An Unhallowed Grave (18 page)

"Why didn't you ring for assistance from the creek?"

"My mobile's on the blink battery ..."

"It's nothing to do with that schoolgirl I saw you with, then?"

Steve's face turned an unhealthy shade of red as he hurried away, almost colliding with Gerry Heffernan, who had just arrived at the village hall. Steve hesitated, Rachel's comments having rendered him temporarily speechless, and stood there facing Heffernan and Wesley, his mouth opening and closing like that of a landed fish.

"Steve's just found a body in the creek, sir," said Rachel, taking pity on him.

Steve nodded. "Drowned ... a woman ..." He hoped his lack of coherence would be put down to shock.

"Right, then. You go with Johnson and Trish in the car. Wcs, we'll follow."

"There's been a call for you from the station at Plymouth, sir. It's about..."

"Okay, Rach. I'll call them later." Heffernan hurried out. He had more on his mind than returning phone calls.

It wasn't long before, guided by Steve's directions, the patrol car, followed by Wesley's unmarked Ford, had reached the banks of the creek. Steve just hoped no questions would be asked. He would have to invent a new hobby such as bird-watching if necessary ... in fact bird-watching might fit in very nicely.

PC Johnson waded out into the shallow water and hauled the body onto the bank, first unhooking it from the branches that had caught it and held it fast.

"Well, it's not a woman," said Heffernan, observing the baggy long-sleeved T-shirt that clung to the skinny body. "Turn him over, will you, Johnson."

Johnson obliged. The long hair obscured the corpse's face before Johnson pushed it back. "I recognise him, sir. It's one of the boys who was hanging round the church on Saturday."

"Lee Telford," said Wesley quietly. "We'd better get Dr. Bowman down."

Heffernan nodded. "One thing puzzles me. How on earth did Steve Carstairs mistake him for a woman? I would have thought he'd know the difference if anyone did." He looked up at Steve, who was standing there trying to look inconspicuous. "What did you say you were you doing here, Steve?"

"Bird-watching, sir."

Heffernan caught Wesley's eye and shook his head. Was nothing certain in this world any more? Wesley took his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled Colin Bowman's number.

It would be a while before the pathologist arrived, but Heffernan was determined that they would fill the time usefully. Wesley organised a search of the area where the body had been found, but there was no sign of anything untoward apart from a couple of used condoms beneath a tree. If this place was used by courting couples, Wesley thought, there was a chance that someone might have seen something. A further examination of the scene, however, produced no evidence to link it with the death of Lee Telford: no sign of his clothing catching when he fell in; no sign of a struggle. "It's my guess he went in somewhere else and was carried here by the current," he said to Heffernan, who nodded.

"You're right, Wcs. The currents in this creek are pretty powerful, so if he went in upstream near the shore then he'd be pulled along underwater till he got caught up in these branches." He looked at Lee Telford's face. "He looks a bit battered ... but so would you if you'd been dragged along the river-bed. Looks like his mouth and nostrils are full of sand ... poor kid."

Gerry Heffernan was staring at what was left of Lee Telford, contemplating the fragility of existence, when Colin Bowman arrived, made a preliminary diagnosis of death by drowning, and obligingly arranged the postmortem for early the next morning.

"Look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Wesley," said Bowman cheerfully as he passed. "Has Neil told you about our hanged lady?"

"The one at the crossroads? Yes. Did you know he's going to be on the local news tonight?"

"Really? I must watch it. It was a hanging, you know. Not a botched-up strangulation like that poor woman in the yew tree: a real hanging ... neck cleanly broken. I wonder what she did?"

"Neil thinks it might have been some sort of lynching ... judicial hangings were usually carried out in towns."

"Well, I'll Jook forward to hearing what he finds out. And what about these statues? Very interesting, all this archaeology, isn't it? Never know what you're going to turn up next."

"A bit like police work," said Wesley, glancing over at Lee Telford's body, which was now being carried to the waiting mortuary van.

Gerry Heffernan strolled over to join them. "I suppose someone had better break the news to his mum. I'll ask Steve to go with Rachel. She's good at that sort of thing."

