The Funeral Boat (4 page)

‘Thanks, Colin. I’ll be in touch.’

The pathologist waved a genial hand and marched off toward~ the gleaming Range Rover that awaited him in the yard.

As he drove off, a battered yellow Mini appeared, chugging slowly up the pitted track. The thing looked fearful for its exhaust as it rode over the potholes and furrows that Colin Bowman’s Range Rover had negotiated with ease. The Mini came to a halt, and Wesley’ watched as Neil Watson emerged from his disreputable vehicle and extracted a box containing the tools of his trade from the boot. He strode towards them with determination. He wasn’t going to waste time. ‘

‘Well,’ he shouted to Wesley, ‘what is it and where is it? Come on, I haven’t got all day.’ He grinned impudently. He and Wesley went back a long way, having met in their first year at Exeter University, where they had both wrestled with the intricacies of archaeology. Then their paths had diverged. Wesley - influenced by a grandfather who was a senior detective in Trinidad and an adolescent taste for the mysteries of Sherlock Holmes - had joined the police force, while Neil had embarked upon an archaeological career in Devon.

‘Come over here and take a look at this,’ Wesley shouted back.

Neil marched over to the grave and bent down, noting the

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stones that were heaped around the hole. ‘Where did these come from?’

‘They were in there … piled on top of the grave. There was a silver penny of Ethelred the Unready in the soil near by.’

Neil stood above the body and took a long hard look, assessing what he was dealing with.

Wesley produced a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and passed it to Neil. ‘There are loads of them down there. Where the ground hasn’t been disturbed they seem to be in some sort of line. What do they look like to you?’

Neil studied the three rust-encrusted objects and nodded. He recognised them. ‘Rivets. Any wood preserved?,

‘Haven’t seen any yet. These aren’t coffin nails, are they?’

‘No way.’

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

Gerry Heffernan was becoming impatient. ‘Oh, come on, Wes. Don’t be so ruddy mysterious.’

‘I’d just like Neil’s opinion.’

‘It’s impossible, Wes. There’s no record of anything like that being found around here. Now if we were in Scandinavia, or Orkney, or even Yorkshire … I’ll take a look.’

Neil picked a trowel and small-finds tray out of his box and let himself down carefully into the trench. He was silent as he scraped away at the earth surrounding the bones. A dozen or so loose rivets found their way onto the plastic tray and he noted the position of those nearer the body. They formed a distinctive pattern that he recognised.

Wesley watched, breath held, for the verdict, while Gerry Heffernan made a superhuman effort to control his impatience.

‘Well?’ said Wesley. ‘What do you think? Am 1 right?’

‘You could be. We’ll have to get the bones examined and dated but 1 think someone’s gone to a great deal of trouble to bury this chap in some sort of small boat. The question is why?’

‘I can’t see a boat. Where is it?’ Heffernan mumbled, shifting from foot to foot impatiently.

‘The wood rots away,’ said Wesley. ‘Only the rivets are left.’ He called down to Neil. ‘There seem to be some flakes of something dark fused to the right arm bones. Could it be rust?’

‘It’s possible. He could have been buried with a sword or something like that. But if the rivets are still there it’s unlikely

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something as big as a sword would have rotted away. Strange.’ Neil took his mobile phone from his pocket. ‘I’ll get Matt and Jane over here to help me lift these bones properly and get all this lot recorded. I’d ask you to help, Wes, but I can see you’re not dressed for it. This is very interesting. I’m glad you called me over.’

‘So what’s all the fuss about? What is it you’ve found?’ Gerry Heffernan’s patience had finally snapped.

‘Ever heard of the Vikings?’ asked Wesley.

, ‘Course I have. They were big and hairy, wore horned helmets and went in for a lot of rape and pillaging. Well … what about them?’ The truth slowly dawned. ‘We’ve not got one here, have we? No, you’re wrong, Wes. They were cremated in boats … blazing boats sailing off into the sunset … I’ve seen it in the films,’ he said smugly.

Wesley and Neillooked at each other and grinned.

