A Painted Doom (14 page)

‘I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Hoxworthy, I’m afraid there’s no news yet,’ said Wesley. ‘But his description’s been circulated and
all patrols are on the lookout for him.’ He didn’t mention that this sudden police interest was connected with the murder
on their land. He didn’t want to worry her unduly.

‘We’re doing our best, love,’ Heffernan assured her gruffly. ‘Is your husband not here with you?’

‘Terry’s down seeing to the ewes in the bottom field. It’s lambing. Lewis used to love helping with the lambs when he was
little,’ she added quietly, her lip trembling slightly. ‘A farm doesn’t run itself,’ she went on before taking a deep breath.
‘And Terry says it helps, keeping busy.’

‘Yes,’ said Wesley softly. ‘I wonder if I might ask you a few more questions.’

Jill Hoxworthy nodded. Anything that would help find Lewis.

‘Has Lewis had anything on his mind recently? Has he done anything out of character, mentioned any new people? Been anywhere
you didn’t know about?’

‘He’s fifteen. You can’t watch them at that age like you can when they’re five. He never told us much about who he was seeing.
He’d just go out and not say, even when I asked him.’

‘What about his friends? I presume you’ve been in touch with them all to check if they’ve seen him?’

Jill thought for a few seconds. Wesley sensed the subject
of the company Lewis kept wasn’t a comfortable one for her.

‘He never used to have a lot of friends,’ she began. ‘He was always interested in history and things like that; seemed quite
happy with his own company.’ She swallowed hard. ‘But he’s changed recently. He’s gone very sulky and secretive. And he spends
a lot of time on his computer. I’d ask him how he’d got on at school and he’d just storm off or tell me to mind my own business.
Terry says it’s just his age but …’ She hesitated, her brow wrinkled with worry. ‘He’s mentioned some boys at school …’

Wesley sensed that she was leaving something unsaid. ‘Did you sense he was unhappy? Do you think it’s possible that he was
being bullied?’ It was a question he had to ask.

‘He never said anything but …’ She shook her head, near to tears.

‘The boys he mentioned, what were their names?’

‘I know one’s called Yossa. That’s where he said he was going – Yossa’s. It’s the school holidays – they’re not back till
next week – but I rang the headmaster and he was really sympathetic: he got the phone number for me. I rang this Yossa and
he said that Lewis had never been there and he hadn’t been expecting him. He lives on the Winterham estate in Morbay.’

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. Winterham was a council estate well known to the local force … and not for the
quiet and law-abiding nature of its inhabitants.

‘We’ll check him out, love,’ Heffernan assured her earnestly. ‘And try not to worry too much, eh? Most lads who go missing
like this turn up safe and sound after a couple of days.’

‘It’s just not like Lewis. He’s never done anything like this before.’

Wesley could see tears welling up in her eyes, and as she rubbed at them with the sleeve of her cream jumper he noticed that
the cuff was grubby, stained with what looked like tomato sauce: laundry was probably the last thing on her mind.

He spoke to her gently. ‘Do you mind if we have a look at Lewis’s room?’

Mrs Hoxworthy gave a weak smile. ‘Of course not. Anything that helps.’

She led them upstairs. Lewis’s room, as Wesley had guessed, was at the front of the house with a perfect view over to the
field where Jonny Shellmer’s body had been found. The Old Vicarage gates and the lodge were clearly visible, although most
of the drive was obscured by trees and bushes.

Lewis’s room was untidy; dirty too, probably, as nobody could have penetrated the layers of papers, CDs and clothes on the
floor in order to clean it. It clearly hadn’t been touched since Lewis’s departure, and Wesley suspected that searching it
would be a Herculean task, but perhaps a necessary one if the boy didn’t turn up soon. There might be some clue to his whereabouts
amidst the chaos. He hoped Lewis would appear safe and sound before a detailed excavation of his room was necessary.

The two policemen glanced at each other. It was time to go. As Wesley left the Hoxworthys’ farmhouse, he offered up a silent
prayer that Lewis would be found alive and well … and soon.

Neil Watson stood in the largest trench, breathing in the scent of newly dug soil and listening to the soft scraping of trowels
on earth. He watched as the team of students around him worked away at the emerging wall foundations. It was all appearing
too quickly, the outline of the great hall of a medieval manor house, complete with central hearth. What they had found before
today was a mere crumb of the cake. Now they were getting great slices of it … plus the icing.

