The Marriage Hearse (4 page)

Jeffrey Creston put a hand on his wife’s knee. ‘Now, now, dear. That was hardly Kirsten’s fault.’ He looked at Wesley. ‘I
had the impression that Theresa was trying to squeeze every penny she could out of her ex-husband. He was paying for it all.
When we offered to contribute she said that it was his duty to pay for his own daughter’s wedding … especially since he’d
abandoned her for some cheap tart. Her words not mine.’

‘I see,’ said Wesley, glancing at his boss. It certainly made sense. And Kirsten hadn’t been able to resist going along with
it. After all, it was her big day.

‘So … er …’ Rowena blushed. ‘Was it … sexual?’

‘We’re keeping an open mind at the moment, Mrs Creston. Where was your son between eleven and twelve thirty?’

Rowena shook her head as though she couldn’t quite believe Wesley had the audacity to ask the question. ‘Here of course. Getting
ready for his wedding. Where else would he be?’

‘And you can verify that? You were both here too?’

‘Of course. And James, Peter’s brother. He was to be his best man. And our daughter Julia.’

‘Nobody left the house until it was time to go to the church?’

‘That’s right, Inspector.’ She hesitated. ‘Well, Julia popped out for a short time … there was a problem with the men’s suits
and she had to go to the outfitters.’

Jeffrey Creston raised a hand. ‘And I went to Balwell to get some petrol. Must have been around half eleven.’

‘You’ve got the receipt, I take it?’ Heffernan growled.

Creston looked rather shocked. ‘I think so. It’s probably in my trouser pocket. I went out before I got changed into my morning
suit. Do you want me to get it or …?’

‘If it’s not too much trouble, sir,’ said Wesley. He didn’t think for one moment that it would be of any help but it would
do no harm to be thorough.

The receipt was produced. The petrol station was in Balwell, in the opposite direction to the murder scene on the road to
Tradmouth. He returned it to Creston and thanked him.

‘Is it possible to have a word with Peter?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Rowena. ‘He’s asleep. Jeff gave him something to calm him down and …’

‘Are you a GP, Dr Creston?’

‘No. Actually I’m a gynaecologist.’

Gerry Heffernan raised an eyebrow as a risqué joke he’d once heard about that particular occupation popped unbidden into his
mind. But a glance at Rowena Creston’s face made his thoughts return to the matter in hand.

‘Perhaps if we could speak to your other son, James. And your daughter.’

‘Julia’s out. She was rather upset so she went to see a friend. And James is returning the morning suits to the hire shop
in Tradmouth, then he’s going for a run. He wanted something to do.’

‘Yes. It’s sometimes best to keep busy,’ said Wesley as he stood up. The three younger Crestons would keep for another day.

Marion Blunning was worried about her father. Even though the doctors at Tradmouth Hospital had said there was nothing to
worry about as long as he took it easy – that it had just been a warning – she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe them.
Her dad had never known a day’s illness in his life and seeing him weakened and vulnerable in a hospital bed had come as a
terrible shock to her and her mother.

But now she had something much worse to deal with. Kirsten, her best friend, was dead. Murdered on her wedding day. She kept
closing her eyes tight, hoping, praying, that when she opened them again, the nightmare would be gone.

But it was there with her, like a weight on her heart. Even when she’d taken off the dark red bridesmaid’s dress, stained
with tears – the dress she’d forever associate with death – and put on her everyday clothes, the pain hadn’t diminished.

As she walked into the lobby of the Stoke Raphael Country Hotel, she caught sight of herself in the gilded mirror that hung
opposite the reception desk. Her brown hair was scraped back into a ponytail and her glasses had slipped down to the end of
her nose. She had always been aware of the fact that she was Kirsten Harbourn’s plain friend – her foil; the one who served
to emphasise her beauty – but she had never resented it. Kirsten had confided in her. Juicy secrets. Kirsten had trusted her.
And when Kirsten had hooked Peter Creston, she had been asked to be her bridesmaid.

But now she would never see Kirsten again. Never be her confidante. Never be unofficial aunty to her babies. There would
be no babies because there was no Kirsten any more.

