The Marriage Hearse (26 page)

‘So this is it. If peace and quiet’s what you want, you couldn’t find a better spot. Bit isolated, isn’t it?’

‘Rachel spotted Liston’s van which was parked to one side of the house. ‘He did some work for my dad in one of the cow sheds.
There was something wrong with a milking machine. I seem to recall he was rather good looking.’

Wesley tried to suppress a pang of envy. If Rachel felt inclined to comment on Liston’s looks, they must be truly remarkable.
In his experience, she wasn’t easily impressed.

He knocked on the cottage door and waited for this Adonis to make an appearance.

When the door finally opened, Adonis looked rather dishevelled. His dark hair hadn’t seen a comb that morning and he looked
as if he had just got out of bed.

Wesley showed his warrant card and introduced himself and Rachel. Liston flashed him a look of contempt and focused his gaze
on Rachel. This man might not seem as obvious as Mike Dellingpole but he looked more dangerous. Dark, handsome and brooding.
Devon’s answer to Heathcliff. Wesley remembered that Liston had worked on the rewiring of Kirsten Harbourn’s cottage and he
wondered if he too had been a recipient of her sexual favours.

‘Can we come in?’

Liston suddenly looked apprehensive. He didn’t want them inside the house. But the police are difficult to keep out without
arousing suspicion. ‘It’s not convenient,’ was his first attempt at an excuse.

‘It won’t take long.’

He stuck to his guns. ‘I said, it’s not convenient. Come back later.’

Wesley glanced at Rachel. Gerry Heffernan, he knew, wouldn’t
have taken no for an answer. He would have been inside that cottage before you could say ‘search warrant’. And he’d have
demanded a cup of tea.

They heard a noise, a dull thump that seemed to come from somewhere upstairs. Someone was there, inside the house.

‘Got company?’ Wesley asked.

‘It’s the cat. You’re not coming in here without a warrant. Right?’

‘Your cooperation has been noted,’ Wesley said with exaggerated politeness. ‘We’ll be back.’ He turned to go and Rachel followed.

‘So what do we do now?’ Rachel asked.

‘We go back to the car and wait for a while. And if he doesn’t make a move within the next half hour, we get someone else
to take over. As soon as he leaves that house, I want him brought in. Along with Françoise.’

‘You think she’s there?’

‘I’m not a gambling man but I’d be willing to bet on that particular certainty. She’s there all right. Why else do you think
he won’t let us in? And if he’s expecting us back, he’ll try to get her out.’

‘So he knows she killed that man in the guesthouse and he’s sheltering her?’

Wesley didn’t reply. They sat in the car in silence. They could just see Liston’s house from where they were parked and they
kept their eyes focused on the door.

‘Gotcha,’ Wesley whispered as the front door opened and Liston emerged with a smaller figure trailing behind him. He leapt
from the car and sprinted down the road. Luckily the steep climb he made each day from the centre of Tradmouth to his home
at the top of the town, had kept him fit and as he bore down on Liston, the electrician swung round in surprise.

‘Going somewhere, Mr Liston?’ He looked at the thin, pale girl hovering in the background, head bowed. ‘Mademoiselle Decaux.
I thought I’d find you here. Your friend Berthe’s very worried about you.’

Françoise Decaux looked up. Wesley hadn’t been prepared for the state of her face. Someone had blacked her eye and she had
a livid fresh bruise on her cheek. Her lip had been cut open and had swollen up. If her face looked like this, he dreaded
to think what the doctor would find on the rest of her body.

He turned to Rachel. ‘Call for some back-up. And look after her, will you?’ Rachel rushed to the girl’s side and bundled her
away, clucking like a mother hen. The girl shuffled by her side, too exhausted or too traumatised to argue.

‘Perhaps we could have a word inside now, Mr Liston.’

Liston didn’t answer but the look he gave Wesley was positively venomous.
He turned and walked back to the house. Wesley followed, hoping the back-up wouldn’t take long to arrive.

The house was cluttered and had the shabby, uncared-for look that men living on their own generate so effortlessly. Wesley
told Liston to sit down and to his surprise he did as he was told without comment. But he was alone with this man and he had
the feeling it could all go wrong in an instant.

‘Did you do that to Françoise?’

‘What?’

‘Beat her up. The black eye and the bruises.’

‘What’s she saying?’

‘She hasn’t had a chance to say anything yet.’

‘Well, I’m saying nothing without my brief.’