His colleague, Matt, a man a little older than himself who wore a ponytail and a permanently worried expression, took a breath
from his labours and strolled over.

‘From the geophysics outline we got a clear picture of a large house buried under here, a medieval manor house
judging by the layout. But from the state of these stone foundations, I’d say the place was demolished after some sort of
fire.’

Neil scratched his head. ‘It’s strange that this site’s in a prime location, near the church and the village centre, and it’s
never been built on again over all those centuries. Don’t you think that’s odd?’

‘There must have been a reason.’

Neil shrugged, squatted down again, and began to scrape away the fine reddish-coloured earth from a charred lump of carved
stone.

Wesley knew there was no time to seek out Neil to find out what the digging had turned up so far. And besides, the boss was
looking preoccupied and impatient. He drove the short distance to the lodge of the Old Vicarage, and parked in the narrow
lane.

He climbed out of the car. His eyes were drawn to the field near by where Jonny Shellmer’s body had been found. Peace had
returned to the spot, but the police tape remained and the cows had been moved to another field to recover from their few
hours of excitement.

Most police attention now focused on the Old Vicarage. The forensic team had been examining the place minutely.

As they walked towards the lodge, Wesley noticed that Gerry Heffernan had fallen uncharacteristically silent, as though he
had something on his mind. But he didn’t have a chance to ask what was wrong because as soon as Wesley’s hand had touched
the lodge’s lion’s-head knocker the front door opened wide. Gloria Treadly had watched them walking up the lane from behind
the voile curtains, and she was ready for them.

She stood blocking the doorway, looking Wesley up and down with barely disguised contempt as he displayed his warrant card.

‘I’ve had two of your lot here already,’ she said. ‘I told them I didn’t know anything.’

Gerry Heffernan pushed forward. ‘Can we have a word, love?’

She didn’t budge. ‘I’m busy.’

Gerry Heffernan didn’t have Wesley’s good manners. He took another step forward and Gloria Treadly instinctively moved back.
‘Cup of tea’d be nice, love,’ he said as he crossed the threshold. Wesley had no alternative but to follow him.

They were soon perched on the uncomfortable seating in the living room. Gloria glowered at them both from the white sofa.
There was no sign of tea.

Wesley felt Heffernan’s elbow gently nudge his ribs. He knew that it was up to him to do the talking.

‘You told our colleagues you saw some vehicles driving up to the Old Vicarage last week.’

Gloria nodded impatiently. ‘I told them everything I know.’

Gerry Heffernan took out his notebook and squinted at it. ‘You said you saw a BMW driving up there on Wednesday afternoon.
What time would that be?’

‘I can’t remember. I’ve got better things to do than look out of the window all day,’ she added self-righteously.

‘What colour was this BMW?’

‘Black,’ she replied, glancing at Wesley. ‘And you said you saw a yellow sports car. Was that before or after you saw the
BMW arrive?’

Gloria Treadly shook her head. The stiff lacquer on her grey hair ensured that each hair stayed in its appointed place. ‘I
don’t remember. After, maybe. I can’t be sure. If I’d known it was going to be important I would have written it all down,’
she said with a hint of sarcasm.

The door opened and a well-built man appeared. He was probably thirty or older, with longish, greasy hair, and he wore a checked
shirt tucked into jeans stretched tight around an expanding waist.

‘Who’s this, Ma?’

London, definitely, Wesley thought. Or possibly Essex
or Kent. He watched the man as he came into the room. He looked familiar. But then he’d come across so many men – honest and
dishonest – in the Met. And the name Alec Treadly didn’t ring any bells – unless he’d changed it.

‘Old Bill,’ said Gloria warily. ‘They’ve come about that body in the field. Want to know if we’d seen any cars going up to
the big house.’

‘Well, Mr Treadly,’ said Wesley. ‘Did you see any cars going up to the Old Vicarage on Wednesday?’

Alec Treadly stared at him vacantly for a few seconds. ‘That’s Ma’s department. She keeps an eye on all the comings and goings.
I was out.’

‘Do you mind telling us where you were on Wednesday afternoon, sir?’