Through a blur of unshed tears, Marion tried to make out the signs to the Neston Suite. Theresa needed her to help sort things
out. To take the wedding presents back to the house in her car. She was to meet her there, in the room where the cake should
have been cut and the champagne drunk. The room that was now filled with mourning silence. She had to pull herself together.
She was needed.

She took off her glasses and wiped her eyes. She would be no help to anyone if she gave in to emotion. She sniffed and stood
up straight. It was time to face Theresa. Time to be strong.

As she walked down the wide corridor, the thick carpet deadening the sound of her footsteps, she saw a young man coming towards
her. A member of the hotel’s staff in the characteristic blue shirt and blue and black waistcoat. His sandy hair had been
tamed with a layer of gel and the freckles stood out on his long face.

Marion stopped suddenly. ‘What are you doing here?’

The young man grinned. But there was no mirth in his eyes. Only fear. ‘I work here. Why?’

‘Since when?’

‘Since last week.’ There was defiance in his voice.

‘Since you found out the reception was going to be here. She’s dead. But I suppose you know that.’

The young man’s pale blue eyes narrowed and he clenched his fist.

‘I’ve heard that she was raped and strangled.’ Marion took a step backward, not taking her eyes off his.

‘How would I know?’ he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

‘You’re lying. You couldn’t have her so you made sure nobody else could.’

Marion’s words struck home. He put his face close to hers. She could smell garlic on his breath.

‘Shut up, will you? Someone’ll hear … get the wrong idea.’

‘I don’t care. You killed her. She wouldn’t have you so you just took what you wanted.’

‘You’re wrong. I’ve been here all day. Since eight thirty. I can prove it. Ask anyone.’

Marion hesitated, no longer so sure of herself. ‘I’m going to tell the police what you’ve been doing.’

‘I haven’t done anything. They’ll think you’re mad. You’ll be charged with wasting their time.’

The fear in his eyes belied the confidence of his words. He was scared. He pushed past Marion and hurried down the corridor,
pushing open the swing doors violently and disappearing round the corner.

Marion was aware that she was shaking and she took a deep breath. She didn’t trust Stuart Richter. He was mad. And mad people
are dangerous.

Edward Baring – known to most of his acquaintances as Big Eddie – lived in constant fear of skeletons.

He dreaded the sight of bones, ever since he’d accidentally disturbed the last resting place of a World War Two airman who’d
crashed not far from Plymouth. Nobody had been aware of the presence of the wrecked plane and the powers-that-be had seemed
rather grateful that he had brought it to their attention. But that hadn’t made him feel any better.

He hadn’t helped himself to any souvenirs that time. It had seemed wrong to rob a corpse. Besides, it was doubtful whether
the long dead pilot would have been carrying anything of value that would have helped Eddie to overcome his scruples.

He held his metal detector out in front of him, his big, bearded face a study in concentration as he adjusted his headphones
and listened for tell-tale bleeps.

The farmer who’d given him permission to search his meadow – provided he was given a share of any spoils – had watched his
progress for a while but had been swiftly disillusioned when Eddie had only turned up some barbed wire and a rusty nail. Eddie
had been glad when he’d decided to go. He hated being watched.

He made his way up and down the field methodically like an old-fashioned sower of seed, sweeping his metal detector back and
forth over the rough pasture. He would cover every inch. If he wasn’t thorough he might miss something. And that something
could be the gold torque or the hoard of Saxon coins that would make him his fortune.

Half an hour, five nails, four sections of barbed wire, a horseshoe and a Victorian penny later, Big Eddie was just starting
to wonder if he had exhausted the field’s possibilities when his instrument gave a loud and definite signal.

He bent down stiffly and began to dig with the trowel he carried. It was probably another nail but it was worth checking.

He dug down and down into the rich earth. He had a good feeling about this.

Then the trowel touched something hard. He looked down. Something white. He began to dig faster, using his hands. Then he
saw it.

The thin bones lay, pale against the red-brown earth. A ribcage. Eddie’s heart began to pound and he looked around nervously
before bending to examine what he had found. Something had made that signal. Something metal.

He brushed the earth away with trembling fingers and the sun caught a glint of metal. Something was lodged firmly in the ribcage.
Something that glowed, untarnished by years in the soil. Gold.

