The Bone Garden (6 page)

‘Wars?’

‘Just a figure of speech. He could have been in some sort of accident … or been beaten up outside his local tavern. Or, indeed,
he might have been in some battle or other and received the injuries then. Who can say? All I can tell you is that these healed
injuries probably occurred some years before his death. He almost certainly died from that head injury … blunt instrument
wielded by person or persons unknown.’

‘So what have we got?’ said Wesley, trying not to look at the female skeleton. ‘A man in his thirties or forties, injured
many years before in some accident, brawl or battle, is killed with a blunt instrument then buried in the middle of the walled
garden at Earlsacre. Then a girl in her late teens is somehow buried alive on top of the first body and a stone plinth is
placed over them both, probably some time in the early eighteenth century.’

‘I think that just about sums it up. Interesting. I think we can safely say these deaths are too old to be of any concern
to you professionally, Wesley, but if you or Neil find out who these bones belonged to or how they ended up in the middle
of that garden, you will let me know, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will, Colin.’ Wesley glanced over at his boss, who was showing characteristic signs of impatience. And Wesley
himself wanted to get out of the room, to escape the thought of suffocating death. ‘Thanks.’

Heffernan shuffled his feet, anxious to be away. ‘Yeah, thanks, Colin. Nice cuppa you serve here, but let’s hope we won’t
be back too soon, eh? I certainly don’t want to see another murder around these parts for a very long time.’

‘Here’s hoping your wish is granted, Gerry,’ said the pathologist with feeling as the two police officers left the stark white
room.

‘I think we can be certain about a couple of things,’ began Wesley as he pushed open the big double doors that led out of
the mortuary. ‘They must have been connected with Earlsacre Hall and I reckon they were both killed by the same person. Do
you agree?’

‘They could be victims of Jack the Ripper himself, but so long as they’re a few hundred years old I don’t care. It’s not our
problem.’ Heffernan began to stride out, a man who knew where he was heading.

‘Aren’t you just a little bit interested?’ said Wesley, catching up.

‘All I’m interested in is getting to the Fisherman’s Arms for one of Maisie’s hotpots. Coming?’

Wesley answered in the affirmative. He was hungry. Then he heard the urgent ring of his mobile phone and after a brief conversation
he looked at the inspector apologetically. ‘Sorry, but there’s just been an anonymous phone call to the station saying there’s
a dead body at a caravan site near Bloxham. I’ve told Rachel to get some uniforms up there searching right away.’

Wesley expected a few colourful naval oaths from the inspector but, to his surprise, the older man’s eyes lit up with the
excitement of the chase. ‘Right, Wes. We’d better get over there now. We’ll grab a butty on the way.’

It was a fine day for the back end of the season. Curious holidaymakers had forsaken their planned mornings on the beach to
watch the shirtsleeved police officers as they knocked on the door of each caravan in turn.

The informant hadn’t been specific. He had made a bald and mumbled statement to the effect that there was a dead body in a
caravan at the Bloxham View Caravan Park; when asked for further details he had hung up. But at least he had had the decency
to name the caravan park. If the police had been really unlucky they might have found themselves searching every holiday park
near Bloxham – and there were a good many of them, some small, some vast, with seemingly endless rows of shiny metal caravans
stretching over the headland.

By the time Wesley Peterson and Gerry Heffernan arrived, all the caravans in the main field at Bloxham View had been searched.
While the small team of uniformed officers knocked on caravan doors, Rachel Tracey was standing at the gate leading to the
far field with a clipboard, looking cool, blonde and efficient. She glanced up as Wesley approached and gave him what she
considered to be a businesslike smile.

‘So what’s going on? Found anything yet?’

‘Nothing. We’ve caught a couple in a rather compromising situation and provided a lot of entertainment for the holidaymakers,
but apart from that there’s no sign of a dead body. Everyone in the main field is very much alive and kicking. Nothing suspicious
at all so far.’

‘So what exactly was said in this mysterious phone call? Was it a man or a woman?’

‘A man. He said there was a dead body in a caravan at Bloxham
View Caravan Park and we should get someone round there. Then he hung up. He didn’t give his name, obviously.’

