The Marriage Hearse (20 page)

‘Who was that?’ Simon Jephson emerged from the bathroom, a towel around his waist.

‘Peter. The police are questioning Kirsten’s ex.’

Simon flopped down on the bed and sighed with what sounded like relief. ‘That’s good.’

‘Who for? You? Does it let you off the hook? What exactly did you get up to with Kirsten?’ She flung herself on the bed beside
him and ran her finger down his spinal cord.

‘Nothing. I told you.’ He grabbed her wrist. ‘Kirsten’s dead now. End of story. It’s just you and me.’

They kissed then Julia broke away. ‘Why are you avoiding the police? If I’m harbouring you – isn’t that what they call it?
– shouldn’t I know what you’ve done?’

Simon hesitated. ‘Something happened once which means I’ll be top of their list when it comes to people to fit up. I thought
it wise to make myself scarce, that’s all. It’s nothing for you to worry about.’

‘Now why don’t I believe you? What was this thing that happened?’

Simon looked at her, calculating whether revealing that he’d spent a year in prison would affect the way she felt about him
… and her willingness to provide him with a safe haven until the storm was past. He decided to take the risk. If he didn’t,
she’d only ask more questions which might ultimately lead her to the truth.

‘I was taking some kids on a trip. There was this girl. I’d put her in detention the week before and she bore me a grudge.
She was sixteen.’ He thought he’d add the year for the sake of propriety. ‘Anyway, she made up this story that I’d tried to
… Nothing happened I swear but she cries attempted rape and it’s my word against hers so I find myself in jail. Teaching career
kaput. I came to Morbay for a new start. Somewhere nobody knew me. And Ma Sawyer wasn’t fussy about references.’

He waited for Julia’s reaction, watching her face. But she gave nothing away.

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said after a few seconds.

‘Where?’

‘I’m meeting my brother, James. He’s got some time off. I said I’d meet him for coffee.’

‘Isn’t James …?’

‘Gay. Yes he is. Bother you, does it?’

Simon shook his head quickly.

‘I want to talk things over with him. I want to know how we can stop Peter moping around like a tragedy queen.’

Simon suddenly scented possible defeat. He had taken a gamble, a throw of the dice. And he feared that this time, he might
have lost. ‘I can still stay here? I’ll leave as soon as I get something sorted out. I promise.’ He hesitated, watching her
face for a reaction. ‘I’m thinking of leaving Morbay … getting away.’

There was no distress, no attempt to persuade him to stay. But then Julia wasn’t that kind of girl. ‘You’re on the run from
the police?’ was all she had to say about the imminent departure of the man who’d been sharing her bed.

He nodded. He hardly liked to tell her that the police were the least of his worries. ‘If I can just stay here till I get
things organised …’

She narrowed her eyes. She was playing with him. ‘I’m not sure if I want to be alone in my flat with a convicted sex attacker.’

‘I told you. I …’

‘I’ll think about it. If I’m not back, don’t wait up. And do some clearing up while I’m out. I’m fed up of finding towels
lying all over the bathroom floor.’

As she flounced out, Simon Jephson laid back on the bed. He might have an uncertain future and it might be too dangerous to
return to his flat. But at least, thanks to Julia, he was still alive and free.

But something in the way she’d spoken made him wonder how long it would stay that way.

Act three, scene two was the turning point in the play, the director pointed out. Silvius, a villain almost worthy of a Christmas
pantomime, had just overheard his father the Duke’s solitary reminiscences about a woman he had once loved many years ago.
From
that time on, there was no going back. The path of the tragedy was set.

Sean Sawyer, playing the Duke appeared to be listening intently, but in reality his mind was elsewhere.

The hapless director, a small bald man in a brightly patterned shirt who taught Drama and Self-Expression at Tradington Hall
was starting to look rather desperate.

‘The theme of this scene – the driving engine behind it, as it were – is love. Lost love. So can we have some passion, gentlemen
please,’ he pleaded. ‘We’re talking real love here, not wham bam thank you ma’am and move on. Think Romeo and Juliet. Tristan
and Isolde. Abelard and Heloise. This man has loved and lost. It’s scarred him for life. Do you understand, Sean? You feel
genuine pain when you remember what you had with this woman.’