‘Wednesday I was at the bookie’s in Tradmouth. I didn’t see nothing. Got home about … what time was it, Ma?’

‘After half four – twenty to five maybe.’ She began to beam at her son with maternal devotion.

‘I saw a big black BMW turning into the Old Vicarage drive when I was walking home.’

Gerry Heffernan sat forward. ‘Did you see who was driving it?’

‘Yeah. I’d seen him before. Middle-aged man, balding. I thought he was the estate agent selling the place. He’d been in and
out like a fiddler’s elbow.’

‘Did you see any other vehicles after that?’

‘Yeah. I went out just before five to empty the kitchen bin and I heard something that sounded like a sports car going up
the drive – powerful engine, like. Didn’t see it, mind.’

‘How can you be sure it was going up the drive and not just going down the lane?’ Wesley asked.

‘It had to change gear. You can tell by the sound of the engine. It had turned into the Old Vicarage drive all right.’

‘And you didn’t see it? Or the driver?’ Wesley asked hopefully.

‘Nah. Why?’

‘And did you see or hear the BMW leave before the sports car arrived?’

Treadly shook his head.

‘This man driving the BMW. Could you identify him?’ Heffernan sounded positively excited.

‘Yeah. I suppose I could.’

Wesley saw that his boss was starting to look triumphant, like an athlete who realised that he was about to be first past
the finishing line. ‘And he was going up to the Old Vicarage around half past four on Wednesday?’ Alec nodded.

Wesley turned to Gloria Treadly. ‘You told my colleagues that you saw a yellow sports car late on Wednesday afternoon. Is
that right, Mrs Treadly?’

‘I think so. But I can’t be sure of the time. I was busy. I had things to do,’ she added.

‘Could the yellow sports car have been the sports car your son heard when he was outside just before five o’clock?’

Gloria shrugged. ‘Could be.’

‘We think that yellow car might have belonged to the dead man,’ said Wesley. ‘Did you happen to see who was driving it?’

She shook her head. Then Wesley saw a glance exchanged between mother and son. There was something they were holding back.

‘Anything else you can tell us?’ he asked hopefully. Another shake of the head.

There was a short, awkward silence which was broken by Gerry Heffernan. ‘We might need you to identify the driver of the BMW.’
He stood up. ‘You’ve been a great help. Thanks.’

The chief inspector strutted out of the tiny cottage looking very pleased with himself. Wesley followed quietly, suppressing
his annoyance. He was certain the Treadlys were hiding something, and if the boss hadn’t been so heavy handed he might have
got more out of them.

But he bit his lip and said nothing.

He didn’t know what had got into Gerry Heffernan recently. He wasn’t his usual self at all.

WPC Trish Walton sat down in front of the computer and typed in the registration number of the blue car she had spotted in
Whitely, telling herself that it was probably the vehicle of some innocent law-abiding person. Wearing a hood inside a parked
car could hardly be construed as an offence. Perhaps the person had earache. Perhaps they were parked there waiting for someone.
Trish watched as the details came up on her screen.

Angela Simms of 7 Cawston Street, Neston was the proud owner of a 1994 blue Ford Fiesta. No driving offences had been recorded.
To Trish it all sounded very mundane.

She printed out Angela Simms’s details and made for Gerry Heffernan’s office.

Neil Watson looked down at his newest trench, the one which, hopefully, straddled the corner of the great hall. It looked
as though the initial diagnosis had been correct. The building had been burned, then demolished, and the good stones carted
away by the locals to be used as building materials. What remained of the foundations were charred black. It had been some
conflagration that had brought this place, a substantial manor house, to ruin.

He looked around. The field was full of men and women digging, drawing and operating strange instruments that penetrated the
ground with radar to show what lay beneath. A small yellow digger was scraping off the top layer of earth on the other side
of the field.

It was Neil’s intention that the whole of Manor Field should be excavated thoroughly and that the layout of the buildings
beneath the grass should be exposed, examined and recorded before the site was built on.

Jim and Maggie Flowers in the house next door to the field seemed almost as keen as Neil to unearth Derenham’s
secret past. They had even allowed a couple of trenches to be opened in their immaculate garden, and Maggie was helping with
the digging, chivvying on the other volunteers. She was a great organiser.