The Marriage Hearse (33 page)

‘It’s a bit early isn’t it, Gerry? The sun’s not over the yardarm yet.’

‘I’ve just shifted the yardarm. Come on. If anyone
asks, we’re interviewing witnesses. Right?’

Wesley followed, wondering what had brought all this on. But then he understood the urge to be away from the intense atmosphere
of the incident room as well as anybody. It was hardly conducive to creative thought.

Most of the Tradmouth Arms’ patrons that day were holiday-makers who preferred to sit out on the cobbled quayside with their
plastic glasses, enjoying the weather and the view across the river. The pub itself was virtually empty, apart from a few
dedicated regulars at the bar and a group of yachtsmen in the corner swapping opinions on the latest satellite navigation
equipment. Heffernan looked at them sadly – the investigation had
robbed him of spending time on his beloved sloop, the
Rosie May
. And he longed for a bit of leisure. Wesley settled himself in a seat by the window while his boss went to the bar.

‘You think Richter’s definitely in the clear then?’ Heffernan asked as he took a first appreciative drink.

‘Looks like it.’

‘This clinic stuff? The sperm donors? You suspect Richard Harbourn strangled her because he found out she wasn’t his?’

‘Presumably he knew.’ Wesley paused. ‘I told you what John Quigley said, didn’t I?’

Heffernan took another drink and didn’t reply.

‘So, what do you think?’

‘Quigley’s a possibility – he’s no alibi, but then I can’t really see that he has a motive either. At the moment I’d put my
money on James Creston. Kirsten was blackmailing him.’

‘I get the impression that she wasn’t a very nice person. She must have made a lot of enemies.’

‘I still haven’t ruled out the Sawyers, you know. She might have been blackmailing them about the marriage scam. After all,
we’ve only their word that she didn’t know about it and I find that hard to believe that something like that would pass a
sly little minx like her by.’

‘When you put it like that, Gerry, I must say I agree with you. Simon Jephson knew something was going on but he didn’t know
exactly what it was.’

‘So she kept it to herself.’

‘But what about the red fibres?’

‘James Creston was wearing a cravat. Or I suppose they could have got there later somehow. Her father was wearing his when
he found her. Maybe he held her body or … I don’t know.’

‘If that’s the case it doesn’t have to be someone at the wedding … it blows the whole thing wide open again.’

Wesley took a drink from his half pint of shandy. Daytime drinking always left him tired and gave him a headache so he was
being careful. ‘I’ve sent Trish out to check something.’

‘What?’

‘Something Rowena Creston told me. Might be nothing.’

‘You think it was James?’

‘Or Julia. She was out and about. And her car’s red. Liston might have mistaken it for her brother’s. And she was running
around with a red cravat in her possession.’

‘What about Peter? He could have found out about his fiancée’s frolics with that randy builder. It might have been the last
straw.’

‘It’s possible.’ Wesley drained his glass.

‘Another?’

‘Not for me, thanks. I’d better get back. If CS Nutter asks I’ll say your witness is being very stubborn, shall I? Refusing
to talk?’

‘Good man.’ He hesitated. ‘What do you think of Joyce?’

‘She seems very nice.’

Gerry Heffernan gave a coy smile. ‘Yeah. She is, isn’t she?’

Wesley left Heffernan gazing wistfully at a fresh pint of bitter.
On his way back to the station he hoped that when Trish arrived back at the incident room, she would be the bearer of good
news.

But things are rarely that straightforward. All she had received from the garage was a promise that a search would be made.
They’d let her know if they found a tape for the relevant date. But she wasn’t holding her breath.

Annabel sat down at her desk. Her lunch with Neil had been pleasant. They had chatted about history over the vegetarian quiche
that was Tradington Hall’s
specialité de la maison
and by the time they’d finished, she’d glanced at her watch and realised it was two o’clock. Experiencing a rush of guilt
she had exceeded the speed limit on the way back to Exeter. But luckily there had been no patrol cars or speed cameras lurking
on her route to bring the wrath of the law upon the sinner. She had got away with it.

When her colleague opened the office door, she made a determined effort to look busy.

‘You know that will … Bartholomew Strong?’ The colleague, a bearded man in a shabby suit, didn’t wait for a reply. ‘I’ve found
some related documents. An inventory and something that looks like a draft of a letter. You interested?’

