The Marriage Hearse (3 page)

All these things were going through her mind as she walked the three hundred yards to the supermarket, those and a hundred
other practical thoughts. Should she buy a small turkey joint for Sunday lunch tomorrow? Mother particularly liked turkey.
Did she need potatoes? Or margarine. Was her stock of bread in the freezer running low? She ought to have checked that morning.
She ought to start making lists to avoid impulse buys.

Preoccupied as she was, she almost didn’t see the man on the other side of the busy road. If the car hadn’t sounded its horn
at a wobbling cyclist, she wouldn’t have looked in that direction.

When she spotted him, she stared across the road, hoping he wouldn’t see her. Was it him? Surely it couldn’t be. Surely he’d
have better things to do than to be emerging from Starbucks all on his own.

It was his wedding day.

But as the man disappeared from sight, Joyce hurried on and forgot all about the solitary bridegroom. She had a lot to do.
And that evening she had a date.

Rachel Tracey had never been inside the Stoke Raphael Country Hotel before. In fact she knew very little about the place apart
from the fact that it was part of the exclusive Carte Blanche Hotel Group … and cost an arm and a leg. Once a grand Victorian
house built on the banks of the River Trad just outside the pretty village of Stoke Raphael, she was sure that it was a wonderful
place to hold a wedding reception, if your budget ran to it.

‘I’d like to hold my reception here,’ Trish Walton announced wistfully. ‘Just imagine … the guests could wander down to the
river with glasses of champagne.’

Rachel looked at her, surprised. As far as she knew there hadn’t been anyone serious in Trish’s life since her ill-advised
fling with DC Steve Carstairs. ‘I didn’t know you were …’

‘Oh, I’m not. Just saying, that’s all. If the day ever comes, I’d like somewhere classy like this.’

Rachel said nothing. The thought of marriage sometimes depressed her.

‘Let’s find Mrs Harbourn, shall we? Although I can’t think what
she’s doing here. Her daughter’s just been murdered, for heaven’s sake.’

Trish followed her to the reception desk and they were directed to the Neston Suite. Mrs Harbourn was there, they were told
by the puzzled young man on reception. She was seeing to arrangements, whatever that meant.

The Neston Suite was well signposted. Rachel and Trish strolled down thickly carpeted corridors until they reached a pair
of grand polished wood doors.

Rachel hesitated for a moment before pushing them open and stepping into a large function room filled with round tables. Each
table was set with snowy linen and shining cutlery and had a vase of blood-red roses in its centre.

On a white draped table in the middle of the room stood a three-tiered wedding cake, decorated with roses formed from red
icing. Rachel recalled something she’d read at school – a novel by Charles Dickens. A bitter old woman called Miss Haversham
had presided over a deserted wedding table with a festering cake. There was the same atmosphere of despair and abandonment
here … minus the cobwebs and dust.

At the far end of the room was a long table, festooned with garlands of flowers. The top table. At this table a solitary woman
sat, her head bowed. She had taken off her wide-brimmed hat, an expensive creation in red, and now it lay beside her on the
white linen cloth. Rachel saw that she was crying.

‘Mrs Harbourn?’ she said gently as she made her way towards the top table.

The woman looked up. Tears mixed with mascara marked her face but her expression was blank.

‘Mrs Harbourn?’

The woman whispered a barely audible ‘Yes’.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Rachel Tracey, Tradmouth CID and this is Detective Constable Trish Walton. Do you feel up to talking
or would you like …?’

The woman stared at them for a few moments as though she hadn’t quite understood, then she gave a resigned nod. She was a
thin woman, quite small with straight, honey-blond hair. Her choice
of cream suit with red accessories did nothing for her complexion. But then neither did pain and tears.

‘I’m so sorry about your daughter,’ Rachel began as she sat down next to Mrs Harbourn. Trish sat at Rachel’s side, pulling
her chair out so that she could see the woman’s face before taking out her notebook.

‘Are you sure you should be here?’ Rachel asked gently.

Mrs Harbourn twisted a white linen napkin in her hands. It was damp with tears. ‘I need to see to everything. I planned all
this so I need to … I had to tell the harpist she wouldn’t be needed and cancel the band for tonight … and the horse and carriage
and …’ She suddenly looked Rachel in the eye. ‘I’ve got to keep busy. If I stop I’ll … What do you think I should do with
the cake? I can’t waste it. Do you think I should send everyone a piece …?’