Liston’s reaction confirmed his suspicions. If he himself had been wrongly accused of something like that he would have denied
it vehemently and kept denying it. But Liston had chosen silence. He should have guessed from the way Françoise had looked
at him, cowed by fear and something else … love perhaps. In his police career he had come across many women – intelligent
women from all races and social backgrounds – whose affection for a man hadn’t diminished in the slightest when he used her
as a punchbag. He had never been able to understand it himself.

‘I’d like to question you about murder of Abdul Ahmed. Where were you on last Monday between ten and two?’

‘Doing an emergency job in Dukesbridge. Look, you can’t keep me here. I’ve got a job to go to.’ Liston took a step towards
him, his hands clenched. ‘I’m going.’

Wesley looked him in the eye, trying to feign a confidence he didn’t feel. If this man decided to go, there wasn’t much he
could do to stop him.

But as Liston started to walk towards the open door, Wesley heard the sweet sound of patrol car sirens drifting across the
still warm air. The cavalry had arrived.

‘I don’t think you’re going anywhere, Mr Liston. Apart from Tradmouth Police Station. We’ll contact your solicitor for you
if you wish.’

Liston span round and swung his whole weight at Wesley who, anticipating the arrival of the patrol cars, had relaxed his guard
so that he was unprepared for the blow when it came. He cursed himself as he fell to the ground. He ought to have anticipated
it and as he tried to struggle to his feet he cursed his own naivety. As Liston’s boot made contact with his ribs he curled
himself into a defensive ball, pain searing through his body, knocking the breath out of his lungs. But after the initial
shock came the urgent desire for survival. Liston carried on kicking. He muttered as he landed each blow; swearing mingled
with racial abuse; a cocktail of foul poison streaming from his mouth.

Mustering all his strength, Wesley uncurled himself and grabbed at Liston’s foot before it could land the next kick. Liston,
suddenly unbalanced, floundered and toppled to the floor. Remembering his police training, Wesley hurled himself on top of
him, wincing with pain at the effort. He jerked his opponent’s arm up his back and groaned when he remembered that he had
left his handcuffs in the car. But at that moment a couple of uniformed officers walked in through the unlocked front door,
calling out a tentative ‘Hello. Anyone at home?’

‘In here.’ Wesley felt the fight go out of Liston’s body as he realised he was outnumbered.

‘Take him in, will you?’ Wesley gasped to the two constables. Each breath felt as if a knife was being twisted in his ribs.
‘And let DCI Heffernan know.’

‘You all right, sir?’ The younger constable said, bending over him, frowning with concern as his burly older colleague hauled
Liston roughly upright. ‘Need an ambulance?’

Wesley tried to sit up and collapsed to the floor again with a violent stab of pain.

The constable took one look at him and radioed for assistance.

When Pamela Peterson put the phone down she stared at the instrument, as though she expected it to burst into flames.

‘What is it?’

She turned to Jonathan who was sitting on the sofa. He sat neatly, not sprawling with his feet on the coffee table like Neil
Watson always did, but he looked perfectly relaxed.

‘It’s Wesley. They’ve taken him to hospital.’

Jonathan said nothing for a few moments. He stared ahead, unblinking. ‘Oh dear,’ he said after a few long moments. ‘Serious?’

‘It was his sergeant. Rachel. She said not to worry but she sounded upset. I’d better get to the hospital.’

‘Do you want me to take you?’

‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ll drive. Look, Jonathan …’

‘You’re going to tell me this wasn’t a good idea, me coming here.’

‘I’m sorry. I thought it was but …’

Tears began to well up in Pam’s eyes.

Jonathan stood up. He touched her shoulder and she flinched. ‘Look, you’ve had a shock. If you don’t want a lift, I’d better
go. I’ll call you.’

She picked up her car keys from the hall table and left the house. Wesley was hurt. Perhaps this was her punishment.

‘So how is he?’

Gerry Heffernan scratched his head. ‘Bruised but nothing broken. They’re keeping him in overnight for observation. Just routine.’

‘Good. Good.’ Chief Superintendent Nutter muttered absent-mindedly. He had descended from his Mount Olympus to mingle with
the mortals in the CID office. Now he was trying to think how he could turn the situation to his advantage. ‘This would make
wonderful PR, you know. Heroic black officer injured in the line of duty and all that.’

Heffernan shook his head vigorously. ‘That’d be the last thing Wes’d want.’