Annabel looked up with hungry eyes. ‘I’ll say. You got them there?’

Five minutes later she was dialling the number of Neil Watson’s mobile.

‘I know who did it,’ she said as soon as he answered. ‘I know who killed Clara Merison and why.’

ACT 3 SCENE 6

PAOLO What bloody thing is this that thou dost hold dripping in thy hands? Is it some part of slaughtered beast that thou
didst kill in frantic chase? Oh tell me brother, why comest thou with blood upon thy hands like cursed Cain?

SYLVIUS Oh brother,
look upon this thing and weep. It is thy Clara’s heart, torn beating from her breast. Her heart was yours. And now I give
it thee as a keepsake. For such dark evil was performed this day that Satan himself should rejoice in it and laugh. Look now
and weep and I shall tell thee such a tale that shall make heaven rage
.

Neil hovered on Wesley Peterson’s doorstep, his hand raised to the bell. He should have telephoned first, he told himself.
He should have arranged to meet Wesley somewhere else. The last person he wanted to come face to face with was Pam.

He finally summoned the courage to ring the bell and he was grateful when Wesley answered the door. When Wesley explained
that he was on his own, Pam having taken the children to her mother’s, Neil shambled in and made himself comfortable on the
sofa.

‘The one night I’ve made an effort to be home early and she’s not here,’ Wesley said bitterly. ‘Probably teaching me a lesson.’

‘How is she?’

‘OK,’ Wesley answered, mildly surprised at the question. ‘Dig going well?’

‘Well we’ve not found anything spectacular. Bit disappointing really. However, I have been doing a bit of detective work of
my
own with the help of the lovely Annabel.’ He produced a folded sheet of paper from the pocket of his combat trousers and handed
it to Wesley. ‘I don’t know if you’ll be able to read my writing. I scribbled it down when Annabel rang me. She’s found a
confession to Clara Merison’s murder. The play makes sense now. Ralph Strong based
The Fair Wife of Padua
on his own experiences.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean he killed her and then wrote a play about it. Some people do lead eventful lives,’ he
said as he began to decipher Neil’s writing.

The next morning Wesley was feeling pleased with himself. He not only knew for certain who had killed Clara Merison but he
was pretty sure of the identity of Kirsten Harbourn’s killer too. It was just a matter of proving it beyond reasonable doubt.
Waffling on about some second-rate four-hundred-year-old play was hardly going to convince the CPS or a jury. He needed facts.
Evidence.

When he made his way into the hall, Pam followed him, leaving the children in the kitchen occupied by their breakfast. She
had been quiet over the past few days, as if she had something on her mind. And he had been too busy, too preoccupied with
work, to enquire what it was.

She grasped his hand. ‘Wes … I …’

‘What?’

‘I … I’m sorry. I’ve been giving you a hard time about work. I know it’s not your fault and …’

Wesley put his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. ‘It’s me who should apologise. But I promise once this case
is cleared up, I’ll make it up to you. Why don’t we get away for a week at the end of August after Maritia’s wedding. Think
about where you want to go.’ He glanced at the stairs. ‘Maritia not up yet?’

As Pam shook her head, a wail started up from the direction of the kitchen. Either Amelia wanted attention or her elder brother
had begun to tease her. Pam gave her husband a rueful smile and hurried back to enforce law and order on the children.

Wesley hurried down the hill to the centre of the town. The sun was warm already. By noon the tourists’ice creams would be
dripping
on the pavements and there’d be prone, half-naked bodies lying beneath the palm trees in the Memorial Park. It wasn’t a day
to contemplate murder. But, hopefully, it would be the day when he could tie up loose ends before sitting back and enjoying
the weather.

But nothing was certain.

The incident room was quiet when he arrived. Once Stuart Richter had been charged, the urgency had disappeared as the team
concentrated on gathering new evidence and tying up the paperwork. But if what Wesley suspected was true, their complacency
would soon be shattered. As soon as he entered the office, he looked around, searching for Trish Walton.

When he spotted her, she was talking on the phone, a keen expression on her face. She looked up and spotted him.

