The Funeral Boat (26 page)

As soon as they were outside he put her down beside a large four-wheel-drive vehicle. ‘Sorry about all this,’ he said with sincerity.

But the wine had got to Sharon before he had. She giggled. ‘I’ve never been carried off by a Viking before,’ she gasped, breathlessly. ‘I’m not getting married till Saturday, so if you’re not doing anything tomorrow night I’ve got my own place and … ‘ Like Carly earlier that evening, Sharon pressed her lips and her body to his. Sam decided not to battle with fate and twisted his sword belt round so that it wouldn’t impede his tlcti vities.

After a few minutes Sam slowly detached himself from Sharon’s lips. ‘We ought to get back inside. Your friends’ll be

etting the wrong idea.’

‘Let ‘em.’ Sharon attached herself again but Sam broke free,

aking her hands firmly. ‘Are we still on for tomorrow night,

henT

‘I thought you were getting married next weekend. What will

‘our fiance say?’

‘What the eye doesn’t see…’ she replied meaningfully.

‘Big bloke, is heT asked Sam nervously, taking her hand and

uiding her back towards the pub.

Things had degenerated in the Ship and Compass while Sam

ad been outside. He sat down, perched on the edge of his seat,

voiding groping hands, while around him the hen party got even

ore out of hand.

The human hens had downed enough alcohol to floor several

ephants, their conversation growing coarser with each empty

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glass. It was when they began to throw their knickers across the pub floor in a newly invented game, seemingly based on crown green bowls, that Sam decided he’d had enough. He disentangled himself from Sharon and made for the gents’, thinking that a strategic withdrawal would be wise.

‘Hell,’ he muttered to himself as the pub doors swung open. Standing there facing him, mouth gaping, was his father, accompanied by a smartly dressed young black man.

Wesley Peterson stood by his boss, trying in vain to suppress a grin. ‘What is it you were saying about too many Vikings around here?’ he whispered in his boss’s ear.

But Heffernan didn’t answer. He continued to stare at the apparition in the homed helmet. Until the apparition spoke.

‘Hello, Dad.’

Heffernan scratched his head. ‘So that’s what you mean by public relations, is it? What are you doing, son? Working for the Scandinavian Tourist Board?’

‘Er … actually, Dad, I’m a kissogram - Eric the Viking,’ explained Sam. ‘Goes down very well with hen parties,’ he added by way of justification.

‘I’m sure it does.’ Heffernan turned to his sergeant. ‘Wesley, you’ve not met my son, Sam.’

Wesley and Sa..‘1l shook hands. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. You read archaeology at Exeter, didn’t you?’

‘Come on,’ said Heffernan impatiently. ‘This isn’t University Challenge. We’re here to have a word with one of the barmen. Young, mousey hair, goes by the name of Pete. Ring any bells?’

Sam shook his head, and Wesley prepared himself for discreet enquiries at the bar. .

Pete Wexer wasn’t hard to find. And when they asked him, ir time-honoured fashion, to accompany them to the station, he sai( nothing but climbed into the back seat of their car, his face bearin! an expression of cool resentment.

Sam followed them outside and stood, holding his home( helmet and looking coyly at his dad.

‘Have you got that rust bucket with you or do you want a liJ back to Tradmouth?, shouted Heffeman from the passenger seat

‘} came in the car. Honest Dad, can you imagine me getting th bus dressed like this? Anyway’ - he winked - ‘I’ve got SOID unfinished business back in the pub.’

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Sam disappeared back inside and his father watched him go, shaking his head. ‘By heck, Wes, you do some daft things when you’re young, don’t you.’ He turned and looked at Pete Wexer, who was sitting in the back seat, looking decidedly nervous.

Monday morning dawned, promising another day of semi-tropical heat. As he crunched on his cornflakes, Wesley listened to the local morning news on the radio, with its grim predictions of drought and water rationing. But the words didn’t register. His mind was on other things.

Pete Wexer was Daniel Wexer’s son: he had admitted that much when they had interviewed him the previous night. But he had refused to explain why a sawn-off shotgun and ammunition had been found hidden at the back of his wardrobe during the search of Claire Wexer’ s house that Heffernan had organised soon after the arrest. Pete Wexer - a young man with no previous criminal record - had spent a night in the cells. Gerry Heffeman reckoned that this introduction to the world of crime and punishment would concentrate his mind wonderfully.

