The Marriage Hearse (16 page)

The scene was as relaxed as the holiday sailors who lounged on the decks of their moored-up yachts sipping their gin and tonics.
It was hard to believe that only a few days before Kirsten had been murdered, brutally strangled. It was hard to believe that,
after something like that, the world would carry on just as before.

She began to walk up a side road to the High Street. Winterleas always had a good selection of ice cream, especially at this
time of year when it was at the top of everyone’s shopping list. She walked slowly, being in no hurry to get back.

As she watched the faces of the passers-by, she suddenly thought how bovine people looked when they were on holiday. Like
browsing cattle they ambled along, looking at whatever caught their eye with no urgency whatsoever. The thought made her smile.
Until she spotted a face that looked neither happy nor relaxed.

Shooting into a doorway to avoid being seen, Marion watched as the man took a key from the pocket of his shorts. He stood
by a glass door beside a shop selling crockery and souvenirs – the door to the flat above the shop – and looked around before
placing the key in the lock.

At last she knew where Stuart Richter had gone to ground.

A
CT
1 S
CENE
3

Padua. The Great Hall of the Duke’s palace
.

(Enter Duke, Duchess, Paolo, Clara, Sylvius, Antonio and nobles)

D
UKE
Now Hymen’s rites have sealed the union, come let us feast and celebrate this night. For my dear son, the first born
of my line, hath pledged his troth with this, my neighbour’s jewel
.

C
LARA
Good father, for I must call you thus, give us your blessing
.

D
UKE
Aye, gladly. And Paolo, hast thou no words for this, they new wed wife?

P
AOLO
Pleasing fair maid, let nought my joy amend, for I was wretched and my lips did rend the air with shouts of melancholy
ere thou consented to be mine. (They embrace)

D
UCHESS
Come, let us to the feast, my son, my daughter
.

(Exeunt Duke, Duchess, Paolo, Clara and nobles)

A
NTONIO
Their passion makes me sick unto my spleen
.

S
YLVIUS
But soft, good brother, we joy to grief must turn
.

Wesley managed to get home at a reasonable time and, as a consequence, Pam was in a good mood. Demob happy now that the term
was drawing to a close. As she came downstairs to greet him she was smiling.

‘What time did Maritia say she’d be back?’

Pam shrugged. ‘She didn’t. She says they’re starting on the bedroom today.’ She looked at him through half-closed eyes, a
secretive smile on her face. ‘I went into Morbay after school today. I went a bit mad with my credit card.’

He sat forward, imagining a deep hole appearing in their joint bank account. ‘Oh yes?’

‘I needed something for Maritia’s wedding and …’

‘How much?’

‘It was a bargain. Dirt cheap.’

‘Define cheap.’

Pam retrieved an expensive-looking carrier bag from the top of the wardrobe. Thick royal blue plastic with the name of an
exclusive shop emblazoned on the front.

‘I’ll try it on.’ She had evaded the question with the skill of a politician. The news was probably worse than he feared.

She slipped off her clothes and stood there in her bra and pants. Her husband gazed appreciatively as she laid the new outfit
on the bed. She had done well to regain her figure after giving birth to two children not very far apart, he thought, scratching
his head.

When she was dressed she twirled round in the mauve dress and matching jacket that clung flatteringly to her body.

‘It’s great,’ was Wesley’s verdict. ‘But you’re not going to tell me how much it cost, are you?’

‘Maritia said that, in her medical opinion, it would be extremely bad for your blood pressure.’ She undressed and hung her
new treasure carefully on the wardrobe door. Wesley was about to catch hold of her hand but the sight of the dress hanging
there stopped him.

‘You wouldn’t leave a wedding dress costing over a couple of thousand pounds hung up with the straps all twisted, would you?’

‘Too right. No woman would. Unless she’d taken it off in a moment of passion,’ she added with a hint of envy.

Wesley thought for a second. ‘You could be right.’ He turned his attention to the dress. ‘How much was it really?’

Pam narrowed her eyes, defiant and he suddenly knew he was treading on dangerous ground. ‘Does it matter? I don’t see much
of my husband so I need some pleasures in life.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …’

But before he could finish his sentence she’d swept from the room.

‘A Mrs Joyce Barnes telephoned last night after you’d gone home, sir.’ DC Trish Walton stood in front of Gerry Heffernan’s
desk the next morning, her hands clasped behind her back. ‘I put her number on your desk.’ She looked at the desk’s chaotic
surface – the small piece of paper with the number printed on had probably been buried already by that morning’s layer of
paperwork.

