The Merchant's House (4 page)

Heffernan moved quickly for a big man, and they arrived at the post-mortem room early. The two policemen stood some way away from the action, and Wesley spent half the time studying the floor or the ceiling. For someone who came from a medical family he felt decidedly squeamish. During his archaeological training the bodies had been piles of dry bones: he would never get used to post-mortems.

Colin Bowman went about his work with an air of detached nonchalance which he had cultivated over many years of proximity to death. He addressed the occasional remark to the inspector, who leaned against the wall, arms folded, looking on with interest.

‘So what do you reckon, then, Colin?’

‘I’d say that the cause of death was severe head injuries caused by … I don’t really know. Something heavy, uneven; not something like a baseball bat but around the same size. I’d say a thick heavy branch, something like that. I’ve found traces of bark in the wounds. I’d say she was struck from behind and that’s what killed her, then some maniac went to work on her face. Not very nice.’

‘Anything else? Murderer right-handed or left-handed? Man or woman?’

‘Now you’re asking. If I had to guess, just off the top of my head before I do further tests, I’d say right-handed. As for sex … either, I suppose, if the weapon was thick and heavy enough, but I’m just guessing. The victim was in her early twenties. Natural blonde. Healthy. Average muscle tone – not an athlete or one of your aerobics freaks. Five foot seven. Pretty average all round, really. All her own teeth, what’s left of them. We can try and reconstruct them, see if they match dental records. Any idea who she is yet?’

‘No missing person round here matches her description. She might have been doing seasonal work in Morbay and they assume she’s gone home and not bothered to turn up. It happens. We’ll need publicity if nobody comes forward. Any chance of an artist’s impression … something like that?’

Colin Bowman shook his head. ‘Reconstruction’s pretty specialised work. Can be done, of course, but it takes time.’

Wesley looked up. ‘I know of someone in Exeter who
might be able to do it. Professor Jensen from the university. I saw him reconstruct the face of a pharaoh’s daughter.’

Heffernan raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ve no objection to calling in a bit of outside help if nothing turns up in the next few days.’ He patted Wesley heartily on the back. ‘Good thinking. You can tell me all about this pharaoh’s daughter over a steak and kidney pie at lunch-time.’

Bowman shook his head. ‘You’re the only man I know who can eat steak and kidney pie after a post-mortem. Your sergeant looks like a salad’d scare the daylights out of him.’

Wesley made for the door. He longed to get the smell out of his nostrils, out of his clothes. He longed to get home for a bath.

‘There’s just one more thing, Gerry.’

Heffernan turned. ‘What’s that, then, Colin?’

‘She’s had a baby fairly recently … say in the past couple of years.’

The inspector made straight for the Fisherman’s Arms, trailing Wesley in his wake.

‘Got the victim’s clothes back from forensic, sir.’

‘Right, then, Rach. Let the dog see the rabbit.’ Heffernan, comfortably full after an unsurpassable steak and kidney pie, sorted through the neatly labelled plastic bags.

‘Any report come with these?’

“That’s to follow, sir.’

‘As usual. What have we here? Let’s have a shufti.’

‘Where’s Sergeant Peterson, sir?’

‘I took him out for one of Maisie’s specials at the Fisherman’s Arms. Just the thing after a post-mortem – kill or cure.’

‘And which did it do, sir? Kill him or cure him?’

‘He’s up at Little Tradmouth organising another search for the murder weapon. Fresh air’ll do him good. And I’ve asked him to see Mrs Truscot again. I thought the name was familiar. I know her – she sings in the choir.’

Rachel had difficulty imagining her boss singing his heart out in a church choir, but she had heard from various sources that he had a good voice. ‘So you had a good lunch?’

‘He’s a bright one, that new sergeant of ours … degree in archaeology.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘He never said.’

‘And his parents are both doctors. So’s his sister. His dad’s a consultant – heart surgeon – from Trinidad. That’s in the West Indies.’

