The Merchant's House (9 page)

When lorries overturn on motorways the effects are usually spectacular. The M5, being heavily burdened with traffic that Friday lunch-time, ground to a complete stop. Wesley Peterson, his hands tensed on the steering wheel, experienced the worst seven-hour car journey of his life.

But Gerry Heffernan reckoned he’d learned more about
Karen Giordino in the back of their stationary car than he ever would have learned in an interview room. Mrs Giordino’s grief poured out as a non-stop monologue about her daughter. At the end of the journey he felt he knew everything about the girl and her mother, beginning with their abandonment by the council clerk father for a siren of the corporation typing pool when Karen was four years old. There was no American connection; the surname came from a long-forgotten Italian great-grandfather. Karen had opted for a more glamorous version of her history.

Of Karen’s recent past, her mother knew very little. In the last few years there had been long silences, the longest lasting over a year. Heffernan ascertained, by tactful questioning, that Mrs Giordino knew nothing of her daughter’s brush with the seamier end of the modelling industry – she had been told office work. This had been followed by Karen’s decampment to Blackpool ‘to do some seasonal work’, the nature of which was vague. Mrs Giordino seemed to have displayed a remarkable lack of curiosity about her daughter’s career.

‘She met this boyfriend of hers there. He was up on business – you know how they have these conference things.’

Heffernan leaned forward, willing her to continue.

‘Sorry, sir. I’m going to have to make a phone call.’ Wesley picked up the car phone.

‘Okay, okay,’ Heffernan snapped impatiently. The sergeant had broken the atmosphere of quiet confidence. Mrs Giordino stiffened. The moment was lost.

They sat in silence in the stationary traffic while Wesley tried to get through to his home number. There was no reply. He spent the next ten minutes ringing directory enquiries for the clinic number, then another ten trying to leave a coherent message with a dizzy receptionist. He had done all he could.

Heffernan decided to try again, gently. ‘This boyfriend? Did you ever meet him?’

‘Oh, no.’ She spoke as if this were obvious.

‘And as far as you know they’re still together?’

‘Far as I know. Living together down south somewhere.’

‘Do you have their address?’

‘She said she’d send it once she’d settled but….’ Heffernan nodded sympathetically. ‘I never had a card last Christmas. She’s got her life to lead, I suppose.’ She looked at her clenched fingers. ‘Had her life.’

‘She’ll have told you his name?’

‘John … it was John.’

‘Surname?’

‘She never said. I mean, you don’t, do you.’

‘Did she say where he was from?’

‘Down in the south-west somewhere. Cornwall?’

Heffernan looked up sharply. ‘Could it have been Devon?’

‘Could have been.’

‘What about the baby? Did she let you know when it was born?’

Mrs Giordino’s eyes widened. ‘What baby? I never heard she had a baby.’ The woman looked at him, her face full of the pain of neglected motherhood. ‘No. She never had a baby. She would have told me. She would.’

Heffernan nodded and continued. ‘Is there anything else? Please think hard, Mrs Giordino. Anything she might have told you about her boyfriend … anything at all?’

‘I think he was married when she met him. Left his wife.’

‘Did she tell you that?”

‘Don’t know. Must have done.’

‘Did you have a phone number where you could contact her?’

She shook her head as if nothing really mattered now: Karen was dead, gone.

Wesley picked up the phone and dialled again.

Armed with an authentic picture of the murdered woman, Rachel had drawn a complete blank at the travellers’ site at Neston. She had seen Sludge and Donna, who backed up Dave and Julie’s story, but they made it clear by their monosyllabic answers that they didn’t know anything else about the matter and didn’t particularly care.

She had then resumed her crusade among the hairdressers of Tradmouth with more gusto than before. Snippers and
Curls was her last port of call. It was always best to double-check and she had a feeling … just a feeling.

Mr Carl was putting the finishing touches to a scrunch-dry when he spotted Rachel walking with determination down St Margaret’s Street. He signalled to Damien, the junior, to take over the hairdryer and, with a word and a charming smile to his client, hurried into the back. When he heard the front door of the salon open he let himself out into the alleyway at the back of the shop and disappeared in the direction of the Butterwalk.

It was no use going to the clinic. Pam would already have left. Wesley sat in front of the television screen which might just as well have been blank for all the notice he was taking of it. She should have been home by now. She must have driven to Plymouth, to her mother’s: the traditional refuge for disgruntled wives.

He picked up the phone and began to dial his mother-in-law’s number. He got on well with Delia, a recently widowed and formidable sociology lecturer. He hoped she would help her daughter to see things in perspective.

Wesley was halfway through dialling when he changed his mind. He’d let Pam cool off.

The sound of the key in the front door brought him to his feet, his heart racing. He grabbed the remote control and angrily silenced the television, then he stood still, waiting. He heard her put her keys away, take her coat off. This was how a suspect must feel before being questioned. She walked in. He rushed to her and tried to take her in his arms, but she turned away.

‘We got stuck on the M5. A lorry overturned. How did you get on? What did they say?’

She pulled away from him. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve just spent the last few hours with my private parts on full display. I felt like a lump of meat on a bloody butcher’s block, and you weren’t even there. I don’t think you care at all.’

She slammed the door behind her to make the point.

Wesley wondered if Neil would be in the Tradmouth Arms that evening. He needed a drink.

* * *

‘You look pissed off, Wes.’ Neil had never been one to sidle tactfully round the obvious.

‘How are you getting on with that research?’ Wesley had no desire to discuss his troubles, even though tonight Neil was alone, Matt and Jane having gone off to see a film in Morbay.