Rachel put a comforting hand on her arm. ‘I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time to think about all that. There’s no hurry, is
there?’

‘I wanted to do everything properly, you see. I only had a registry office do. I wanted Kirsten to have …’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Rachel bowed her head for a few moments. ‘Have you seen a doctor? Maybe he could give you something to …’

‘No,’ she snapped. ‘I can’t think of that now. There’s too much to do.’

‘Of course.’ She glanced at Trish who was looking on sympathetically. ‘Do you mind talking about Kirsten?’

Mrs Harbourn shook her head. ‘She was a lovely girl. So beautiful. She could have been a model if she’d wanted. She was the
best daughter you could wish for.’

‘Where did she work?’

Mrs Harbourn waved her hand as if shooing away a fly. ‘A place in Morbay. A language college.’

‘And she hadn’t lived at home for a while?’

‘She moved out when they bought the cottage. They were doing it up. She’s got such good taste. She likes … liked the best
…’ A shadow passed across her face.

‘And her fiancé. Tell me about him?’

‘Peter’s such a nice boy. He’s an accountant. His father’s a doctor,
you know. A consultant.’ She positively glowed with pride. It was as though she had forgotten temporarily that Kirsten was
dead.

‘How did Peter and Kirsten get on?’

‘They were made for each other,’ she said with a sentimental smile.

‘So no problems?’

Mrs Harbourn shook her head. ‘None at all.’

‘Mrs Harbourn … or would you rather we called you Theresa?’ The woman nodded, hardly aware of the question.

‘Theresa, can you think of anybody who might have a grudge against your daughter? Or anyone who was bothering her … an old
boyfriend perhaps? Did she ever mention anything …?’

Theresa Harbourn shifted in her seat. ‘There was an ex-boyfriend who wouldn’t take no for an answer. But that was a while
ago – at least a year. And besides, I think he moved away from Devon.’

‘What was his name?’

She frowned in concentration. ‘I can’t remember. She never brought him home.’

‘Anyone else? Anyone she’s mentioned? Someone at work perhaps?’

Another shake of the head. They were getting nowhere. The killer was probably an opportunist sex attacker who’d let things
get out of hand. Or perhaps he’d derived as much pleasure from the killing as from the assault. Rachel shuddered at the thought.

‘Would you like us to take you home?’ Rachel asked, reluctant to leave the woman there in that room prepared for joy and celebration
which was such a stark and painful contrast to the reality.

‘No thank you. I want to stay here.’

‘Is there anyone who …?’

‘Kirsten was my only child, Sergeant Tracey. And my husband walked out on me for a blonde tart five years ago.’ She hesitated.
‘My sister’s down from Manchester for the wedding. She wanted to come here with me but I told her I’d rather be on my own.
I’ll call her when I’m ready.’ She looked Rachel in the eye. ‘I want to be doing something useful. I want to keep busy.’

Rachel realised that Theresa Harbourn was a woman who wasn’t going to give in. She’d do things her own way.

‘As long as you’re sure there’s nothing we can do.’

‘You can let me see her.’

Rachel put a hand on her arm. ‘Of course. I’ll arrange that for you,’ she said, hoping the sight of her dead daughter wouldn’t
bring the capable façade crashing down.

Rachel and Trish made their way down the carpeted corridors in silence, neither felt like speaking. All the effort, all the
love, that had gone into preparing for Kirsten Harbourn’s big day had come to nothing.

When they reached Reception, Rachel noticed a young man standing beside the desk. He wore the staff uniform, black trousers,
blue shirt and blue and black checked waistcoat, and he was staring at them nervously.

As Rachel looked in his direction he turned and hurried away, like a hunted animal fleeing its pursuers. Something seemed
to have alarmed him, and Rachel wondered fleetingly whether it was the sight of two policewomen.

Or perhaps she was imagining things.

‘If you weren’t married, Wes, would you ever think of trying one of these introduction agencies?’ Gerry Heffernan asked as
they drove towards Neston.

The question took Wesley by surprise and he fought the temptation to take his eyes off the road and look at his companion’s
face.

‘It’s not something I’ve ever thought about. Why? Are you thinking of trying your luck?’

There was no answer.

‘Wonder how Rachel and Trish are getting on with the dead girl’s parents?’

‘Rather them than me.’

