The Funeral Boat (22 page)

‘It’s about armed robbery … possible abduction of a witness … possible murder,’ said Gerry Heffernan, pulling no punches. ‘Pam here said that she found a hold-all containing a firearm we believe to have been used in a series of armed robberies. What do you know about it?’

Odin fingered his sheathed sword nervously. ‘Nothing,’ he said in seemingly honest panic. ‘1 don’t know anything about it.’ He looked at Pam in horror. ‘Jock joined us recently. 1 really don’t know anything about him,’ he added, convincingly. He looked again at Pam, warily. ‘So you went to the police?’

‘1 didn’t have to,’ she said. ‘1 happen to be married to Detective SergeantPeterson over there. Call it pillow talk,’ she added mischievously.

Odin looked across at Wesley and blushed, his hopes concerning Pam finally and brutally dashed.

‘So what can you tell me about Jock Palister?’ asked Heffernan.

Odin straightened his back and became more businesslike. ‘Jock joined us just before our Easter trip to Sussex. Most of us are based in London, and we all have other jobs. We only do this for a few weeks a year. For some of us, me included, it’s a way of life … more than just a hobby. But there are others who just come along for a bit of fun … a bit of company, bit of acting. I’d say Jock falls into the last category. And his friend Darren, of course. That’s the big bloke he hangs around with. They both joined at the

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same time. As I said, 1 don’t know much about them. They tended to keep themselves to themselves … never joined in with any of our social activities.’

‘Would you be willing to make a statement?’

Odin nodded. ‘Yes, of course. This won’t stop us going on to our next booking, will it? We’re doing a display up near Plymouth, then another at the Naval College fete in Tradmouth.’

‘You might be a couple of Vikings short of a longboat, but I think once everyone’s made statements you’ll be free to go. By the way Mr, er … Mitchelson, when you’re not plundering and pillaging, what is it you do for a living?’ Gerry Heffeman asked, more by way of curiosity than pursuing a police enquiry.

‘I’m a tax inspector. Why?’

‘Bit of a busman’s holiday for you, all this, then.’

Pam struggled to contain her laughter while Wesley and PC 10hnson dutifully smirked at the inspector’s wit. Rachel, her mind on other things, hovered at the tent entrance, anxious to be away.

‘Come on, then,’ said Heffemanjovially. ‘I feel a raid coming on.’

Neil Watson pushed his way through the crowd, his stress levels reaching new and unfamiliar heights. He had circled Neston at least four times looking for a parking space, only to discover that, with the festival on, half the roads had been closed and all the spaces taken. He had had to park his yellow Mini on the industrial estate a mile out of town and walk. As he neared the playing fields he realised that although the festival was still in full swing, he had missed Thor’s Hammers’ perfonnance.

He reached the crowded field, looking out for Wesley. But the police force was represented only by a couple of cheery-faced constables in their shirtsleeves who were mingling affably with the crowd. The CID was nowhere to be seen.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and swung round. Pam was standing there grinning at him, fetching in her Saxon gown and demure white veil.

‘You on your own?’ she asked. ‘You’ve missed all the excitement. A couple of Thor’s Hammers were using the group as a cover for armed robberies … or at least that’s what 1 think was going on. Wes and Gerry have gone off after them.’

‘Pity,’ said Neil regretfully. Armed robbery didn’t interest him

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much. ‘I wanted to see Wes. I’ve something to tell him. Something he’ll be interested in. Do you know when he’ll be back?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. What is it?’

‘Tell him 1 found another reference to Longhouse Cottage in Peacock’s catalogue, will you. Tell him I found a casket that was supposed to have had some parchments inside. Looks Anglo-Saxon. It was hidden in the attic of that apology for a museum … bloody amateurs. No sign of the parchments, of course. They’d have disintegrated years ago. But Peacock was thoughtful enough to make a copy of them which 1 found stuffed in the back of the catalogue. I’ve told the curator I want to call in someone from the county museum to have a look … get the stuff that’s left conserved properly. Will you pass the message on to Wes?’

Pam sighed. She knew Neil and his single-minded enthusiasms of old, and she knew how Wesley tended to be swept along with them. But at least, she told herself, it was better than Wesley having another woman. ‘I’ll tell him,’ she said, resigned. ‘Actually I think he’s heading for Longhouse Cottage now … something about a Jock Palister.’