‘I’ve been looking up the old parish records. The first Banized at that address was a Thomas – died in 1601; his wife Margaret died a year later. I reckon he must have been the one who built the place. If you’re free one lunch-time I’ll take you to see their tomb. Pretty fancy, they weren’t short of a sovereign or two. The tomb’s damaged at the corner. Legend has it it was done when the church was being renovated in the early seventeenth century. A workman dropped something on it. Nothing’s new.’

Wesley went to the bar to get more drinks. He was beginning to relax; to enjoy himself. When he returned Neil resumed his narrative.

‘This Thomas had a son, John, who took over the business. It must have done well ‘cause his tomb’s quite an elaborate affair and all. He married the only daughter of a prosperous merchant from Neston, Elizabeth Pilner, and they had a son, Thomas, who became mayor in 1663. The vicar’s a bit of a local historian – he’s been a lot of help. He says there are documents about the Banized family in the local museum. I’ll have a look when I’ve got some free time.’

‘No clue about the skeleton?’

‘Not a thing. Probably some servant girl’s bastard.’

‘Where was it found?’

‘About three feet below what would have been the cellar floor.’

‘Did servant girls get that much privacy in those days to go digging up cellar floors?’

‘How should I know? You’re the detective. We’re starting to dig the other part of the cellar tomorrow. Come along if you’re interested.’

‘Wish I could, Neil, but we’re in the middle of this murder inquiry.’

He looked at his watch. It was nearly closing time. As it
was Friday a few members of the weekend yachting fraternity had occupied a corner of the bar and were regaling each other loudly with tales of their nautical deeds. In another corner sat a huddle of elderly locals who threw occasional curious glances in Wesley’ direction.

‘Look, Neil, I’ll have to go. You in her most nights?’

‘Where else? We tried the Angel but it was a bit posh.’

Neil raised a hand in casual farewell and Wesley stepped out into the salty night air. Heffernan’s house was virtually round the corner, and from where Wesley stood he could hear the lapping of the water against the quayside. He wondered fleetingly how his boss spent his evenings.

He walked slowly back home up the steep narrow streets that led away from the harbour, preoccupied with two questions. Would Pam be asleep when he got back? And would the cellar of the merchant’ house hold any more grisly secrets?

Today Elizabeth was recovered enough to attend church. When we returned to the house she again took to her bed as the service had tired her greatly. The work on the church proceeds at a goodly pace. I have had words with the workmen who did allow a block of stone to fall and damage my father’s tomb. Anne returns to her home next week. How I do fear her departure for Jennet will then be once more in our quarters. God grant me strength.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,
19 April 1623

“The boss said he wanted to see you as soon as you got in.’

Rachel dumped a pile of reports on Wesley’s desk. He looked at them despairingly and took his coat off.

‘Anything new?’

‘I think we’ve got the murder weapon. That DC from Neston went down the cliff, found a big lump of branch caught in the bushes. No prints, of course, but a few traces of blood and hair that hadn’t been washed away by the rain. It’s all in the report. You’d best go and see the inspector. He’s waiting.’

Heffernan beamed magnanimously as his sergeant entered, and told him to take a seat. At least somebody was in a good mood.

‘Mrs Giordino okay?’

Heffernan sighed. ‘Aye. She’s settled at Betty Pargeter’s
B and B. Got one of the WPCs looking after her. I’m nipping round to see her in a minute.’ He paused. ‘Hope you didn’t get into trouble yesterday.’

Wesley looked up, surprised. To have a superior officer concerned about the effect of unexpectedly lengthened working hours on your domestic arrangements was a whole new experience.

Heffernan continued, ‘If you need time off again we’ll arrange something.’

“Thank you, sir.’

‘How’s your wife?’

‘She wasn’t too pleased.’

‘Yeah. Emotive subject, having kids. People get very …’

‘Yes, sir.’

The door opened and Steve Carstairs’s tousled head appeared. Why, Heffernan wondered, did DC Carstairs always have to look as if he’d spent the previous evening at an all-night party. Perhaps he had, if station gossip was anything to go by.

‘Excuse me, sir, there’s been a call from the manager of a bank in Morbay. He’s recognised the photo in the paper, says she’s got an account there.’

‘Right. Get over there, will you.’

‘No need, sir. The branch is open Saturday mornings so he’s faxing me all the details.’ Carstairs stood there like a child expecting the reward of a sweet.

‘Go and see him anyway. If he recognises her, he’s obviously met her. Find out what he knows.’

Crestfallen, Steve Carstairs left the room.

When the fax arrived half an hour later, Wesley entered the inspector’s office and placed the information on the desk. Heffernan studied it and looked up, his eyes glowing with renewed interest.

‘Well, we’ve got an address now. The rest should be plain sailing.’

Rachel looked through the glass and saw the boss at his desk, head in hands. Her instinct was not to disturb him, but police business came first. She knocked briskly and opened the door.

‘That address, sir. Wesley’s about to go over there with Steve. You okay, sir?’

The inspector looked up. ‘I’ve just had to explain to a woman why it wouldn’t be a good idea to see her daughter’s body. Apart from that, I’m fine.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Sorry, Rach, I shouldn’t be taking it out on you. Tell Wesley to take that key that was found in the bag, will you – see if it fits the door to her flat.’

‘How did Steve get on at the bank?’

‘The manager didn’t know her. Just seen her the once when she came in to get some passport photo signed. He shouldn’t really have done it if he didn’t know her, but Steve reckons he fancied her.’

‘Steve would reckon that, wouldn’t he, sir. What about her bank account?’

‘The current account fits in with what we know about her. No regular salary but whatever she was up to didn’t pay too badly. Let’s just hope it wasn’t immoral or illegal. You’ve run her name through the Police National Computer?’