Wesley said nothing. Rachel had a gift for family liaison work. She possessed the right blend of sympathy and common sense
and if he were ever to face a tragedy in his life, Rachel was the type of person he’d want around. There had been times when
he’d longed for her company even when things were going smoothly, he acknowledged with a nag of guilt. Although he’d always
been
careful to avoid situations which might lead to temptation. He was a married man with two young children after all.

‘I think this is it,’ Heffernan said, pointing to a large, stucco house set back from the main road from Tradmouth to Neston.
It was a big house, probably built in the 1920s or 1930s and inspired by Lutyens’ grand arts and crafts designs. An overgrown
cottage with en suite bathrooms and all modern conveniences. Wesley turned the car into the wide drive and the tyres crunched
noisily on the gravel to announce their arrival.

As Wesley pressed the doorbell, he noticed all the downstairs curtains had been closed. A sign of respect, perhaps. Or maybe
the occupants of the house were preparing for a wave of press intrusion.

The middle-aged woman who answered the door looked at them suspiciously, as if all her worst fears were about to be realised.
But when the two policemen introduced themselves, her expression softened and she stood aside to let them in.

‘Mrs Creston?’

The woman nodded. ‘It’s been such a shock,’ she said. ‘And Peter’s in a terrible state. I mean, what do you say?’ She looked
from one man to the other as if for guidance.

Rowena Creston was slightly plump and this seemed to make her look younger than her years. She had unruly brown hair and a
pleasant face. If Wesley went on first impressions, he would have said that she was a straightforward, likeable woman. But
experience had taught him never to make such instant judgements.

She led them into a large, comfortable living room; a room with a low, beamed ceiling that gave it an air of cottage cosiness,
despite the generous amount of floor space.

A tall, slim man with greying hair was sitting on the sofa with a mug in his hand. Like his wife, Dr Jeffrey Creston had changed
out of his wedding finery and was now dressed in an open-necked polo shirt and beige trousers.

‘These gentlemen are from the police, darling.’

Dr Creston stood up and extended his hand, his facial expression appropriately grave. ‘A terrible business. My son’s upstairs.
He’s devastated of course. I know you’ll have to question him but I don’t know whether he’s up to it yet. I’ve given him
something for the shock, I’m afraid. I thought it best.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Wesley. He glanced at Heffernan who gave him a barely discernible nod. It would be up to him to do
the talking.

‘Please sit down. Will you have some tea?’

Wesley and Heffernan answered in the affirmative and Rowena Creston hurried out. She looked more shocked than grief-stricken.
But then it wasn’t her child who’d died.

Wesley made small talk for five minutes or so, asking about the family casually, putting Creston at his ease. He learned that
the bereaved bridegroom, Peter, worked as an accountant in Morbay and that he had a younger brother and sister. But the subject
of Kirsten Harbourn couldn’t be avoided for ever.

‘How long had Kirsten and Peter known each other?’

Creston thought for a few moments. ‘Not that long. Eighteen months, something like that.’

‘What was she like?’

At that moment Rowena Creston returned with a tray. She looked at her husband. ‘I suppose she was a nice enough girl …’

There was a ‘but’ there somewhere. Wesley looked her in the eye and awaited the revelation.

‘But I didn’t really feel she had much in common with Peter, don’t you agree, Jeff? Not that we ever said anything …’

‘What do you mean exactly?’

Rowena looked embarrassed. ‘Well, they came from different backgrounds … had different interests.’

Wesley took a sip of tea. ‘That doesn’t always mean they’re incompatible.’

‘Oh no. I’m sure … I just mean that we didn’t think Peter’s choice was ideal. I’m sure she was a very nice girl. And she worked
very hard on the cottage and …’ Her voice trailed off. The mention of the cottage had brought home the reality.

‘It was going to be a big wedding.’ Gerry Heffernan spoke at last. ‘Big posh do. Her mum’s idea or hers?’

Rowena gave him a bitter smile. ‘Now I don’t want you to
think I’m a snob but I thought there was something a bit vulgar about the whole thing. Peter wanted a nice discreet church
wedding. All the usual trimmings but nothing too elaborate. But by the time Theresa got her hands on the arrangements, it
was becoming more like a royal wedding in Westminster Abbey. Everything had to be just so – flowers, cake, horse and carriage
to take them from the church to the reception, expensive gifts for the guests. The whole thing just escalated. Do you know
they even booked a harpist to play during the reception and there was to be another big buffet tonight with a dance band and
goodness knows what else.’