The Funeral Boat (20 page)

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night’s exertions. Heffernan stumbled his way into the living room and picked up Sam’s coat, which lay discarded on the floor. As he lifted it, a clump of brightly coloured streamers fluttered to the ground. Wherever Sam had been last night, someone had had a good time.

He left the house quietly, shutting the front door carefully behind him. No doubt Sam would tell him in his own good time what he got up to at nights … but he wasn’t holding his breath.

When he arrived at the police station he found that Wesley was already at his desk, tackling his paperwork. Rachel sat near by, quiet and self-contained, tapping at her computer keyboard.

‘They’ve found the dinghy belonging to Sven Larsen’s boat. It was drifting out to sea,’ Heffernan announced loudly as he entered the office. He glanced across at the photograph of Ingeborg Larsen that was pinned to the wall, fearing that her brother’s would soon join it, then he turned to Rachel. ‘How’s your Dave, then?’

‘Much better, thanks. They’re not going to keep him in much longer,’ she said quietly.

‘Going to have him back at your farm, then? Give him a bit of tender loving care?’

To Heffernan’s astonishment, Rachel stood up and swept out of the room. He turned to Wesley. ‘What have I said?’

‘1 think she’s going through a bit of a crisis,’ Wesleyanswered, his voice lowered.

‘That’s not like our Rach.’ Heffernan shrugged. ‘Where are Steve and Trish?’

‘Watching videos,’ said Wesley. ‘Let’s hope that Steve hasn’t substituted something more spicy for the surveillance videos.’

‘1 wouldn’t put it past him. All ready for this afternoon? The Viking raid on Neston?’

‘1 wouldn’t miss it for the world. Pam’s ready to point this Odin out. I asked her last night if she knew anything more about this group, Thor’s Hammers, and she said they did some re-enact- ments in Sussex around Easter time. 1 rang the Sussex police first thing and they told me there were some similar raids on farms at the time Thor’s Hammers were there. Nobody hurt but a lot of valuables and vehicles taken.’

‘Well, I think that confirms our little theory. Well done, Wes. Looks like we’ve found a link. And I’ve sweet-talked the Super into giving us extra back-up for the festival.’

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Wesley smiled. ‘How did you do that?’

The inspector tapped the side of his nose. ‘I used my charms.’ He winked. ‘Then when these robbers are enjoying the custody sergeant’s lavish hospitality, we can concentrate on finding Ingeborg Larsen … wherever she is.’ His face clouded. ‘Do you think her brother’s disappearance has anything to do with hers? Or do you think he’s just had some sort of accident? Any ideas?’ he asked anxiously. Wesley suspected the question had been preying on Heffernan’s mind.

‘We won’t know until Sven Larsen’s found, will we? You seem to think he’s dead.’

‘I thought he’d got away from the boat in the dinghy but it was found drifting out to sea. And there’s a bloodstain near the outboard motor. It doesn’t look good, Wes.’ Heffeman shook his head, clearly worried.

Rachel walked slowly in through the office door. There were dark rings beneath her eyes: she hadn’t slept. She approached Wesley’s desk, giving him a weak smile. ‘I believe Trish suggested we have another look through Ingeborg Larsen’s things. Do you fancy coming up to Newpen Road?’

Wesley nodded. ‘Good idea. We’ve some time to kill before the Neston Festival. Come on.’ He stood up and grabbed the jacket from the back of his chair.

Rachel was quiet as they walked through the streets of Tradmouth. The seagulls wheeled overhead, emitting raucous cries as they climbed the steep street up to Newpen Road, with a precipitous drop down to the river on one side and a row of genteel whitewashed houses, the kind once owned by respectable sea captains, on the other. Wesley paused, enjoying the view. The boats scurried below them like pond-skating insects, and the buildings of the hill-hung town of Queenswear on the opposite bank of the river gleamed in the sunshine.

‘Nice view,’ said Rachel quietly.

‘Is something the matter, Rach?, He decided on the direct approach.

She leaned on the low wall and stared out across the river. It was a while before she spoke. ‘It’s Dave. I feel pressured, Wesley. 1’m not ready for anything serious.’

‘Is there any reason why you should be?’

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She shook her head. ‘It’s my mother. She’s dropping hints … pushing us together all the time, piling on the pressure.’