‘Sir, the garage rang me first thing. The CCTV tape turned up at the back of a cupboard.’ She rolled her eyes at the thought
of such disorganised behaviour. ‘Paul went to pick it up.’ She picked up a videotape and waved it vaguely in Wesley’s direction.
Do you want me to have a look at it or …?’

Wesley nodded, trying to conceal his impatience. ‘Yes, you do that. And fetch me when Creston’s car appears. Silver Jaguar.
You’ve got a note of the registration number?’

Trish nodded and sighed, resigned to a morning spent watching CCTV footage of cars driving in and out of a garage forecourt.
Drying paint would be marginally more interesting. She picked up the tape and strolled off to face her ordeal.

Wesley hurried into Gerry Heffernan’s office only to find that the boss hadn’t yet arrived. He began to search the cluttered
desk for a file. Den Liston’s statement. He had to be sure of the exact words and timings.

By the time Trish summoned him, he’d found what he was looking for. He hurried out to join Trish, almost breaking into a run.

Once in the small office where the TV and video machine were temporarily housed, he sat down and waited while Trish wound
back the tape.

The picture was black and white but the quality was adequate. Wesley watched as car after car drew up to feed and swept off
again. Then he saw the Jaguar pull up at the nearest petrol pump, the driver temporarily hidden from view as the sun reflected
off the windscreen.

‘That’s the car, isn’t it?’

Wesley nodded, his eyes fixed on the screen. He had been right.

He rushed out of the office in search of Rachel Tracey. If she called Georgina Williams now and asked her one specific question,
the case could be wrapped up by this afternoon if the answer she gave was the one he expected.

Once Rachel had made her call, Wesley picked up the telephone on the desk and dialled the Crestons’ number.

It was the gleam of metal that caught Laslo Leslec’s eye. A car parked just inside the entrance to the next field. In a place
where vehicles, apart from those of the agricultural variety, had no business being. He wiped the sweat from his brow with
the back of his hand and bent to tear another lettuce from the rich red earth. He placed it in a box alongside the others
and glanced over at the gang master who was deep in conversation with a man. The conversation was about to turn into a dispute,
Laslo could tell by the body language. The two big men were squaring up to each other.

But the workers were taking no notice. They knew the wisdom of keeping yourself to yourself, not speaking unless you were
spoken to. They were foreign seasonal workers … the lowest in the pecking order. They kept their noses clean and laboured
for cash to send home to their grateful families. They didn’t make waves in a world where even ripples spelt danger.

But Laslo had always been curious by nature. He straightened his aching back and craned his neck to see into the next field,
glancing back every now and again to ensure the gang master was fully occupied. There’d be trouble if he was caught slacking.

The car – big and shiny – was parked with its engine running and Laslo could see a figure in the driver’s seat. Someone slumped
against the steering wheel. Asleep perhaps. Laslo had begun to train as a doctor before circumstances had forced him to abandon
his studies. And he knew something was wrong.

He picked a few more lettuces while he pondered what to do,
feeling the leaves cool and crisp against his callused hands. The gang master was still arguing with the man. He would seize
his chance.

Without a word to his fellow workers, he bounded across the rows of growing vegetables towards the field entrance. He could
hear the car’s engine purring now, like some fearsome cat. Like the silver cat that leapt across the bonnet. The Jaguar.

Laslo acted automatically, without a second thought. He pounded over the rough, ploughed ground towards the car and yanked
the door handle. The exhaust fumes made him cough as he used all his strength to wrench the flexible pipe away from the window
and heave the unconscious body from the driver’s seat. A well-dressed, well-cared-for body, not quite dead but almost.

Laslo switched off the engine and began the resuscitation routine he’d learned at medical school. It wasn’t too late. There
was always hope.

Wesley looked solemn as he walked down the shiny hospital corridor. Gerry Heffernan also wore the face he kept for funerals
and the court room. It was a bad business, a sad business. Suicide always is.

The young constable sitting outside the side ward stood to attention when he saw the two men approach.

‘Morning, Dearden. How is he?’

The constable swallowed. ‘Conscious.’

‘Up to answering questions?’ Gerry Heffernan asked, taking a step towards the door.

‘I don’t know, sir. The doctor …’

But Heffernan had pushed the door open. ‘Well, we’ll see for ourselves.’

Wesley placed a restraining hand on his colleague’s arm. ‘Perhaps we should …’

The chief inspector was in the room before Wesley could finish his sentence. He had no choice but to follow.