The Playwright, Ralph Strong was born in the parish of Upper Cudleigh in 1561, three years before his more famous contemporary,
William Shakespeare. The younger son of a prosperous yeoman farmer, he went to London to seek employment with a company of
actors when he was in his late teens. He joined Lord Rutland’s men and he probably began by playing women’s parts. By the
age of twenty-five he had become an established actor and took many leading roles
. The Fair Wife of Padua
is, however, his only known full-length play and it was probably written in 1590, shortly before his death. He died at the
age of twenty-nine, stabbed during a drunken quarrel with a fellow actor in a Southwark tavern
.

From the programme notes for the Neston Arts Festival production of
The Fair Wife of Padua.

Detective Chief Inspector Gerry Heffernan examined his appearance in the small, cracked mirror that hung on the inside of
his office door. He was a realist, aware of his shortcomings … and this expanding waistline.

He had a good view of the CID office from his window. Wesley had gone home, doing as he was told for once. In fact the office
was empty. It was Saturday night and he’d told everyone to make themselves scarce because they had to make an early start
in the morning. But he didn’t intend to practise what he preached. Not tonight.

He hurried over to his desk, opened the drawer and took out a glossy brochure. ‘Want to find that perfect partner? Too busy
to
find friendship and good company? The Fidelis Bureau offers discreet introductions for mature professional people.’

He shoved the brochure back in the drawer and looked at his watch. Seven o’clock. It was now or never.

His daughter, Rosie, was home for the summer, playing second violin in an orchestra engaged to take part in the Neston Arts
Festival. She would be home from a rehearsal at eight and would find the house empty and she’d have no idea where her father
had gone. The thought gave him a thrill of mischief, like a teenager who was staying out late without permission.

He was due to meet the lady at the bandstand in the Memorial Park. She would be carrying a copy of the
Tradmouth Gazette
. This little touch appealed to him. A little romantic, a little cloak and dagger. It had been so long since he had done anything
like this and he almost felt like a schoolboy again, in spite of being the senior investigating officer on a murder case.
All of a sudden his thoughts turned to the dead bride. The postmortem would be carried out the next morning but he tried to
put it from his mind as he tripped down the path, weaving through the throng of strolling tourists.

He looked around. He had been told that he could find a picture of his date on the Fidelis Bureau’s website but, being a technophobe,
he hadn’t yet mastered the art of ‘surfing the net’. At work he usually relied on Wesley – or in his absence, one of the younger
officers – to help him get to grips with e-mails and the like. But on this occasion embarrassment had rendered him helpless.
There was no way he wanted anyone to know about this new enterprise.

Unfortunately, the small park near the waterfront was crowded with people. A brass band was playing on the bandstand, music
from the shows, and they had attracted quite an audience. They had just launched into the title tune from
Oklahoma
when he spotted a plump, pleasant-faced woman, carrying a copy of the
Tradmouth Gazette
in front of her like a shield. This must be her. This must be Joyce Barnes.

His heart began to beat faster and he smoothed his hair. This was it. As he walked towards her he felt a sudden wave of
cowardice engulfing him, This was worse than facing an armed psychopathic murderer with a down on the police. But he fought
the temptation to turn and flee and fixed a smile on his face.

‘Excuse me, love. Is it Joyce?’

For a split second the woman looked as terrified as he felt. But then she smiled. ‘Yes. That’s right. Gerry?’

The ice had cracked a little, if not yet broken. And as they walked across the park towards the Tradmouth Castle Hotel for
their pre-arranged bar meal, there was a rapid thaw. Joyce turned out to be a friendly woman, easy to talk to. And by the
time they reached the hotel entrance, they were exchanging snippets of their lives. He was a widower, she a divorcee; he was
a detective chief inspector in Tradmouth, she a registrar in Morbay recording the town’s births, marriages and deaths.

The evening passed quickly, and more pleasantly than Gerry Heffernan had dared to hope. At ten twenty he saw Joyce to her
car and he felt his cheeks burning as he asked if he could meet her again. This was teenage stuff. He was out of practice
and he felt as clumsy as any spotty, gangling adolescent. But Joyce made it easy for him. She just said yes. They would meet
next Saturday. Same time. Same place. They exchanged telephone numbers, although when she asked him for his e-mail address,
he became rather flustered and she let the matter drop.

