An Unhallowed Grave (19 page)

"Thanks, Colin. We'd better be off. We're going up to Bromsgrove to see a vicar."

"I'll put everything in my report, then. Have a good journey." The pathologist smiled and began to sew up his patient.

Relieved at his release from the postmortem room, Wesley marched to the car, the inspector trailing behind.

"So what shall we tell the Plymouth force to do about Mrs. Stoke-Brown?" Heffernan asked as they set off. The discovery of Lee Telford's body had been temporarily distracting them from yesterday's intriguing little discovery.

"I think we should pay her a visit."

"Mmm. But if she's as neurotic as her ex made out, she could be lying to get him into trouble."

"And if she's not?"

"Then we'll have to have another word with our artistic friend ... see if he can paint us a few murals on our cell walls brighten the place up a bit."

But the former Mrs. Stoke-Brown would have to wait until another time. Three and a quarter hours after they'd driven away from Tradmouth Hospital, they were sweeping up the drive leading to a large house. Smart white signs on the elaborate wrought-iron gates had proclaimed its name to be Cricketers Grange Private Residential Home. A logo beneath the name announced that the establishment was owned by Owlways Health Associates PLC ... caring for the community. Caring for their shareholders more like, thought Wesley fleetingly.

The house itself was built of red brick in the Victorian Gothic style; rather ecclesiastical with its pointed windows and arched doorways. Perhaps the Rev. Willington would feel at home here after all.

The woman who greeted them was in her early twenties, plump, and smelled of cheap scent and cigarettes: her face was blank as she opened the door. Wesley's heart sank. In a split second he visualised the elderly vicar an educated, fastidious man being hauled about resentfully by this bored young woman whose only thought was to abandon him for a gossip and a cigarette at the first opportunity. Shorn of all dignity, all individuality, the reverend would exist in his private hell until released into a better world. Wesley felt distinctly depressed ... until the woman opened her mouth to speak and her face became animated. He gave silent thanks that his first impression had been wrong.

"Oh, come in. I thought you might have been the laundry people. The reverend's expecting you." The young woman's face lit up with a cheery smile. "He's quite excited at helping the police with their enquiries. He loves detective novels, you know ... the library can't keep up with him. I'm always looking out for new ones for him when I go down there. And when he's not reading he's on that computer of his. He gets in touch with all sorts of places with that Internet, you know. You'll want a cup of tea, I expect. Did you have a good journey?" Her voice, distinctly Midlands, was friendly rather than patronising, and Wesley felt a pang of guilt for having judged her so swiftly and so harshly.

She led them down a wide corridor, richly decorated in medieval blues and reds, and stopped at a magnificent Gothic door. Whoever had built this house had possessed the romantic Victorian view of how medieval life ought to have been ... but never was in reality. The woman knocked on the door and called through. "Reverend Willington. It's the police."

It was a while before the door was answered. Then it opened slowly to reveal an elderly man in a wheelchair. The Rev. Geoffrey Willington had a shock of white hair and the face of an elderly angel. The bright blue eyes that weighed up the two policemen twinkled mischievously.

"Thank you, Maureen," he said to the young woman. "Come in, gentlemen. I must say I'm intrigued." He manoeuvred his wheelchair so that they could enter the room, a large, airy chamber of magnificent proportions furnished with all the necessities of a comfortable life: a bed, a desk on which stood a flickering personal computer, several items of desirable antique furniture and, in the corner, a small en suite bathroom.

He saw them looking around. "As you see, gentlemen, I live in style. And the ladies who work here couldn't be more helpful. I lost my wife ten years ago and then I lost the use of my legs, but I'm fortunate compared to many. Now, how can I help you? It must be something more than a motoring offence if it brings two members of the CID a hundred and fifty miles out of their way." He tilted his head expectantly. "I do hope you've not come to arrest me, as I assure you my conscience is clear. I've led a tediously blameless life."

Heffernan nudged his sergeant. Wesley began. "About fifteen years ago you provided a reference for a Miss Pauline Brent..."

"I've provided references for a lot of people in my time, Sergeant. It's an occupational hazard. But I'll try to remember. Jog my memory, if you will. What kind of reference was it?"

"A glowing one. She'd applied for a job as receptionist for a Dr. Jenkins down in Devon ... a village called Stokeworthy."

The reverend nodded. "I remember. Nice woman, attractive, mid-thirties?"

"That's right. What can you tell us about her?"

"There's nothing much to tell. She worked for me for a few months ... filling in when my secretary was sick. She was a pleasant woman, good at her work. But, as I said, she only worked for me for a short time."

"Did she tell you anything about her private life?"

"As far as I can remember she didn't discuss it. Mind you, it was a long time ago. She might have mentioned something which was too dull to remember."

"How did she get the job with you?"

He thought for a while. "I think it was George Weeks who recommended her ... vicar of a neighbouring parish, you understand. He was always trying to find homes and jobs for his waifs and strays. He was even chaplain at an open prison a few miles from here, so what with his parishioners and his ex-cons..."

Gerry Heffernan was sitting up and taking notice. "What was Pauline Brent? A parishioner or an ex-con?"

"George would never say. He believed very strongly that once somebody had paid the price for their crimes they should start off again with a clean slate. I never asked about Pauline's background ... and even if I had, George wouldn't have told me. I presumed she was a parishioner fallen on hard times. She hardly seemed the ex-con type."

"Do you know where she lived? Whether she lived alone? Anything about her at all?"