Pam was still in bed, asleep and exhausted after a night tending to a teething baby. Wesley looked at the cupboard where she had stowed away the Peacock papers and her lotebook, wrestling with his curiosity. But a glance at his watch

old him he had no time for history, however intriguing. Brother

dwin would have to wait.

When he finally arrived at the police station, Gerry Heffernan

vas nowhere to be seen.

‘I’ve a message for you from the boss,’ Steve Carstairs

nnounced as Wesley walked into the office. Steve was sitting in

ront of a flickering computer screen, leering unpleasantly. ‘Hey,

arge, I heard about him finding his lad last night dressed up as a

‘iking. He’d got a job as a stripagram or something. His dad

mnd him with a load of naked girls … orgy it was.’ The story

ld obviously been embellished by the ever-efficient station

apevine as the night had progressed. Steve emitted a lecherous

ugh. ‘They were a randy lot them Vikings, eh?’

Wesley smiled and nodded but thought it best to make no

,mment. Why spoil a good story? And besides, this was the

i,endliest Steve had ever been. He would make the most of it

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before the old, unreconstructed Steve returned … as he inevitably would., ‘Is the inspector in already, then?’

‘Yeah … not like him at all, is it? He was here at eight. Rachel got in early and all and they’re interviewing Pete Wexer now. He left you a message … said he’d deal with Wexer if you carried on with the Larsen case.’ Steve, chirpy for once, returned to his computer screen and carried on typing.

‘Thanks,’ said Wesley as he sat down at his desk. He looked over at the notice-board, at the photographs of Ingeborg Larsen and her dead brother, and wondered where to start.

He opened his notebook, organising his ideas, scribbling likely avenues of investigation on a spare piece of paper. He would arrange for everyone with a boat moored anywhere on Sven Larsen’s probable route to be interviewed in case they had seen anyone boarding his yacht. He would have to contact Ingeborg’s ex-husband. And then there was the mystery woman in the sunhat and dark glasses who appeared on the videotape. There was something about her that wasn’t quite right. He was about to have another look at the tape when something in the notebook caught his eye: the registration number of the black car he had spotted near Longhouse Cottage. He typed the number into the computer and the owner’s details flashed up on the screen.

It was fortuitous that PC Paul Iohnson chose that moment to walk into the CID office. Wesley called him over.

‘Paul, there’s something here that might interest you.’

10hnson leaned over to see the computer screen.

‘It’s the owner of that black car … the one that Carl Palister thinks might belong to the Waters House prowler. Look at the name.’

‘Address in London. Perhaps he’s a visiting relative.’

‘Then why not drive up to the house like everyone else? It must be the prowler. Carl’s sightings fit the times the prowler was reported. I think we should go and have a word with Mr and Mrs Wentwood when we’ve got time … ask them who exactly this Harry Wentwood is.’

PC 10hnson nodded earnestly. He had to admit that he wantec to know the answer to that question himself.

Gerry Heffernan stared at the young man who sat opposite him iJ the grey, institutional interview room. He was an unprepossessinl

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lad. Neither tall nor small, with mousey hair, grey eyes that were placed too close together above a bulbous nose, and not even enough spots to make him stand out in a crowd. But he had a presence, an aura - hatred, like electricity, positively crackled around him.

Heffernan stared at the tape machine whirring at the edge of the table and paused before he asked the next question. ‘So let me get this straight, Pete. You hate your dad and you persuaded this mate you won’t name to drive you to your dad’s farm to stage a robbery at gunpoint just to frighten him?’

Pete Wexer nodded. ‘When 1 heard about these farm robberies 1 thought it’d be a good idea. 1 wanted to make him pay for what he’d done to my mum. She was so cut up when he said he wanted her out … when he brought that … that bitch into our house. Mum had given him everything … she’d never messed about with anyone else. She’d just helped him run the farm and brought us kids up. Then that … that … she came along to do the farm accounts and they ended up in bed. Mum’s been on tablets ever since … been backwards and forwards to the doctor with her nerves. And that evil slag … ‘ Pete didn’t finish the sentence. There were tears in his eyes. ‘I wanted to kill him,’ he said quietly.