There had been no physical contact, not even the lightest of pecks on the cheek, but Gerry Heffernan felt elated as he walked
towards the police station on a cushion of high hopes and reinvigorated youth. It was half past ten. He’d just check that
nothing new had come in before heading for home and lying to Rosie about where he’d been.

The night duty sergeant opened the front door for him and he made his way up the stairs, two at a time. All he needed to make
a perfect end to a perfect evening was a freshly faxed report from Forensics saying that DNA matching one of their local sex
offenders had been found at the scene of Kirsten Harbourn’s murder. A swift arrest would follow and all would be well in the
world.

As he expected, his luck didn’t stretch that far. But there was
a message on his desk. A Marion Blunning had called. She was to have been the dead woman’s bridesmaid. And she wanted to
speak to whoever was in charge of the case.

Gerry Heffernan looked at his watch. Ten to eleven already. He would call Marion Blunning in the morning.

He had to get home … although he knew he felt too excited to sleep. And as he made his way through Tradmouth’s narrow, night-time
streets, he felt at least twenty years younger than he’d done that morning.

Wesley Peterson awoke at eight o’clock on Sunday morning to find that Pam was already out of bed. Probably seeing to the children.
He knew he really should try to do more to help her. But then police work wasn’t always family friendly, especially during
a murder investigation. He stumbled out of bed and when he’d showered and dressed, he made his way downstairs.

He found Maritia sitting by Amelia’s high chair, feeding the baby an unappetising brown mush, something which claimed to be
organic and nutritious. When she heard Wesley come in she stopped chatting to the child and smiled.

‘Pam said you’re going into work.’ Maritia, who had worked for a few years as a hospital doctor, wasn’t fazed by unsocial
hours.

‘It’s this murder – bride killed on her wedding day.’

Maritia shook her head, disappointed at the wickedness of the world.

‘Where’s Pam?’

‘In the garden with Michael, feeding the new family members.’ She grinned. Michael had nagged for a pet for ages and Aunty
Maritia had bought him a pair of guinea pigs. Pam had muttered that they’d create more work but, fortunately, she hadn’t made
her feelings known to Maritia.

Wesley looked at his sister. She was a slim young woman, average height with skin a little paler than her brother’s, delicate
features and warm, dark brown eyes. She had straightened the shoulder-length black hair that framed her face, experimenting
for her coming wedding.

‘Am I in the doghouse for working on a Sunday?’ Wesley asked, trusting Maritia to give an honest answer.

‘I did rather get that impression. But I told her it would be worse if you were a doctor. And I’ve got to look forward to
a lifetime of having my husband going off to work on Sundays.’

‘I hope you didn’t tell Pam to count her blessings.’

Maritia’s grin widened. ‘Credit me with a bit of sense.’ She looked at her watch. ‘That reminds me. I’ve got to be in Belsham
by eleven for morning service.’ There was an awkward pause. ‘Is everything OK between you and Pam?’

‘Of course it is,’ he replied quickly. ‘Well … I know it gets her down when I have to work long hours but it can’t be helped.
Criminals don’t confine their activities to office hours unfortunately.’

‘She told me she sometimes feels like a single parent.’

Wesley gave an exasperated shrug of his shoulders. ‘What can I do?’

‘I’ve asked her over to Belsham after church – we’re going to try the Horse and Farrier for Sunday lunch. I thought it might
take her mind off your absence and she says her mum’s willing to have the kids. Our best man, Jonathan, is staying at the
vicarage with Mark for a few days to help with the painting so he’ll be there.’

‘I don’t think I’ve met him.’

‘No.’ Maritia wrinkled her nose. ‘He’s OK, I suppose …’ Wesley could sense there was a but. ‘You don’t like him?’

‘I wouldn’t go as far as to say that. He’s a bit full of himself and he likes to flash his money around. And I don’t think
he can understand why Mark went into the church when he could be making a fortune in the city.’

‘Did Mark get to know him at Oxford?’