‘Well, Hollywood isn’t exactly renowned for its historical accuracy,’ said Neil patiently. ‘Your average Viking warrior was just buried in a boat or, failing that, a boat-shaped grave made out of stones. I’m pretty certain that what we have here is a Viking burial. ‘

Heffeman shook his head in disbelief and turned to go. ‘I’d better get back to the station. I’ll leave you to arrange for the bones to get to Colin Bowman, seeing as how you like digging things up. Don’t be too long here, Wes … and try and have another word with Ma Palister, see how she reacts when you mention Jock. I’m still not convinced it isn’t him we’ve got down there, you know,’ he said, leaning over to look at the skull. ‘1 recognise that shifty grin of his.’

Gerry Heffernan didn’t see Neil and Wesley exchange a conspiratorial smile as he marched away, the two attendant constables following a little behind like burly bridesmaids.

Wesley’s stomach told him it was lunch-time. He had indulged himself for half an hour, watching Neil and his colleagues carefully lift the skeleton and search the rest of the grave. They had found more rivets - hundreds of them. The theQry that the body had been buried in some sort of smallish boat which had since rotted away, leaving only its rivets behind, seemed to be gaining in credibility. When the mortuary van had left, bearing the

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remains into Colin Bowman’s care, Wesley’s conscience had dictated that he return to the station in Tradmouth.

But the brain doesn’t function well on an empty stomach, and as Wesley drove back he anticipated a crisp, well-filled, warm pasty from the pasty shop in the High Street. He could almost smell it, taste it, as he approached the town.

He parked the car and marched swiftly past the Memorial Park. The pavements were packed with meandering holidaymakers, cruising slowly past the shop windows, Devon ice creams clutched in their hands. He strolled back to the police station, pasty in hand. The ecstasy of the first bite came when he was sitting back at his desk on the first floor, thinking how quiet the office was for a change.

The thought didn’t last for long as Gerry Heffeman burst in carrying a pile of tattered files. ‘I’m going to go through these, Wes. Jock Palister used to be a busy lad in his younger days. Clever and all … made sure we never had any evidence against him that’d stand up in court. We knew he was behind whatever it was, of course, but it was the Devil’ s own job to prove it. I reckon we’ve got him now, though. I know what Colin said, but it’s got to be Jock in that grave. I mean, Colin only had a quick look, didn’t he? How can he tell properly till he gets him back to -the mortuary? Buried so close to the house … it’s just got to be him. His disappearance was always one of the Great Unsolved Mysteries of Tradmouth CID.’

‘Did his wife report him missing?’

“Course she did. She would, wouldn’t she. I reckon we were only called today because Carl didn’t know she’d bumped his dad off. It was Carl who reported the skeleton, and Maggie couldn’t really have told him not to call us without giving the game away, could she?’

‘What makes you think it was her? If he had criminal associates … ‘

‘Oh, Wesley, didn’t they teach you anything in the Met? Most murders are domestics. And a complete stranger wouldn’t bury him in his own field in full view of his wife and son, would they?’

‘Neil thinks the body was buried in a boat which rotted away,’ said Wesley patiently.

‘Stoke Beeching is near the coast, you know. Someone might have happened to store an old boat there years ago … nothing to

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do with the body. No, Wes, I’m convinced it’s Jock. Here.’ He drew a photograph out of the top file and handed it to Wesley. It showed a thickset man in his thirties with cropped dark hair - not the sort to encounter on a dark night.

‘What about Mrs Palister? What do you know about her?’

‘She comes from a well-off family who disowned her when she took up with Jock. And she’s a sharp one is Maggie Palister … always ready with an alibi for her nearest and dearest. Give her her due, though, she has kept that smallholding going. And earl’s not a bad lad. He’s only known to us for very minor offences - spot of vandalism, possession of cannabis - which means she’s managed to keep him out of his father’s league … so far.’

Heffernan sighed and picked up the files again, ready to carry them off into his office. Then, as an afterthought, he turned back to Wesley and handed him a sheet of paper. ‘Here’s a list of the things that were nicked from Wexer’ s Farm last night. Put it in the file, will you. It seems they just took some jewellery. There’s a description of a Victorian locket there, quite distinctive … used to belong to Wexer’s grandma. Details have been circulated to all the jewellers in the area. Forensic haven’t come up with much. No fingerprints; no footprints; and no sign of the Land Rover that was nicked. It seems an old armchair took most of the blast from the shotgun; Dan Wexer’s leg only got the tail-end, which at least shows they weren’t necessarily shooting to kill … this time. And there was that second shot, possibly aimed at Mrs Wexer in the hall outside the room.’