Gerry Heffernan had been chatting to a couple of the uniformed constables, but now he lumbered up to Wesley and Rachel, grinning
enthusiastically. ‘Right, you two, we’re starting on the top field now. The owner says it’s usually quieter up there – fewer
families with kids. And half the caravans are empty. Well, come on, what are we waiting for?’

Wesley and Rachel exchanged a glance, then followed their boss through the wooden gate into the next field. Rachel, a farmer’s
daughter, could see immediately that the drainage in the top field was inadequate. The cars driving up to the caravans had
left muddy ruts, which were still damp even though it hadn’t rained for two days. Two rows of static caravans stood at the
far side of the field, but for the touring variety this was the overspill field, used only at the height of the season. Now,
at the start of September, many of the statics were obviously empty, with curtains drawn across windows and an air of neglect.

As they picked their way through the sticky furrows they heard a string of colourful four-letter words behind them. Heffernan
swung round. ‘Steve. Glad you could join us. What time do you call this?’ He looked at his watch ostentatiously.

Steve Carstairs was standing there studying his feet, one of which was encased in an unpleasant brown substance. ‘These bloody
trainers cost a fortune, sir.’

Gerry Heffernan folded his arms and rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘When I first joined CID my inspector told me that I should
never wear anything I wouldn’t mind a drunk throwing up on. Get your foot out of that mud and start knocking on these caravan
doors like the rest of us. Where have you been anyway? We already solved three murders and half a dozen armed robberies before
you had your ruddy cornflakes.’

‘Didn’t feel well this morning, sir.’

‘None of us do after a night out clubbing it in Morbay. Now get your finger out and do some work. If you’d rather be directing
traffic in Tradmouth High Street, that can be arranged.’

Steve shot the inspector a resentful look, extracted his foot from the glutinous mud, and limped away towards the row of static
caravans lined up against the far hedgerow.

Wesley found himself teamed up with Rachel. He walked beside
her, breathing in the fresh sea air and her musky perfume. The view from the top field was indeed spectacular. The site was
perched on the headland overlooking the fishing port of Bloxham, which stood between the town of Tradmouth and the sprawling
seaside resort of Morbay. Bloxham was stretched out far below them, its tiny pale houses tumbling down to the vast glittering
sea. Large vessels crawled across the distant horizon while smaller boats scurried like insects across the calm waters of
the English Channel.

‘Lovely view,’ he commented.

Rachel looked at him and smiled shyly. ‘If you start at the end of this row, I’ll do the next one. I don’t think we’re going
to find many people at home.’

‘Mmm. There seem to be a lot of closed curtains.’

‘So either no one’s in or there’s hanky-panky going on inside,’ said a loud Liverpudlian voice behind them. The inspector
was back. ‘I’ve done plenty of house-to-house inquiries in my time but never a caravan-to-caravan.’

Wesley didn’t reply. He knocked on the door of the first caravan in the row while Rachel gave her attention to the one next
door. Gerry Heffernan stood behind him expectantly, but after a while Wesley turned to him and shook his head. Nobody home.

‘Well, try the door.’

Wesley hesitated, then attempted to turn the handle. The door was locked. Then the inspector disappeared round the back, moving
quickly for a big man. A minute later he returned, disappointed. ‘I’ve looked in all the windows … nothing. Come on.’

He bypassed the next caravan, where Rachel was talking to a young red-haired woman, and carried on down the row. But there
was nothing even remotely suspicious. The caravans were either empty or occupied by ordinary citizens going about their lawful
holiday business. Not a corpse in sight.

Just as Wesley was starting to suspect that the telephone call had been someone’s idea of a joke, he heard Steve Carstairs
shouting. Without a word Wesley and Heffernan began to run over to the far row of caravans.

Rachel caught up with them. ‘Was that Steve shouting?’

‘Sounded like it.’

‘Probably stepped in some more mud and ruined his other trainer,’ mumbled Heffernan uncharitably.

But when they reached the far row of static caravans they found
Steve sitting on the step leading up to the door of the fourth van with his head in his hands. Wesley began to sprint towards
him, leaving the other two behind.