Maritia shook her head. ‘No, they’ve known each other since they were small. He’s Mark’s oldest friend … that’s why he asked
him to be best man.’ She smiled bravely. ‘Still, he’s usually good company. The life and soul of the party.’ She glanced at
the door. ‘I’d go out and see Pam if I were you. Keep the peace.’

Wesley took his sister’s advice and spent the next fifteen minutes helping Michael to feed his new pets. As soon as he’d appeared
in the garden Pam had asked him pointedly whether he was
intending to join them at the Horse and Farrier. But when he’d said he was afraid it was impossible, trying his best to sound
apologetic, she had hurried indoors, saying she had things to do, avoiding eye contact and leaving him feeling wretched.

But before he left the house she spoke to him. ‘I thought I might get tickets for that play that’s on at the Neston Festival.
I saw a poster for it when I went to see Neil at Tradington Hall yesterday.’

‘You didn’t tell me you’d seen Neil?’ Wesley felt rather hurt that she hadn’t bothered to mention it.

‘Sorry, I forgot. I just fancied getting out of the house and Maritia said she’d keep an eye on the kids. Do you want me to
get tickets for this play or not?’

‘What’s it called?’

‘
The Fair Wife of Padua
. It’s an Elizabethan play … lost for centuries apparently and only recently rediscovered.’

Wesley smiled. ‘I’ve heard about it. Rachel’s got a part in it. You know, Rachel Tracey from work. She’s playing a maidservant.’

Pam pressed her lips together. ‘In that case, I suppose you’ll want to go.’

Wesley ignored the innuendo. ‘Why not? It’ll be good to have an evening out.’

He kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’ve got to go. The postmortem’s booked for ten. I’ll try not to be back too late. Enjoy your
lunch.’

Pam said nothing as he left the house.

When he arrived at the station, Gerry Heffernan was already there, as were the rest of the investigation team. It would have
been impossible for the casual observer to know it was a Sunday, supposedly a day of rest. Murder had no respect for civilised
working hours.

Wesley noticed that the chief inspector looked more cheerful than he normally did at that time of the morning. Positively
ebullient. Normally he would have been moaning about being dragged out of his bed so early on a Sunday morning and having
to miss his weekly sing with St Margaret’s church choir, but today he was beaming like a lottery winner and Wesley wondered
why.

He stood next to Rachel as Heffernan briefed them on the day’s
investigations and when he caught a whiff of her perfume he was momentarily distracted from what the boss was saying. Soon
he would watch her on the stage, dressed as a maidservant. He tried to put this thought from his mind and concentrate on what
Gerry Heffernan was saying.

‘So what have we got so far?’ he asked rhetorically and turned towards the notice board. ‘Kirsten Harbourn, aged twenty-three.
Strangled with the flex of her bedside light while she was getting dressed for her wedding. Possibly sexually assaulted. Cottage
door unlocked so anyone could have walked in. About to marry a Peter Creston, son of a family who live in Garbenford, a couple
of miles this side of Neston … nice posh house. Wes and I have seen the bridegroom’s parents and they seemed upset. We’ve
still to talk to the lad himself and to his brother and sister. Mind you, I can’t see that they’re going to tell us much and,
according to the parents, the bridegroom-to-be didn’t leave the house until he went to the church for his wedding. Perfect
alibi. All the signs at the moment point to it being an opportunist attack. Or maybe someone had been watching the house.
It might even be someone she knew. Any thoughts?’

Rachel consulted her notebook. ‘Kirsten’s mother mentioned an ex-boyfriend but she couldn’t remember his name.’

‘Anything else? Have you spoken to the father?’

‘Yes. Trish and I went to see the father, Richard Harbourn, after we’d finished with the mother. He didn’t really tell us
much. I got the impression Kirsten kept her distance from her dad and his new wife – lady by the name of Petula. I sensed
there was a lot of resentment there because he’d traded in her mother for a newer model.’ She paused. ‘He seemed upset, which
is understandable. But the new wife wasn’t exactly grief stricken. She almost spoke as though Kirsten had got herself murdered
deliberately, just to get attention. There was no love lost between her and her step-daughter if you ask me.’

‘Might be worth having a word with this Petula on her own. She might not be too averse to speaking ill of the dead,’ said
Wesley. Delicacy and good manners had impeded many a murder investigation in his opinion.