The chief inspector blushed. ‘Thanks, Trish.’ He waited for her to leave the office before beginning his search for the scrap
of paper. If Trish had put it on his desk then it had to be there somewhere. It only took a couple of minutes for the search
to turn from casual to frantic and by the time Wesley Peterson came in, the floor was covered in paper: printed budget reports
that had been spewed forth from computers in distant offices; papers tumbling out of files; unimportant memos from the powers
that be; vital forensic reports. Wesley looked upon Gerry Heffernan’s works and despaired.

‘When I studied archaeology, we were taught to be methodical. Each context was excavated separately and given its own reference
number. Then the finds from that context were placed in a tray labelled with the same number and …’

Heffernan looked up. ‘If you think you’re so good at this sort of thing, why don’t you give us a hand?’

‘What are you trying to find?’

‘A phone number.’

‘Is this it?’ Wesley held up a small square of white paper with a number printed on it in Trish’s small neat hand beside the
name Mrs Joyce Barnes.

Heffernan grabbed the thing gratefully and stuffed it into his trouser pocket before attempting to rectify his trail of destruction.

‘Who’s this Joyce Barnes then?’ Wesley asked. The straightforward approach was often the best.

‘Er … just someone I met?’

‘Aren’t you going to call her?’

‘Later.’

Wesley sensed the subject was closed. ‘So what’s new?’

‘They’ve had a look at Kirsten Harbourn’s computer. Nothing significant. And a short hair was found on the body. It had a
root so they’ve managed to get a DNA profile. Unidentified as yet. Whoever left it there isn’t on the national database.’

‘That rules out Simon Jephson.’

Heffernan shrugged. ‘I’m not ruling him out just yet. But it could be a breakthrough.’ He thought for a few moments. I think
we should have another word with Kirsten Harbourn’s mother. I know she was living at the cottage but perhaps her room at home
should be searched too.’

There was a sharp knock on the door, a token knock before Rachel Tracey burst in. ‘There’s been a call from Marion Blunning,
sir. She saw Stuart Richter going into a flat in Tradmouth yesterday – above a shop on the High Street. I’ve checked and it
seems it’s rented by a Gordon Richter … his brother?’

Heffernan fought the urge to offend Rachel’s feminist sensibilities by giving her a kiss on the cheek. Instead he rewarded
her with a wide grin. ‘Well done, Rach. We’d better send someone over.’

‘Steve and Darren are already on their way there to pick him up.’

He beamed at her. Things were looking up.

‘Let’s hope our bird hasn’t flown,’ said Wesley. But even his pessimistic contribution couldn’t dampen Heffernan’s spirits
as they drove out to Stoke Raphael. There was no mention of Joyce Barnes during the journey on the crowded car ferry. Wesley
assumed that if Heffernan wanted to confide in him, he’d do so in his own good time. And it was always possible, of course,
that there was nothing to confide.

Wesley parked outside Theresa Harbourn’s modern detached house on the outskirts of the village. Theresa had obviously been
allowed to keep the marital home. Richard had left for pastures new.

It was Theresa’s sister from Manchester who answered the door. She opened it a fraction at first, like a nervous pensioner
anticipating a bogus caller, but when they introduced themselves, she stepped aside to let them in.

Like many overweight people, Theresa’s sister, Linda, had a smooth, barely-lined complexion. Her grey-blond hair had been
well cut but her vest top revealed too much dimpled flesh. But then it was a warm day and fashion was probably the last thing
on her mind.

‘Theresa’s in the lounge with the policewoman,’ she said in a whisper. ‘She’s still not too good. Have you got him yet? That
Richter?’

‘We think we might have found him. A couple of my officers have gone to pick him up.’ Gerry Heffernan sounded almost proud.

She looked him in the eye. ‘All we want is justice, you know. She was a lovely girl. And that poor boy, Peter …’ She took
a clean tissue from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? Someone doing that to her …
and on her wedding day.’

The two policemen glanced at each other but said nothing as Linda led them through to Theresa’s lounge. The room wasn’t to
Wesley’s taste. There were two different designs of wallpaper and coordinating curtains and the predominant colour was pink.
It was a female room, overfussy. Wesley found it oppressive.

Theresa Harbourn sat in a white leather armchair that reminded Wesley of a giant marshmallow. Her feet were tucked beneath
her and she kneaded a handkerchief in her hand. The wide-screen TV was switched on and she stared at it, seemingly absorbed
by the goings on in the Australian soap opera being played out on the screen.