Neil smiled like a cat that had just caught a particularly plump bird. ‘Me and Wes told Gerry Heffeman it wasn’t Jock in that grave. We told him it was a Viking. But would he listen? Fancy an ice cream?’

Pam could think of nothing she would like better … apart from her husband’s company.

The one thing Gerry Heffeman hadn’t expected at Longhouse Cottage was the wholehearted cooperation of their quarry’s son. Carl Palister came running out, making straight for Wesley. They had parked away from the house, having summoned the firearms unit. Jock Palister was inside; possibly with his companion, Darren, and possibly holding Maggie as hostage … and Ingeborg? Was Ingeborg in there too? One thing was certain - Jock was armed. They were taking no chances.

There’s no need for all this,’ were Carl’s first words when he arrived beside Wesley, breathless. ‘He’s a right bastard. There have been times over the past couple of weeks when I could have happily killed the old bugger, the way he knocks Mum about. But you can go in and get him now … easy.’

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‘He’s armed, Carl. He’s got a sawn-off shotgun with him. We’re not taking any chances.’

‘Who told you that?’ asked Carl in disbelief. ‘He’s got a shooter all right, but it’s not loaded. He’s got no arnmo. I know. I looked. He might give you a nasty knock on the head, but he’s not going to shoot anyone. Same goes for his mate, Darren. He’s been hiding out with Dad for the past couple of weeks. He’s not armed neither. Go on. Go in and get’ em. I’ll be bloody glad to see the back of him.’

‘Your dad - or one of his mates - shot a farmer a few nights ago … ‘

‘That couldn’t have been him. Aren’t you listening? He’s got no ammo. He just uses the shooters to frighten people … he said. ‘

‘You seem very keen to see your dad behind bars,’ said Gerry Heffeman.

‘Too right. He waltzes in here after three years, threatens Mum and acts like he bloody owns the place. I told him to get out … that we didn’t want to know him. But then he worked on Mum. When you were here I nearly gave him away. I should have done but I was afraid of what he’d do to Mum.’

‘Where’s your mum now?’

‘Out. In Tradmouth. Go on. Get him while you’ve got the chance … before she comes back.’

‘Is anyone else up at the house … apart from your dad and DarrenT

Carl shook his head. ‘If Mum had been in I wouldn’t have come out. I’d be scared what he’d do to her, but…’

‘And you’re sure they’re not armed?’

‘Positive. ‘

Gerry Heffeman gave Carl a quick pat on the shoulder. He believed him. But what if he was mistaken? The firearms unit would have to be involved, just to be on the safe side. Steve Carstairs would be livid at missing it all: to Steve this was what policing was all about. The inspector looked at his watch, wondering just how long this armed stake-out would take.

But Steve would have been bitterly disappointed. After a few minutes of tension while Gerry Heffeman spelled out the situation to the others in no uncertain terms, Jock Palister and the well-built Darren emerged from the front door of Longhouse Cottage, still dressed in Viking garb, their hands high in the air

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and an expression of surly defeat on their faces. They knew when they were beaten. They meekly submitted to the flak-jack- eted officers, who frisked them for weapons as they lay prone on the rough ground of the yard, and they were led away to the waiting police cars.

‘Well, Wes, that’s a good day’s work. Three of the farm raiders in custody. Wonder if there’s any more of’ em.’

‘If Proudy drove the getaway car and three did the actual robberies then there must be one more,’ said Wesley, putting a slight dampener on the proceedings. ‘Mind if I have a look inside the farmhouse?’

Heffernan looked towards the house, where swarnlS of officers were preparing to search the premises. ‘It looks a bit crowded over there … like the January sales, all sawn-off shotguns half price.’

Wesley strolled over to the house, thinking that Maggie was going to get a shock when she returned from her shopping trip to find hordes of unwelcome uniformed guests going through her belongings. But it wasn’t just crime that was on his mind at that moment. He wanted a look at the house itself … wanted to see if there were any clues to its age and origins.

He wandered through the shabby rooms, greeting his colleagues, sharing quips and words of encouragement. But all the time he was looking at floors, stonework, fireplaces, blocked-in windows and doors: the lack of any attempt at modernisation made the task easier. The place was very old, the core of the house medieval at least; but exactly how old he couldn’t tell without expert advice. And even then a medieval longhouse could have been built on the site of an earlier structure. Recycling was nothing new.