The director looked around at the blank faces of the cast and shook his head in despair. It was like trying to make a herd
of sheep perform
Hamlet
in Japanese and he found himself wondering, not for the first time, why he had agreed to take the job. There were some optimists
in the theatrical profession who abided by the old saw that it would be all right on the night … but he had never been one
of them.
The Fair Wife of Padua
, he feared, was heading for the rocks of disaster.

He looked at his watch and decided to admit defeat. ‘OK, ladies and gentleman, that’ll be all for tonight. If we can all have
our lines learned for Friday, please.’

Sean Sawyer led the rush for the door, intending to wait for Susie, his Duchess, outside. He had picked up the fact that the
young blonde woman called Rachel who was playing the Duchess’s maidservant, worked for the police and, since this discovery,
he had kept her at a polite distance. And he certainly didn’t want to draw attention to himself now.

He waited for Susie just outside the rehearsal room, watching as Rachel disappeared out of sight down the passage towards
the car park. From what he knew of the police, they were never off duty. And the fact that one of their number was playing
Susie’s maidservant, made him uncomfortable.

Sean and Susie walked to the car in silence. Sean checked his Rolex watch. Carla wasn’t expecting him home for at least another
hour and a half. Normally he’d take advantage of this ready-made alibi to go back to Susie’s place and spend a gratifying
hour in her bed. But tonight there was no time for pleasure. There was an awkward situation that had to be dealt with. And
Susie could be trusted to help and keep her mouth shut.

Susie sat beside him as he sped down the narrow, unlit country lanes. It was dark now and moths glowed like snowflakes in
the headlight. An owl swooped like a spectre in front of them and disappeared over the high hedge and a pair of orange green
eyes stared from the side of the lane before vanishing into the dense greenery of the hedgerow. Susie shuddered. She had been
a city girl once, before an impulsive marriage to a farm labourer had lured her to the country. The farm labourer had been
laid off in the aftermath of the foot and mouth outbreak and the marriage had gone the way of his job. But by that time Susie
had started working for Sean and the dual attraction of a steady job and a boss she found attractive had ensured that she
stayed in Devon.

‘I don’t like this. It’s not right,’ she said as Sean swung the car on to a track. She could see the shape of a cluster of
buildings outlined ahead against the night sky.

Sean changed gear as he slowed the SUV right down to negotiate the rutted track. ‘It’s necessary. Don’t start getting cold
feet now.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Give her food … and I’ve got a duvet in the back in case she’s cold.’

Susie said nothing. She supposed Sean was right. The girl was a loose cannon … and loose cannons have to be controlled to
prevent them doing a great deal of damage.

When Sean switched off the car headlights, everything was plunged into darkness. Not the sodium-lit darkness of the city but
a deep, black velvet darkness, an absence of any light save for that provided by the weak crescent moon and the strings of
tiny, pinpoint stars that twinkled weakly in the distant heavens. The noises were unfamiliar too; the distant lowing of a
cow, the bark
of a fox, the unearthly screech of an owl. The noises were somehow more disturbing for being unfamiliar. Who said the countryside
was quiet?

After Sean had taken the things from the back of the vehicle, Susie felt for his hand as they started to stumble across the
cobbled yard. When she found it, she held on tight, like a little girl going into the unknown with a trusted adult. She’d
known for some time that Sean’s dealings weren’t exactly legal. But these recent events had put him in another league; another
circle of hell. This was serious. And Susie was afraid.

‘Where is she?’ she whispered.

Sean didn’t answer. He kept on walking until they came to an old farm outbuilding. The paint on the door was flaking like
diseased skin and the pointing in the bricks had crumbled away. The place looked abandoned, unused. And it was dark. Susie
could almost scent fear as she stepped inside.

Sean switched on a torch and flashed the bright beam around the lichened walls. ‘Up the stairs,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll go first.’

She followed some way behind, almost expecting the prisoner to come leaping out, clawing at Sean’s face like a wild animal,
sending him tumbling backwards down the rickety wooden steps. But when he opened the door with the key he’d produced from
his pocket, she heard nothing. Perhaps the girl was dead, she thought. And if she was, it might solve a few of their problems.