‘Now then, Doctor. How are we feeling today?’ Heffernan picked up the chart from the bottom of Dr Jeffrey Creston’s bed while
the man looked on, his cheeks flushed, his breathing
laboured. He looked like a man who had peeped into the abyss of hell and still hadn’t recovered from the experience.

Wesley took a seat by his bedside. ‘Are you feeling up to talking to us?’ he asked gently, giving Heffernan a censorious look.
Jeffrey Creston needed, and probably deserved, the delicate touch.

Creston took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I might as well get it over with.’ He looked Wesley in the eye. ‘You know, don’t
you?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry. It can’t have been easy for you.’

Creston closed his eyes. ‘Funny thing for a policeman to say to a murderer.’

‘I don’t think you went there with the intention of killing her, did you?’

The answer was a slight shake of the head.

The sound of Gerry Heffernan’s chair scraping on the hard floor as he sat down momentarily shattered the confessional atmosphere.

Wesley tried again. ‘Would you like to tell us what happened?’ He didn’t recite the words of the caution or make any attempt
to record the conversation in his notebook. There would be plenty of time to make things official.

‘Yes. I would rather. I feel I should get it off my chest.’

‘Confession’s good for the soul,’ Heffernan observed, rather unhelpfully in Wesley’s opinion.

‘Go on.’ Wesley eased his chair nearer the bed.

‘I work at a clinic in Exeter one afternoon a week. For a few years I worked there full time. Among other things the clinic
deals with AID. That’s …’

‘We know what it is. You came across one of your former patients when she was in Tradmouth Hospital having a hysterectomy.
A lady by the name of Theresa Harbourn. Then shortly afterwards your son announced that he was to marry a girl called Kirsten.
It wasn’t until you met Mrs Harbourn shortly before the wedding that you realised that your patient, Theresa Harbourn, and
the bride’s mother were one and the same person. Then something at the back of your mind, a nagging memory, made you look
at the clinic’s records. There was something you had to check, just in case.’

Creston hesitated. ‘Sometimes our donors didn’t turn up. A lot of them were students, you see, and …’

‘And they forgot or couldn’t make it for some reason. You couldn’t freeze sperm in those days, could you?’

‘No. It had to be fresh … not more than an hour old. It was a logistical nightmare because everything had to be timed just
right. It’s much easier today of course. We just freeze the samples. But before the late eighties …’

‘And you remembered Mrs Harbourn particularly. Not just because she was a patient but because of something that happened the
day she came for her treatment?’

Creston bowed his head. ‘I did it with the best of intentions. I really sympathised with my patients, Inspector. When I saw
the hope in her eyes, I couldn’t send her away.’

‘The donor didn’t turn up.’

‘He rang the next day to apologise. It seemed he’d forgotten about the appointment.’

‘But you couldn’t let Mrs Harbourn go away disappointed, could you? You were a similar physical type to her husband so you
thought why not? Nobody would ever know. It wouldn’t matter. She’d be happy and, hopefully, she’d produce the baby she so
badly wanted. And she did produce a baby, didn’t she? A baby girl. Name of Kirsten.’

Wesley could see tears forming in the doctor’s eyes.

‘You can imagine the horror I felt when I met Peter’s fiancée’s mother and realised who she was. I checked the records when
I was at the clinic. I had to make sure my memory wasn’t playing tricks.’

‘Kirsten was your biological daughter. Peter’s half-sister. What did you do?’

‘I knew I had to prevent the wedding. I tried to see her as soon as I knew but somehow the time was never right. She was with
the builders or … It was a difficult thing to say and I put it off. Then on the day of the wedding … It couldn’t be put off
any longer. It’s all my fault for procrastinating. If only …’

‘You went round to the cottage?’

‘James had already called round there that morning and he told
me she was alone. Rowena had gone to put petrol in my car so I borrowed James’s. I’d already changed into my wedding clothes.
I think that’s what made me realise it was now or never … putting on that morning suit. I knew it had to be done then. She
had to be told.’

‘You never thought of telling Peter?’

‘How could I? He’s my son. We’ve always been close. He’d never have forgiven me. Far better if he thought she’d backed out.
He’d have got over it. From what I knew of her, she would never have made him happy anyway.’