As the inspector disappeared into his den, Wesley prepared to read the file on Wexer’s Farm. Whether its contents would help them catch the robbers was debatable, but there might, just might, be something Gerry Heffernan had missed. He had hardly begun to read when he heard a voice at his shoulder.

‘I’ve just been talking to the landlady of one of those bed and breakfast places up on Newpen Road.’ He turned to see Rachel standing behind him.

‘Thinking of moving out of the farm, are you?’ asked Wesley with a grin. Rachel had often expressed her dissatisfaction about living on her family’s farm with her parents and three brothers.

‘Not at the moment, but there are times when I’m tempted,’ she answered meaningfully, perching herself on the edge of his desk

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and showing a good deal of leg. ‘This landlady came to report that one of her guests has gone missing.’

‘Any cause for concern?’

‘I don’t know, Wesley.’ She shoved a statement form in front of his nose. ‘What do you think?’

‘Ingeborg Larsen, eh? Ingeborg is the loveliest of the girls…’

‘I beg your pardon,’ she said, sounding mildly affronted. It wasn’t like Wesley to utter such sexist sentiments … unlike others she could think of.

”’Ingeborg is the loveliest of the girls.” It’s a piece of Viking graffiti found in a place called Maes Howe in the Orkneys … written in runes.’

Rachel’s eyes started to glaze over at the mention of archaeology. ‘Fascinating,’ she said insincerely. ‘What do you think we should do?’

‘She’s a grown woman. Unless we have some evidence that she’s come to harm there’s nothing much we can do.’ He shrugged his shoulders.

‘That’s exactl y what I told the landlady.’

‘Then let’s hope our Ms Larsen turns up safe and sound.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’d better crack on. I promised Pam I’d be home at a reasonable time tonight … wedding anniversary.’

Rachel nodded, passing no comment, and returned to her desk. She had a bad feeling about Ingeborg Larsen.

Pamela Peterson had decided on a takeaway Chinese banquet to celebrate her fifth wedding anniversary. Tonight she and Wesley would enjoy an oriental feast, followed by a walk to the old part of the town for a quiet drink. Wesley had promised to be home at a reasonable time … but his wife wasn’t banking on it.

But Wesley was as good as his word. Having come to a natural break in his paperwork, he had left the station at half past five and had walked back up the steep, narrow streets to his modern detached house, perched at the top of the town. The smell that greeted him at the front door made him realise that he was hungry again, and his spirits lifted as he walked into the kitchen and saw the parade of foil dishes lined up on the table. Chinese was his favourite.

They were halfway through the meal when the phone rang. Pam was busy trying to spoon baby rice into little Michael’s reluctant

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mouth, so Wesley abandoned his lemon chicken to answer it. It was Neil, asking if he could meet him in the Tradmouth Arms. Wesley hesitated and told Neil to wait. This would need careful handling: abandoning his wife on the evening of their anniversary might not be the wisest of moves.

But he was amazed to find Pam agreeable to the idea. She had planned for them to go out for a drink and she had already arranged a baby-sitter. Lost for words at this unexpected twist in events, he muttered to Neil that he’d see him later and returned to his lemon chicken.

At eight ‘o’clock, with the meal cleared and the baby-sitter installed, they strolled arm in arm down the steep hill towards the heart of the town. Tradmouth was a medieval town, once made prosperous by trading wine, wool and Newfoundland fish. Although the fringes had undergone the inevitable development of the twentieth century, the centre, built around the harbour, had kept its picturesque character: this was what caused the tourists and yachtsmen to flock there each year in the summer months. They made their way down the restaurant-lined street that ran parallel with the river until they reached the Tradmouth Arms, a hostelry unspoiled by juke-box or fruit machine, which stood at the end of an expanse of cobbled quayside.

The pub was fuller than normal. But most of the summer visitors had taken their drinks outside onto Baynard’s Quay, where they sat on the benches watching ‘the boats moving on the river while their children caught fat crabs on thin nylon lines which dangled off the quayside. Wesley and Pam didn’t bother looking for Neil outside. Alfresco drinking wasn’t Neil’s style.

It was Pam who spotted Neil first. She made straight for him, Wesley trailing behind. Neil’s face lit up with a grin.