A young woman appeared from the kitchen bearing a steaming mug of tea: PC Jane Walker in plain clothes. Like Rachel, Jane
had the right blend of common sense and sympathy for family liaison work and she had been looking after Theresa, keeping an
eye on her and shielding her from the inevitable press intrusion. Wesley caught her eye and smiled and she nodded as if to
say everything was OK. Theresa was bearing up.

Wesley declined Jane’s offer of tea as he sat down opposite Theresa and Gerry Heffernan landed heavily on the sofa beside
him.

‘How are you, Mrs Harbourn?’ he asked for form’s sake. He could see how she was.

She answered with a shrug. But before Wesley could say more the doorbell rang. After a few seconds Richard Harbourn appeared
in the doorway. Ignoring the policemen, he hurried to his ex-wife’s side and sat on the arm of her chair. He gave her a nervous
peck on the cheek before putting his arm around her protectively. Wesley wondered whether his new wife would approve of such
an overt display of concern.

‘Well? Have you got him yet?’

‘We’re following a number of leads, sir. But we’re confident we’re getting there.’ Wesley knew he was sounding like an official
statement. He felt a sudden urge to confide in the man, to let him in on the details of all their lines of enquiry. But wisdom
dictated that he should exercise caution – raising false hopes and putting into words suppositions that later proved false,
would do nobody any good.

Unexpectedly, Wesley’s answer seemed to satisfy Richard who gazed at his wife with concern. ‘Has Peter been in touch?’

She shook her head. ‘Mrs Creston phoned to see how I was. Said her and Dr Creston were thinking of me. That was nice of her,
wasn’t it? She said Peter’s still too upset to talk to anyone. He’s heartbroken.’ She said the words with relish, as though
she found the idea that someone else was suffering as she was rather gratifying.

Richard squeezed her hand. ‘He would be. He’s a good lad. Like his dad. He was good to you when you had that trouble, wasn’t
he?’

She nodded.

‘What trouble was this?’ Wesley asked, curious.

Richard looked embarrassed and glanced nervously at his ex-wife. ‘Women’s troubles,’ he said in a stage whisper.

‘I had a hysterectomy a couple of years ago,’ Theresa said by way of explanation. ‘Dr Creston was my consultant. Such a kind
man. When I reminded him that I’d seen him before – years ago, before Kirsten was born – he seemed so interested, although
he was probably just being polite. In fact, he didn’t remember it till I reminded him.’ She smiled at the thought of the kind
doctor … the man she was to have been related to by marriage, if tragedy hadn’t got in the way.

‘Did Kirsten ever mention someone she worked with called Simon Jephson?’ Wesley thought the question was worth asking. But
it was greeted by blank stares. She hadn’t spoken to her mother about her work or the people she worked with.

The request to search Kirsten’s room was greeted with a resigned shrug from Theresa. It was something that had to be done.
But the search revealed nothing. Kirsten had taken most of her personal belongings to the cottage that was to have been her
new home. All that was left were the remnants of her youth. Old school books stuffed in drawers. Clothes she hadn’t wanted
to take with her. Nothing of any relevance as far as they could see. But Wesley suspected that Theresa would keep the room
as a shrine to her dead daughter – something tangible to remember her by.

There was nothing more to be learned there. They had shown their faces, kept the family up to date with developments. Now
all they had to do was to catch Kirsten Harbourn’s killer. And if their luck held, Steve and Darren might be bringing Stuart
Richter in that very moment.

It was Theresa’s sister, Linda, who showed them out. Wesley suspected that she was quite enjoying her self-appointed post
as door keeper. People, in his experience, like to feel useful.

As they turned to leave, Linda cleared her throat in a way that made it clear she had something to say. ‘I didn’t want to
say anything in there,’ she began. ‘I mean, it may be nothing but …’

‘Go on,’ Wesley prompted.

‘It’s Richard’s new wife. Petula, she’s called. I overheard Richard talking on the phone to her when he was here yesterday.’

‘And?’ Wesley wondered what was coming.

‘I wasn’t eavesdropping. I just happened to pick up the extension when the phone rang and …’ Somehow her protestations of
innocence didn’t sound very convincing.

‘Of course. What did you want to tell me?’ He looked at Gerry Heffernan who was shifting from foot to foot, anxious to be
away.

‘She said something about Kirsten. It wasn’t very nice. I mean, you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, should you?’’

‘What exactly did she say?’ Wesley asked, wishing she’d come to the point.

Linda hesitated, as though she hardly liked to say the words. ‘She said … she said Kirsten was a calculating little bitch
who deserved everything she got. That’s an awful thing to say, isn’t it?’