But as she followed Sean into the room, closing the door firmly behind her, she saw the girl cowering in the dull white glow
of a small fluorescent camping light. She looked thinner than when Susie had last seen her, like a starving waif with huge,
desperate eyes. The room smelled foul, probably because the toilet’s flush no longer worked.

‘
Bonsoir
, Françoise,’ Sean said casually. ‘We’ve brought you some food … and a duvet. You understand?’

Françoise nodded. Susie thought she was shaking.

‘You’ll have to stay here. You understand?’

‘I go home?’ she said, pleading. ‘Please. I go home.’

‘We can’t take the risk.’ Sean bent down until his face was close
to hers. She stared up at him in uncomprehending terror. ‘You’ve got to stay here.’

‘I will say nothing. Please.’

‘If the police find you, they’ll lock you up. They think you killed him.’

Françoise shook her head vehemently and began to sob. ‘I find him. I do not kill him.’

Sean touched her face, wiping tears from her soft cheek. ‘You broke the rules, darling. You made contact.’ He paused for effect.
‘This is what happens when people break the rules.’

The girl began to sob louder and Susie stepped forward, suddenly sorry for her. ‘We’ve brought you some food,’ she said slowly,
as though she was talking to a backward child. She began to unpack the carrier bag. Bread rolls (wholemeal), ham, cereal,
Brie, milk, apples, bananas, a carton of pure orange juice: Susie had added the Brie as a token gesture of sympathy, thinking
it might make the girl feel more at home.

Françoise ignored the food parcel and continued to sob into a disintegrating tissue as the camping light flickered and faded.

Susie looked at Sean, who was squatting on the floor by the girl’s mattress, ‘Looks like the battery’s going. Have you brought
another?’

Sean shook his head. ‘Next time.’

‘You can’t leave her here in the dark.’

Sean didn’t answer. And as they left the room, Sean locking the door behind him, the small light flickered twice and died.

As soon as Wesley Peterson arrived in the office the next morning, Trish Walton ran up to him. With a piece of paper in her
hand and an eager expression on her face, she looked like an autograph hunter accosting a celebrity. Wesley smiled inwardly
at the thought.

‘The address Abdul Ahmed and Françoise Decaux gave to the register office doesn’t exist.’

‘I didn’t think it would. Now, why would a pretty young French student marry an older Iraqi man, kill him, then disappear?’

‘Perhaps it was a whirlwind romance and once they were married she found out he was violent or a pervert and …’

‘It’s possible. I suppose it’s too much to hope that Mademoiselle Decaux – or should I say Madame Ahmed – has turned up?’

Trish shook her head. ‘That Mrs Sawyer at the college said she’d let us know if she sees her but I’m not holding my breath.
Funny that Kirsten Harbourn worked there and she was killed. Now one of the students marries a man who’s found murdered and
then disappears. The two deaths must be linked. Stands to reason, doesn’t it, sir?’

Wesley didn’t answer. Gerry Heffernan had just emerged from his office and was gathering his flock for the morning briefing.

When the team was assembled, Heffernan beamed at them like a football manager whose team had just beaten Manchester United
in the Cup Final. ‘Good tidings, brethren. We have a result. The DNA results came back first thing and the hair found by the
dead woman definitely belongs to Stuart Richter.’

A small cheer went up. Steve Carstairs punched the air.

‘And his saliva was found on the victim’s face so it’s absolutely conclusive.’

‘He killed her so nobody else could have her,’ said Wesley quietly. The DNA evidence was right, as was the psychology. But
Wesley still felt uncomfortable about this neat solution. Or perhaps it was just that he liked a challenge.

‘We’ve got more than enough now to charge him.’ The chief inspector looked at Wesley. ‘His brief’s here. Are you coming down
to the interview room to do the honours, Inspector?’

Wesley smiled. ‘Of course.’

They were interrupted by Paul Johnson. ‘Excuse me, sir. A John Quigley rang. He wanted to know if we’ve made any progress.
He says can you ring him back.’

‘Cheeky,’ was Heffernan’s only comment. ‘He can read the newspapers like everyone else. Drinks in the Fisherman’s Arms after
work,’ Heffernan shouted over his shoulder to the assembled company as he made his exit. Wesley could hear a murmur of appreciation
behind him as he followed the chief inspector down the corridor.