‘That’s mothers for you. I had the same problem once. My mother decided that a girl who went to our church was the one for me. She was training to be a solicitor and her parents came from Trinidad like my parents, so they kept pushing us together. She was a nice girl and I did like her … but I can’t say it was true love. Then I met Pam at university and … ‘

‘But they didn’t move the girl into your house, did they? At least you got away to university. I feel the whole thing’s out of my control … I feel that any moment my mother will be buying me a wedding dress and marching me up the aisle with a shotgun at my head.’ .

Wesley smiled to himself. It wasn’t like Rachel to be so melodramatic.

‘Why don’t you just tell her?’

‘Did you tell your mother?’ she asked challengingly.

‘No. Sheer cowardice on my part, I’m afraid. Look, Rachel, don’t let it get to you. If you’re not ready for commitment, you say so.’ It amused Wesley to think of the cool, self-sufficient Rachel feeling like a frustrated teenager locked in a battle of wills with her mother. But, he thought philosophically, to one’s mother one is always ten years old and in need of advice and control. But at least, unlike others, mothers mean well.

‘Yeah, you’re right. I’m making too much of it … letting it get to me. It’s all the strain of the robbery and…’ She leaned across and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Wes.’

He looked at her, certain he could detect tears in her eyes. ‘Come on. Let’s go and have a word with Mrs Questid.’

When Barbara Questid answered her front door, she looked a little flustered. ‘I’m afraid I’ve had to let Ms Larsen’s room,’ she babbled apologetically. ‘I really didn’t have any option. It’s the height of the season and I couldn’t afford to turn people away with one of my best rooms standing empty.’ She stood there, her arms folded as if to make her point.

‘That’s all right, Mrs Questid,’ said Wesley comfortingly. ‘What have you done with Mrs Larsen’s things?’

‘They’re quite safe. I packed everything away in her suitcases

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and put them in the cupboard under the stairs. I don’t suppose there’s any word…’

‘I’m afraid not. Sorry. Has her brother been in touch with you at all?’

‘Her brother? No. Should he have been?’ She looked worried, fearing some dreadful omission had been made on her part.

‘No, not necessarily. If we could just have another look through her things …’

Barbara Questid led them to the stairs and opened the cupboard door. A couple gf expensive-looking suitcases stood there inside the immaculately clean cubby-hole, side by side.

Wesley took the larger case out and opened it carefully. Barbara Questid had packed it well, folding each garment with professional neatness. He sighed and looked at Rachel. There was probably nothing here that could tell them anything they didn’t know already.

‘What exactly are we looking for, Wesley?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Something … anything we missed the first time we looked.’

He began to unpack the case, placing the clothes in a neat pile on the floor. He came to a snowy-white jacket, swathed in thin clingy polythene, and picked it up carefully by its wire hanger. ‘Look at this.’ He located the pink ticket and examined it. ‘Pilington’s Cleaners. That’s in Market Street, isn’t it?’

Rachel nodded. ‘If she wore white jackets that need dry cleaning, what could she expect? Must have cost her a fortune,’ she said censoriously. Wesley suspected that Rachel would never be caught doing anything so extravagantly impractical.

‘I think we should pay a visit to Pilington’s to see if anyone remembers her. She might have been with someone … or mentioned something to the staff. It’s unlikely, I know, but…’

Rachel shrugged, unconvinced by the idea. She looked at her watch. ‘Have we got time?’

‘We’ll have to get over to Neston soon, so I suppose it can wait.’ Wesley placed the dry-cleaning ticket in a plastic bag and put it in his pocket. It was a long shot but, he thought, it was worth a try. He checked his watch again. ‘We’d better think about grabbing something to eat. Pam’s making her debut at one-thirty … can’t miss that, can I?’

Rachel smiled weakly as she helped Wesley to pack Ingeborg

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Larsen’s worldly possessions back into the suitcases, wishing that there was some way she could avoid visiting the Neston Viking Festival that afternoon.

Neil Watson was looking forward to the Neston Festival …

looking forward to noting Thor’s Hammers’ appalling historical

inaccuracies. He toyed with the idea of ringing Wesley to see if he

was free that lunch-time. But, he reckoned, the chances of his

friend being able to get away were slim, given the crime wave that

seemed to have engulfed the district in recent weeks.