‘I did do geography at school, sir.’

‘I’ll tell you what, he’s a breath of fresh air after the last one.’ Heffernan chuckled wickedly. ‘And I like the idea of his replacement being black. Marchbank was the most bloody racist sod I’ve ever met.’

Rachel smiled to herself. Gerry Heffernan rarely swore – only when discussing Detective Sergeant Marchbank.

‘I know, sir. I …’ She hesitated.

‘What is it, Rach?’

‘It’s, er, well, I’ve heard Steve Carstairs making a few comments. Not to Sergeant Peterson’s face, of course. When he thinks he can’t hear. You know the sort of thing.’

‘He’ll have picked up nasty habits from Marchbank. He thought the sun shone out of his backside. What a role model, eh? You did right to tell me, Rach. I’ll keep an eye on things.’

‘Sergeant Peterson found Marchbank’s little comics, sir.’

‘Did he now?’

‘Didn’t know how to get rid of them. Wasn’t going to put them in the bin and shock the cleaners.’

The inspector chuckled again. ‘I’m sure we’ll think of something.’

‘And a call came through half an hour ago. There’s been another theft – building materials. Looks like the same gang.’

‘Send Steve Carstairs over, will you? And tell him I want a full report. In joined-up writing with full stops and capital letters.’

‘Will do.’

He turned his attention back to the pile of plastic bags. ‘Now then, what have we here?’

‘There’s nothing to identify her, sir. No handbag.’

‘Do you ever go out without a handbag, Rach?’

‘No … no, I don’t. You’ve got to have somewhere to keep your purse and your keys and all that.’

‘So we can assume her handbag’s been taken. Either by the murderer or someone who found it lying about.’

‘Her murderer could have driven her there and she left it in the car.’

‘Mmm, could be. Anything found in the pockets?’

‘Only this.’ Rachel produced a smaller plastic bag containing what looked like a business card. ‘Hairdresser’s, sir. The card was in her jacket pocket. It’s fairly new and Gwen from forensic said they found bits of hair all over her sweater. Like when you have your hair cut and you keep finding bits of hair on your clothes for the rest of the day. I reckon she’d just been to the hairdresser’s.’

‘Let’s have a look at that card.’ He studied it closely. ‘Anything from missing persons?’

‘Nobody fitting the description on this patch, but I’ve been in touch with some other local forces. There’s one here … Newquay. A surfer and his girlfriend staying in one of those backpackers’ hostels. She walked out and he reported her missing. Blonde, medium height … I’ve written down the details.’

‘Do these look like backpacker’s clothes to you?’

‘Not a chance.’ She picked through the plastic bags, studying the labels on the clothes. ‘She was wearing a skirt. Far too conventional. And this jacket – this stuff’s not cheap.’

‘Worth following up, though. She might have come into money and fancied a change of image. Anything else?’

‘Girl from Dorset … sort of fits the description. She had a row with her mother’s boyfriend and walked out.’

‘Check on that as well. And this hairdresser’s … do you know it?’

‘Snippers and Curls. I know of it.’

‘Ever been there?’

Rachel looked disdainful. ‘No. There’s someone comes to the farm to do our hair.’

‘Well, get over to this Snippers and Curls place. See if they can come up with a name.’

‘I’ll find out who did her hair. They might have chatted.’

On her way out Rachel looked in the mirror, then in her purse to see if she could afford Snippers and Curls’ prices.

* * *

An hour later Rachel found herself opening the art deco front door of Snippers and Curls. She wished she’d had a chance to wash her hair that morning. She was certain she looked a mess.

A young woman in her late teens, sitting behind the reception desk, greeted her with an insincere smile.

‘Have you got an appointment?’ Her voice had an automatic quality.

Rachel showed her identification and the smile disappeared.

‘Do you want to speak to Mr Carl?’