Rachel was indeed good at that sort of thing, but Wesley knew she still hated this aspect of the job. When they returned to the incident room, Gerry Heffernan asked her to go to Mrs. Telford's. She nodded with resignation. She'd do her best.

Wesley's telephone rang. He answered it absent-mindedly and heard Neil's voice, excited and positively triumphant. "You know I wanted to find the records of Stokeworthy Manor Court to see why that woman was hanged? Well, I've been on to the County Museum. They know where the court rolls are."

"Where?" Wesley hadn't got time for guessing games.

"At the Manor itself. They've never left."

"So Thewlis has got them? What does he want with medieval court rolls?"

"I expect they were there when he bought the place. It's a good bet he doesn't even know they're there or what they are."

"Then let's hope he hasn't put them out for the bin men

"I don't think he'd chance throwing out anything that looked old and might be worth a bit. He might be a bloody philistine but he's not completely stupid."

"So what's so exciting?"

"I've got permission to search the Manor for them. He said so on telly ... in front of thousands of witnesses. Fancy coming with me?"

"I've already visited him in my official capacity, Neil. I don't think it'd be appropriate ..."

"Nonsense. Ask Gerry."

"I'll think about it."

Neil, bubbling with professional excitement, rang off. Wesley looked at his watch. Nearly five o'clock. The time had gone quickly. Gerry Heffernan emerged from behind his partition.

"I've got a suggestion, Wcs. Why don't you go home and grab something to eat now. With this Lee Telford business it could be a long day. And Rachel mentioned something about a phone call from Plymouth. Will you see to it?"

Wesley nodded and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.

Wesley knew there was something worrying Pam. But he had no idea what it was.

He found her in the living room sorting through baby clothes, Michael peacefully asleep in his carry cot He kissed her and she gave him a weak smile in return.

"You're back early."

He explained ... even offered to make the meal. "How did your coffee morning go?"

"All right," she said unenthusiastically. He could tell she was keeping something back. "I had lunch with a librarian called Anne. She's a widow. Her husband died in a car accident last year ... really sad. She's got a little girl of Michael's age. She's very nice."

"Good," was the only thing Wesley could think of to say. Pam still looked worried. "Are you okay?"

"Of course I am." She walked across to Michael's carry cot and gazed down at him pensively.

"Nell's on telly tonight. Half five. I'll record it."

"Why's he on?"

"These statues they've found. They're very rare ... possibly unique."

Normally the prospect of a friend appearing on television, even on the local news, would be greeted with excitement. But tonight Pam seemed uninterested. "You record it if you like," she said.

Wesley made them an omelette each and settled down in front of the television, having set the video first. The news began with a story about EU fishing quotas and how they affected the fishermen of Bloxham. The scene flashed to Bloxham harbour, where each of the candidates in the forthcoming by-election was meeting the fishermen to assure them of their undying support. Wesley sat eating his omelette, impatient for Neil's five minutes of fame,

when a name flashed up on the screen under the face of a smooth-talking man in his mid to late thirties. Timothy Wills was, by any standards, a handsome man. His thick fair hair was worn fairly long; his suit was expensive and immaculate with the flamboyant touch of a red silk handkerchief spilling from the top pocket. His manner was confident, his assurances to the motley group of fishermen apparently sincere. So this was the husband of the beautiful Jane Wills: they certainly made a handsome couple. But Timothy Wills was a politician to his fingertips. Wesley wouldn't have trusted him an inch.

Wills was suddenly replaced on the screen by Neil Watson ... a stark contrast. Neil made no concession to the art of public relations, but his enthusiasm for his work and the treasures unearthed in Stokeworthy was infectious. After assuring the interviewer that the find was of national importance as so little English sculpture survived from that period, he went on to outline the mystery surrounding the find. The skeleton of a woman, apparently hanged, had been found near the sculptures with a carved crucifix that the experts assured him was in the same style as the larger carvings. The only chance Neil and his team had of solving the mystery was to examine the records of Stokeworthy Manor, which were currently in the possession of Mr. Philip Thewlis. At this point Thewlis was brought on, trying to make the best of the situation. He promised the interviewer that he would do everything in his power to make the information available to the archaeological team, and made enthusiastic noises about this exciting new addition to the country's artistic heritage. The words came out right but somehow, Wesley thought, the eyes betrayed his true feelings. Neil and his team were a nuisance and were putting a block under the mighty wheels of commerce.

