these questions? Brian died on Saturday, so why …?’

‘Why didn’t you mention this nocturnal paper-chase when you were questioned before?’ Heffernan looked Samuels in the eye.

‘I didn’t think it was relevant,’ Samuels replied smoothly. ‘In fact, I never thought about it. It was just a minor irritation,
nothing important.’

Heffernan produced a photograph of the dead John Jones. ‘Do you recognise this man?’

‘No,’ Samuels said, affronted. ‘Of course I don’t. Why?’

‘Are you sure? Take a good look.’

Samuels took the photograph from Heffernan and studied it. He shook his head. ‘Sorry. I’ve never seen him before. I’m afraid
I can’t help you.’

‘Right, sir. I think that’s all for now. Thank you for your time,’ Heffernan said, using his favourite thick-plod persona.

‘Any time. Always happy to help the police. Pity you didn’t bring your other sidekick with you. That rather cultured black
chap. Nice bloke. Did you know he has a first in archaeology?’

Heffernan turned to look at the expression on Steve’s face, but Steve was wise enough to let nothing show.

‘Is that what he’s got? Well I never. No doubt he’s about somewhere digging something up for us, then. I’ll be off now, Mr
Samuels. Crime calls. If we hear anything about your statues we’ll let you know.’

As Gerry Heffernan strolled slowly back towards the stable block with Steve skulking in his wake, he spotted Wesley in the
distance and his footsteps quickened.

‘Good lunch, Wes?’

‘Mmm. But Neil’s not his usual self. It really must be love. I’ve never known anyone to change overnight like that before.’

‘Given up illegal weeds and starting taking baths, has he?’

Wesley laughed. ‘This Claire must be quite something. I never thought I’d see Neil in this state.’

‘Let’s hope it continues. And talking of love, how’s your randy mother-in-law and her supermarket bargain?’

Wesley raised his eyes heavenward. Della was one person he would rather forget. ‘Don’t ask. We’re just waiting for the next
midnight phone call.’ He paused. ‘Actually I’ve been feeling a bit uneasy about this new bloke of hers. He’s talked her into
investing some of her money.’

‘Oh aye. Looked him up on our wonderful computer, have you?’

‘Yes, but there was nothing on him. He calls himself a financial adviser …’

Heffernan nodded knowingly. He’d heard stories like this too many times before to show any surprise. ‘And you think he advises
wealthy widows to offload their cash into his wallet, do you?’

Wesley smiled. ‘Perhaps I’m getting too suspicious.’

‘This job makes you like that, Wes. Just tell her to be careful, eh.’

‘I doubt if she’d take any notice,’ Wesley said. But Della was a grown woman: what she did was up to her. And he had work
to do. He sat himself down by a computer and punched a few buttons.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Heffernan, looking over his shoulder.

‘I sent an e-mail to the Gloucestershire force earlier asking for a better picture and more details about their missing postgraduate
student from Chipping Campden. I’m just seeing if they’ve replied.’

‘Well, well. In my day it was posting it in the letterbox and hoping for the best.’

‘They call that snail mail nowadays,’ said Wesley with a grin. ‘You should learn more about computers, you know.’ He looked
round and saw that his boss seemed unconvinced. ‘Don’t forget that it was new technology that caught Dr Crippen.’