After buying himself a humble cheese sandwich from the busy . supermarket in the middle of Tradmouth, he decided that he had

just enough time for a swift visit to the Peacock Museum. Perhaps

Bate-Brownlowe had managed to dig out some more information

on the finds at Longhouse Cottage.

He found the curator sitting outside the museum on a rickety

wooden chair, enjoying the sunshine, a flask of coffee at his feet.

He stood up when he saw Neil approaching.

‘Lovely day. You’ve not brought your friend with you this

timeT He looked anxious, as though Neil were some sort of

inspector come to report on the museum’s shortcomings.

‘He’s busy. Crime wave,’ Neil said simply. ‘1 don’t suppose

you’ve found out anything else about the finds from Longhouse

Cottage?’

‘I’m sorry. I’ve been busy cataloguing the natural history

collection. But you’re welcome to take a look at Jeremiah

Peacock’s old catalogue, if you like. There might be something

else in there,’ the curator said, anxious to please. He led Neil

inside and pulled the massive volume from the cupboard before

excusing himself. He had a collection of birds’ eggs to remount.

Neil flicked through the book, glad that Jeremiah Peacock’s

copperplate handwriting was legible. Peacock had been an avid

and eclectic collector. Natural history had been his main passion,

with a smattering of foreign and local history around the edges, as

it were. He had obviously predicted the imminent obsolescence of

much of the equipment used on the district’s farms in the last

century, and had collected seed drills, butter chums and horse—

drawn ploughs as if they were going out of fashion. Neil turned

the pages, scanning them for anything archaeological or anything

remotely connected with Longhouse Cottage.

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But, he had to admit, the entries in old Jeremiah’s catalogue were remarkably dull. There were some Roman coins and a few shards of medieval pottery, but nothing that Neil would describe as exciting.

Until he came to the next-to-Iast page.

Wesley dropped Rachel outside the police station and rushed into the nearest sandwich shop in search of lunch before his trip to Neston. Coming out with his prize, chicken tikka on rye bread, he put his change into his pocket and his hand came into contact with a plastic bag. He pulled it out, and the pink dry-cleaning ticket sat there between his fingers, challenging.

As he had half an hour spare, he would get the visit to Pilington’s over with … not that he really expected it to be productive.

He made for Market Street, no great distance away, where he found the dry cleaner’s empty of customers, and the woman behind the counter staring at him with undisguised curiosity. Wesley guessed she was about fifty, but she might have been younger … or older. She was a big, strong-looking woman with dull brown hair, peppered with grey, which framed a plain, doughy face with a tiny button of a nose. She had the careworn look of one who had worked hard most of her life for little reward.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked, pulling down the sleeves of her thin blue nylon overall defensively.

Wesley produced his warrant card and the woman fidgeted, avoiding his eyes. Then he placed the bag containing the pink ticket on the counter in front of her.

‘A lady called Ingeborg Larsen brought a white jacket in here for cleaning.’ He produced the photograph of Ingeborg he had carried around in his inside pocket since the investigation began and laid it beside the ticket. ‘Do you recognise her?’

The woman glanced at the photograph for a second then shook her head. ‘So many people come in here. I can’t remember them all, can I? And if she wasn’t a regular … ‘

‘So you don’t remember her?’

The woman obviously found it hard to utter a blatant lie. ‘Well, I remember her vaguely … but she just came in and went out, I never talked to her. Why?’

‘She’s gone missing and we’re looking for her.’ Wesley gave a

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quick, businesslike smile. ‘Sorry to have bothered you, er … Mrs…’

‘Tensby. Sorry I couldn’t be more help … but as I said, we get a lot of people in here.’ Wesley could detect relief in her voice.

When he was halfway down the road, taking a bite from his sandwich, Mrs Tensby went into the back of the shop and picked up the telephone.

Neston was filling up nicely. The steep narrow High Street, now closed to cars, thronged with colourfully dressed citizens and summer visitors. Children, tetchy in the summer heat, were appeased’with ice creams and brightly coloured helium balloons which bobbed above their heads. Barriers had been erected at the sides of the High Street, and there was a carnival atmosphere as people stood around expectantly, chattering loudly and cheering everything that moved down the centre of the road. Wesley Peterson and his boss stood on the expanse of grass in front of the ancient parish church, which stood back from the rest of the street. Wesley watched the church porch in the hope of spotting Neil and his colleagues, but there wasn’t an archaeologist in sight.