With a polite "Thank you, Mr. Thewlis, and thank you, Neil Watson: good luck with your research', the interviewer, an earnest young blonde, was about to hand back to the studio when there was a commotion in the background. The trees surrounding Nell's site seemed to come to life as figures shouted from their branches. Squirrel leaped to the ground accompanied by six or so similarly dressed companions. The interviewer looked round, assessing the situation, and the professional journalist in her took over as the cameras kept rolling. Neil stepped into the background, a smile playing on his lips. Thewlis stood, tight-lipped and furious, rooted to the spot.

Squirrel and his colleagues chanted, "Save the trees, save the trees," while Thewlis performed mental somersaults, trying to figure out the best way of coming out of the situation with his dignity and reputation intact. At that point, to Wesley's disappointment, the scene cut back to the studio. Whose decision had it been, he wondered, to spare Philip Thewlis potential embarrassment? Wesley also wondered whether the ubiquitous businessman held shares in the television company ... or was it just that working for the police had made him cynical?

Pam had been watching from behind the sofa. "Neil was good ... came over well."

"Yes. He did. He'll be standing for Parliament next."

Pam didn't reply. She collected the dishes and began to walk towards the kitchen.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She walked out of the room. Not for the first time Wesley felt helpless. If she wouldn't even confide in him, there was nothing he could do. He looked at his watch. It was time to get back to Stokeworthy. There was a phone call to make.

Gerry Heffernan had still not returned. Neither had Rachel and Steve. Wesley guessed that they had taken Lee Telford's mother down to the hospital to identify her son's body. He shuddered. Fatherhood had made him feel differently about things that he would once have regarded as routine.

Pushing the thought from his mind, he picked up the telephone and dialled the number Rachel had left on his desk. He was soon talking to the sergeant at a police station in Plymouth. When the conversation was finished, Wesley Peterson sat back, turning over what he had just heard in his mind. When asked to provide an alibi for her ex-husband for the night of Pauline Brent's death, Charles Stoke-Brown's ex-wife had clearly told the constable who called on her that she hadn't seen Charles for three months.

Randle Tandy and his wife Christina are common evil doers and breakers of hedges as they did break down the hedge of Ralph de Nest on. Fined 6d.

The son of Robert the Minstrel did take a mallet from Thomas de Monte then he, for fear of discovery, did return it. Fined 2d.

The jury heard that John Fleecer made an assault upon the priest and drew blood on him. It was ordered that he should suffer three full days punishment of his body in such manner and with such diet as the steward shall appoint.

From the Court Rolls of Stokeworthy Manor

Wesley averted his eyes as Colin Bowman delicately slit open Lee Telford's naked body. A postmortem was a rotten way to begin the day. According to Rachel, Lee's mother was distraught, inconsolable. Understandable. The body on the slab was skinny; the ribs were visible. Lee Telford had been seventeen; lying there dead, he looked younger.

Even Colin Bowman's normally genial face was serious as he went about his work. "Looks like drowning, Gerry," he said when his gruesome tasks were finished. "But there's something else. Look at this head injury." He beckoned the two policemen over so that they could get a better view. "He's been hit with something hard and possibly flat." He looked puzzled. "I can't tell what it was." He gazed at the wound for a minute. "It looks a bit like one of those big steam irons. But I've never seen an ironing fatality in all my years as a pathologist, so it could well be something else."

He grinned. "It's my guess he was knocked out, then he fell into the water and drowned. Of course, there are further tests ..."

"There always are, Colin. Could it have been an accident?"

"You mean did he fall and hit his head then slip into the water?" Bowman thought for a moment. "I think it's unlikely. This head injury was made with some force, as if someone had a good swing at him. It's always possible it was an accident, though. You can never be sure until you find what caused the wound." He stood back from the body and sighed. "I think that's it for now, gentlemen. The rest's up to you."