Nutter looked disappointed. ‘If you say so, Gerry. Keep me informed, won’t you?’

Heffernan said nothing as the chief super swept from the office.

Den Liston was down in the cells, already charged with assaulting a police officer. It would do him no harm to sweat for a
while. And as he’d been charged, there was no hurry and no brief yapping for his release. He’d talk to him in his own good
time. But in the meantime he wanted to see Wesley.

He stepped out of his door into the outer office and Rachel Tracey glanced up. She was looking worried. She had looked that
way since Wesley had been taken off to hospital in the ambulance.

‘Hold the fort, will you, Rach? I’m going to see Wes. I’ve called the hospital and they say he’s comfortable. But then they
always say that, don’t they?’ He tried to smile but didn’t quite manage it. ‘I asked Colin Bowman to have a word with the
doctor. He just rang back and, apparently, Wes’s doctor said that if the mortuary was touting for business, he was in for
a disappointment. He’ll be fine.’

A look of relief passed across Rachel’s pale face. ‘Give him my love, won’t you?’ She blushed. Perhaps the word love was inappropriate.
Perhaps she should have said regards.

‘Course I will.’ He put a fatherly hand on her shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze.

Rachel gave a weak smile as she watched him go.

Heffernan cursed the ambling tourists as he made for the hospital. Fighting
his way through the crowds meandering aimlessly through the streets of Tradmouth, was like swimming against the tide. He felt
exhausted by the time he arrived at Wesley’s bedside in the bright, four-bedded ward.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Sore but otherwise OK. Have you questioned him yet?’

‘Liston? Not yet. We’re letting him stew for a while. Trish has been
talking to Françoise … taking it slowly.’

Wesley tried to haul himself upright but any sort of effort hurt like hell. ‘While I’ve been lying here, I’ve had a chance
to think. Remember Steve had trouble with that traffic warden?’

‘Maybe he did it,’ Heffernan said with a faraway look in his eyes.

‘He was handing out parking tickets like confetti near the Loch Henry Lodge Guesthouse. When I was in Liston’s house I noticed
a parking ticket lying on the sideboard. I didn’t get a chance to have a good look at it, of course, but I just wondered …’

‘You want Liston’s place searched?’

‘With a fine-tooth comb. The knife that killed Ahmed hasn’t turned up yet.’

Heffernan nodded. ‘I’ll see to it. Pam been?’

‘Yes. Rachel rang her.’ There was a long pause. ‘How’s Joyce?’

‘OK.’

‘Something wrong?’

He took a deep breath. Perhaps it was good to talk about it. And he could hardly confide in Rosie. ‘She has to look after
her mother. Clips her wings a bit. And mine.’

‘As the Bard once said, “The course of true love never did run smooth.”‘

‘The Bard never had to contend with women’s mothers.’

‘Tell me about it,’ he said, a vision of a sneering Della suddenly leaping unwelcome into his mind.

‘You’ll have to get better for your sister’s wedding. At least they wait on you hand and foot in here.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll
bring some grapes next time.’

‘Gerry, I wanted to visit Kirsten Harbourn’s mother. Marion Blunning told me that Kirsten had found some letters.’

‘What sort of letters?’

‘Something to do with Richard Harbourn. Perhaps Rachel could go and ask about it tactfully. And while she’s at it, could she
ask Theresa Harbourn if she knows of a nurse called Sister Williams. According to Marion Blunning, Kirsten was trying to find
her.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s what I want to find out.’

‘You’re supposed to be resting.’ He gave his supine colleague a wink. ‘Anything else you’d like doing while we’re at it?’

‘I’ll tell you when we know more about these mysterious letters. Though if anyone’s at a loose end, it might be worth talking
to
Peter Creston’s brother, James. It seems he was a regular visitor at Honey Cottage and there might be something he’s not
telling us. Maybe Mike Dellingpole wasn’t the only recipient of Kirsten Harbourn’s sexual favours.’

‘Isn’t he supposed to er … bat for the other team as it were?’

At that moment another figure appeared, hovering uncertainly
by the door of the ward. Neil Watson looked uneasy. Hospitals weren’t his natural habitat.

Gerry Heffernan spotted him. ‘Come in, come in. The more the merrier. What’s that you’ve got?’

Neil looked down at the brown cardboard box he was carrying. ‘Oh, this? I brought it to show Wes. Thought he’d like to see
it. Colin said I could take it over to Morbay University. They’ve got equipment there that can recreate faces using computer
technology.’