Rachel handed Pete a tissue. He took it from her and blew his nose loudly. ‘1 love my mum,’ he said, sobbing. ‘That’s why I did [1. 1 saw what he did to her.’

‘Does your mum know what you did?’ asked Rachel gently.

Pete Wexer shook his head. Rachel already knew the answer:

:::laire Wexer had been shocked at the discovery of the shotgun in

ler son’s room.

‘Or your sister?’ asked the inspector. ‘I met her at the hospital.

;he didn’t seem too fond of your stepmother either.’

‘No. Penny’s not involved. It was my idea, right? Nobody

lse’s. 1 shot him and if 1 go to court I’ll tell them all why. I’ll tell

ilem how that bastard deserved everything he got and more. He’s

lways been a randy old goat. My uncle told me he got some

Jreign girl into trouble just before he got married … some girl

rho came to stay on the farm to help my gran. He never could

eep his trousers up. 1 bet that old devil has caused more misery

.. and as for that bitch Jen…’ He spat the name. ‘She didn’t

lve a shit about what she did to my mum. All she wanted was to

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get her hands on the farm and … ‘ The words stopped, their flow plugged by bitterness. .

Heffernan could feel the waves of anger and hatred, almost palpable. He hoped his own children would never have cause to speak of him like this. This was not just a thankless child - it was a bitter, wounded one.

Gerry Heffernan and Rachel Tracey took his written statement, then left the room in silence. Neither felt like talking.

After assigning what detective constables were available to water-front enquiries to discover whether Sven Larsen had been seen with anyone on the evening he died, Wesley Peterson wandered down the corridor in search of PC Johnson. The identity of Harry Wentwood was preying on his mind. The sooner he called at Waters House and asked a few pertinent questions the better.

But Gerry Heffernan, charging down the corridor towards him like an irritated bear, had different ideas. Waters House would have to wait.

‘We’re ˇoff to see Dan Wexer,’ Heffernan announced cheerfully. ‘His lad told me something interesting. Apparently Dan’s been a bit of a lad in his time. According to Pete Wexer, he got a foreign girl into trouble many years ago when he was young … a girl who cai-ne to help at the fa.rm. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘That it was Ingeborg. She came to stay with a family over here when she was about eighteen. Does the timescale fit?’

‘My maths has never been that good, Wes … but I think so. We might have found a connection at last.’

‘Of course, foreign could mean anything,’ said Wesley, pouring cold water on Heffernan’s enthusiasm. ‘You’ve got the whole world to choose from.’

‘Well, there’s only one way to find out. We’ll go and ask Wexer.’

‘Sven never mentioned that Ingeborg had had a child.’

‘She might have had an abortion, or had it adopted anything. Come on, Wes. Let’s get over there.’

The inspector sat in the front seat of Wesley’ s Ford in expectanl silence, his eagerness bubbling below the surface. When the) drew up at Wexer’s Farm, Jen came out to meet them. Heffernar greeted her curtly; Pete’s version of her arrival at the farm made

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him look at the woman in a different, more critical way. She was pretty, certainly, but there was also a hardness in the eyes. Heffeman could well believe that Pete’s account was true.

She led them into the house, where Dan Wexer was sitting at a bureau in the corner of the room, filling in official forms, his leg still bandaged and a pair of steel crutches propped up against the wall within easy reach. He turned as the policemen walked in and greeted them with a friendly ‘Hello’.

But the smile faded from his face when Gerry Heffeman revealed the identity of his attacker. He seemed shocked - but somehow not surprised - that his own son should attack him, that his own flesh and blood should harbour such hatred. But then, Wesley told himself, it was hardly unusual for people’s nearest and dearest to be the focus of such emotions: most murders were family affairs.

He listened while Heffeman asked the questions. Jen, he noticed, was standing near the door, arms folded defensively. She said nothing and her expression gave nothing away. If she felt bad about the misery she had caused in the Wexer household, she certainly didn’t show it.

It wasn’t long before Heffeman’s questioning changed tack dramatically. ‘Tell me about this foreign girl you got into trouble before you were first married.’