When he reached the caravan, Steve Carstairs looked up at him, the usual wariness gone. ‘In there,’ he muttered. ‘Been dead
a few days, I reckon.’

Wesley stepped past him and opened the caravan’s flimsy door, taking a deep breath and dreading the sight that would greet
him inside. At first he saw nothing. The curtains were drawn and it took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim light.
But he could hear the low-pitched buzzing of flies. And he could smell death.

‘So he wasn’t having us on,’ said Gerry Heffernan softly as he entered the caravan. Wesley stared for a few moments at the
body which lay like a marble statue on the floor. Then he averted his eyes. He would never become hardened to the sight of
violent death.

Heffernan turned to Rachel, who had just come in behind them. ‘Get the others down here will you, Rach, and get the scene
secured. And radio for SOCO.’

‘Is it suspicious, then, sir?’ asked Rachel, craning to look at the body. The carpet and the brown upholstered bench seat
near by were splattered liberally with crusted blood.

‘Unless he was a contortionist who could stab himself in the back, I’d say it looks very suspicious. Give Colin Bowman a ring
and all, will you.’

Rachel left the caravan quickly, relieved to be out of the place. Gerry Heffernan stood beside Wesley, staring down at the
body. ‘Now how did this poor bugger come to end up stabbed to death in a place like this?’ he said, scratching his head.

Wesley had been wondering the same thing himself. ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ he replied softly, before walking out into
the sweet, fresh air.

It had started. Bloxham View Caravan Park (family-run with shop and modern toilet and shower facilities) was now awash with
police officers. The curious were kept well back behind the blue-and-white tape than cordoned off the crime scene, and Scenes
of Crime Officers, clinical in their white overalls, came and went up and down the caravan’s clanging metal step, absorbed
in their grim tasks.

With true British reserve, the people in the nearby caravans had studiously ignored the young man in static caravan number
sixty-three. And the young man had gone about his business quietly, had no antisocial habits, and had attracted little attention.
He had kept himself to himself and had therefore gone unnoticed.

Steve Carstairs had recovered from his shocking discovery with what seemed like indecent haste, and was soon out knocking
on caravan doors with the rest of the CID team. Wesley was about to join them when Gerry Heffernan called him back.

‘I think you and me should have a word with the owner of the site. It’s a Mr Fielding. He lives in that ugly bungalow down
by reception.’

Wesley had noticed the bungalow, a concrete box designed in the 1960s on an architect’s off-day.

‘He might have a name for us,’ said Wesley hopefully as they walked through the fields of caravans towards the site entrance.
Gerry Heffernan didn’t reply but marched purposefully onwards.

They found Mr Fielding in the site shop, talking animatedly to a young girl who wore an expression of habitual boredom. Fielding
was in his late thirties and almost bald apart from a few wisps of reddish hair at the back. He looked worried, anticipating
cancelled holidays, demands for refunds and a heavy dint in the reputation of the caravan site that was his sole source of
income. He hurried the two officers out of the shop and through the front door of the bungalow: he didn’t wish to be seen
consorting with the forces of law and order.

‘This is awful,’ he said as he invited them to sit down on a large, shabby sofa. His accent was northern. Heffernan pinpointed
it to around forty miles from his native Liverpool, somewhere in the Manchester area. ‘Are they sure it’s murder? I mean,
yesterday afternoon one of our visitors told me that they’d seen a lad going round trying caravan doors, but I can’t believe
…’ He shook his head, trying to convince himself that it was all some horrible mistake.

‘This lad who was trying doors … did you report it to the police?’

‘Yeah. A constable came up from Bloxham but said that as there had been no damage done and nothing had been reported missing
there wasn’t much that could be done. He just told me to keep an eye on things. You don’t think it’s got anything to do with
…’

‘Someone made an anonymous call to say that there was a body in one of the caravans. If there was an opportunist thief trying
doors it’s possible that he discovered the body and decided to report it to us,’ said Wesley.

Fielding looked at Wesley with thinly disguised curiosity, then nodded.

At that moment the door opened and a woman walked into the living room. She was thin, almost skeletal, with short fair hair.
She looked young but the fine lines on her face betrayed her age. She stared at the two policemen, her eyes lingering on Wesley,
then turned to her husband.