After a while he wandered out into the sunlight, where Gerry Heffernan was still talking to Carl Palister. The inspector spotted him and walked quickly over, taking his arm confidentially. ‘You go back to the station, Wes. I’m going to stay here and have a word with Maggie when she gets back. ” make sure she’s okay.’

..

Wesley climbed into his car and started the engine, navigating slowly down the uneven drive of Longhouse Cottage, terrain tlIat would bring delight to the heart of any exhaust replacement company. When he reached the gate and the main road he depressed the brake pedal, looking left and right.

It took a split second for his brain to make the connection,

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filled as it was with armed robberies and medieval domestic architecture. He watched as a large black saloon car pulled over onto the grass verge near the gate. It waited there for a few seconds then drove off. Then Wesley remembered: this was the car that appeared every time the prowler was spotted at Waters House. He grabbed his notebook and wrote down the registration number as the car disappeared in the direction of Tradmouth. He pulled out. With any luck he might be able to follow it … see where it went.

But this being the holiday season there was too much traffic around to make pursuit easy. The car disappeared from view, having overtaken a new, shiny camper van just before a bend in the road. But he had the number. He would check it on the computer when he got back to the station. He drove through the narrow, crowded streets of Tradmouth, trying his best to avoid the slowly strolling pedestrians, feeling a warm glow of professional exhilaration. They had three of the farm raiders, he had the number of the prowler’s car. All they needed now was to find Ingeborg and Sven Larsen safe and they were well on the way to driving crime from the district … for a day or so.

Shopping was one of WPC Trish Walton’s favourite activities. The exploration of clothes shops - in Neston, Morbay, or even Plymouth if she was feeling extravagant - with her sister or her friends was one of the cherries on life’s cake. Or so she’d always thought. Until now.

If she had to see the interior of one more shop on the flickering television screen, she might be put off shopping altogether. Steve Carstairs had left her to it half an hour ago. He had claimed he had to make an important phone call to an informant he’d met at a snooker club in Morbay. Trish strongly suspected this was a ploy. She had noticed more than once that when the going got tedious, Steve got going.

She sat in front of the screen, watching’shoppers come and go; some purposeful, some merely browsing. She pressed the fast-forward button, staring at the speeded-up figures rushing jerkily in and out of the shop. If Ingeborg did appear on one of the tapes, she asked herself, would she actually recognise her? Perhaps another coffee would pep up her fuzzy brain and make her more alert.

She paused the tape and went to fetch the coffee from the

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machine. When she sat down again, she sipped the hot muddy liquid, staring at the frozen picture on the screen.

Then a slow smile came to her lips. There she was … in the corner of the tape, browsing through the racks of sunglasses. Ingeborg Larsen.

She wound the tape forward a little. Ingeborg soon disappeared from the camera’s view. But a few seconds later a familiar figure appeared, walking through the shop’s open glass doors. Trish’s heart beat fast as she wound the tape back to make sure she wasn’t mistaken.

She let it play. There they were. They had met by the display of sun cream near the counter, Ingeborg and the man. They were walking out of the shop together.

Trish treated herself to another sip of coffee. The inspector would be impressed when she showed him the evidence in black and white - Ingeborg Larsen talking to Laurence Proudy on the day she disappeared.

Gerry Heffernan had spent some time with Maggie Palister before returning to the station. It was hard to tell whether she was relieved or upset by her husband’s arrest. But he guessed she had mixed emotions. There were some dregs of attachment there, but also considerable relief that he was gone; that she’d no longer have to endure his abuse and cover up for him. When the patrol car had driven away, Heffernan had looked back at Maggie and her son standing there in the yard, Carl’s arm firmly around his mother’s shoulders. Hopefully now Maggie could get on with what passed for her life. Jock would be going away for a long time.

Jock and Darren proved only too willing to talk, especially when they heard about Lol Proudy’s arrest. They both confirmed that Lol was the wheel man, driving them to their destination, then waiting outside in the car in case a quick getaway was needed. They had taken turns to drive the stolen vehicles and the lorry for the quad bikes. This, of course, begged a question. If Lol had been outside in the car and there were three raiders who went into the houses, who was the other man? Jock and Darren, like Proudy, stayed silent on the subject. Heffernan would work on it.