Rachel wasn’t going to let her get away that easily. ‘Did you work on reception last Saturday … the seventeenth?’

The girl looked worried. ‘Er, yeah.’

‘Can you remember a customer, a young woman in her early twenties: slim, five foot seven, blonde hair?’

The girl hesitated, looking uneasy.

‘Why don’t you have a look in the appointments book? Might jog your memory.’

The book was examined. The girl shook her fashionable curls. ‘They’re all regulars.’

‘Anybody who might fit the description I gave?’

‘Well, Mrs Bolton’s blonde … but she’s eight months pregnant.’ She looked at Rachel enquiringly.

‘Anyone else?’

‘No. But she might have come in without an appointment.’

‘Everything all right, Michelle?’ The girl jumped to attention as a tall, waistcoated man in his thirties with a ponytail glided towards them.

‘Oh, er, this lady …’

‘Are you the manager, sir?’ Rachel thought she’d better relieve Michelle of the awesome responsibility of explanations.

“This is Mr Carl, Artistic Director,’ Michelle chipped in helpfully as Rachel showed her identification again.

‘I was enquiring whether a blonde lady in her early twenties had her hair done here on the seventeenth … last Saturday.’

‘Have you looked in the appointments book, Michelle?’

‘Yes. There’s nobody like that, but I wondered if she came in on the off-chance. I can’t remember anyone, but it happens, doesn’t it, Mr Carl?’ She looked at her boss anxiously for support.

He spent a moment in obvious thought. ‘I can’t remember anyone that day. I’ll have a word with my staff. I’ve got another salon in Neston so I’m in and out. May I ask what it’s about?’

‘We’re trying to identify a body found at Little Tradmouth yesterday. Her hair was newly cut and she had one of your cards in her pocket.’

Rachel thought she detected relief on the man’s face. ‘I leave those cards round in a lot of places … cafés; that beauty place up on Fossway Hill. She probably just picked it up. It doesn’t mean she had her hair done here.’

‘If you could just ask your staff, sir.’

Rachel waited while he went round the chairs, whispering to the snipping staff. Each of them shook their beautifully designed heads.

‘No. Sorry. Looks like she went somewhere else.’ Mr Carl studied Rachel, looking her up and down with a practised eye. ‘Have you ever considered a perm? Nothing strong, just a gentle one … give you a softer look.’

Rachel shook her head and left, making a mental note to ask her hairdresser, Gladys – a motherly creature a world away from Mr Carl and his staff – about perms.

Mr Carl watched her go. The police were asking questions: that meant trouble. He went into the back office and picked up the phone.

The ships sailed today for the Newfoundland. I pray God that the voyage be safe and prosperous and I beg His blessing upon my ships.

Robert, the apprentice, hath been taken with the toothache and did ask Master Webb, the apothecary, for physic when he did visit my wife. Elizabeth fares a little better with Master Webb’s mixture and the child doth seem to grow well. I keep from her bed as Master Webb doth advise.

Last night I did see Jennet in her shift through the open door to her chamber. She is slender with full breasts and I did feel much roused with desire. She spied me and did shut the door. Lead us not into temptation, oh Lord.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,
14 March 1623

‘So what have we got?’ Heffernan sat down in the swivel chair which rocked precariously under his weight.

‘I’ve seen Mrs Truscot, guv. She gave me a better description of the young couple she saw on the coastal path. And she reckons the girl was carrying a handbag – a small one which didn’t really go with the rest of her get-up, if you see what I mean.’

‘Put out a description of this pair. Someone might have seen them. Or better still, know where they are.’

‘They could be miles away by now.’

‘You know what you are, Wesley. A born pessimist.’

‘Just being realistic, guv.’

‘Well, be realistic in your own time. And don’t keep calling me guv. Sounds like something out of
The Sweeney …
and I’ve never driven a Ford Capri in my life.’

Wesley suppressed a grin. ‘Sorry, sir.’