'1 had an address for her, of course, some way away in George's parish ... but I don't remember it and all my old records went years ago. She never spoke of anyone else as far as I can remember. I'm sorry I can't be more help. I hope you don't mind my asking, but what exactly has she done?"

"I'm afraid she's dead. She was murdered."

The Rev. Geoffrey Willington's face suddenly turned ashen. He shook his head. "Terrible ... that's terrible ... poor woman ..."

"Our problem is that nobody in the village seems to have a motive for killing her. She was a popular woman. Our only thought is that there might have been something in her past... something nobody knew about. That's why we've come to see you."

"I see." The Rev. Willington, lover of detective fiction, saw the sense in this. He screwed up his face, his brain working fast.

"Could we have a word with your friend George Weeks? Do you have his address?"

"I'm afraid George died last year. Cancer. Very sad."

"What about his wife?" A wife might have held on to her late husband's papers ... even remembered some of the people he'd helped in the course of his career.

"He was unmarried, I'm afraid."

That was that. Another dead end. As soon as Pauline Brent was beginning to come into tantalising focus, she disappeared again. Wesley had another idea. This open prison was it a man's prison or..."

"Oh no, Sergeant. It was a women's prison. We used to joke about George's fallen women ... bit naughty of us, I know."

Wesley looked at his boss. Now they were getting somewhere. "I think we should go and have a word with the governor, sir."

"Sorry to dampen your enthusiasm, Sergeant," said the reverend, 'but I'm afraid the prison closed down some years ago. It's now some kind of young offenders' institution. Of course, you could always ask George's curate. I still keep in touch with him, you know." The old man's eyes lit up as he glanced over at his computer. "I could e-mail him now. How about that?"

Gerry Heffernan shuddered inwardly at the mention of high technology. "Would he remember Miss Brent, do you think?"

"He might, although I have the feeling that poor Pauline was rather a dull woman ... easily forgotten, if you see what I mean. But it's worth a try."

"Where does this curate live now?" asked Wesley.

"Down your way, as a matter of fact. Devon."

"What's his name?"

"Twotrees ... Brian Twotrees. Shall I e-mail him for you?"

"No need, sir. We know where he is."

"Do you really? What an extraordinary coincidence." The reverend's eyes were shining with excitement. "If you see him, do give him my regards."

"We will, sir." Gerry Heffernan, anxious to be away, refused the offer of a medicinal sherry and bade the Rev. Geoffrey Willington a polite farewell.

"Not entirely a wasted journey, sir," Wesley commented as they got into the car.

"Why didn't the old man put two and two together? Pauline working in Stokeworthy and Twotrees being vicar of Stokeworthy?"

"Twotrees lives in another parish ... Welton. He's got three parishes to look after. Willington wouldn't have made the connection."

"Come on, Wcs, let's get back to where we came from." He sighed loudly. "Sometimes I think we're going round in ruddy circles with this case."

There was a cryptic message from Neil waiting for Wesley when he got back "Have infiltrated behind enemy lines. Ring me." Wesley looked at his boss who was talking animatedly on the phone. Neil would have to wait.

The first thing Gerry Heffernan had done on his return was ring the vicarage at Welton, only to be told that the Rev. Twotrees was out visiting a sick parishioner but would be calling in at Stokeworthy church later. One of the churchwardens there had found a picture missing from a side chapel: the local police had been called.

Heffernan began to pace up and down restlessly, impatient to talk to Twotrees, frustrated at the delay. Rachel, who knew his moods and generally disregarded them, reported to him that so far the house-to-house enquiries she'd organised regarding the death of Lee Telford had turned up nothing. The inspector nodded absent-mindedly. She wasn't going to get much sense out of him so she gave up and went over to where Wesley was sorting through some paperwork.

She perched on the edge of his desk. "How was Bromsgrove?"

"It turns out that the vicar, Brian Twotrees, might have known Pauline before she came to Stokeworthy. That's what's eating the boss. He can't wait to get his hands on him, as it were. How's the house-to-house coming on?"

"I think everyone's blind and deaf in this village ... nobody's seen anything. It's just like it was with Pauline. Everyone's either in the Ring o' Bells or at home watching telly."

"Stokeworthy's not exactly a hotbed of activity."

"You don't know what goes on behind closed doors ..." She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "And I know of one girl not a million miles away who's so desperate for a bit of excitement that she'll go for a drive with Steve Carstairs. Now that's what I call boredom."

Their eyes met conspiratorially and Wesley tried not to laugh. "Is that why he didn't phone from the creek when he found the body? Do you think he was with

"I'd say there's no doubt about it. I had a look at his phone when he left it on his desk. There was nothing wrong with the battery and he hadn't had time to charge it."

"You're not in CID for nothing. Are those girls sixteen?"

"If they are they're only just. I'll ask around." Rachel sighed. "He'll have to watch himself."

"Any news from the creek?" Before they had left that morning the inspector had given orders for the banks upstream from where Lee's body had been found to be examined for signs of anything suspicious.

"No, but there's a lot of ground to cover. Do you think the two deaths are linked?"

"I'm certain of it. I think when Lee and Gaz split up that Friday night, Lee saw Pauline's murderer where he shouldn't have been. Whether the murderer saw him or whether Lee was stupid enough to let the killer know what he saw, I don't know. But I'm sure that's why he was killed."

"Not an accident, then?"

"Colin Bowman said he was hit over the head. He went into that creek somewhere and if we can find out where ..."

"Wcs." Gerry Heffernan's voice boomed across the room. The acoustics in the humble village hall were better than Wesley would have expected. "Let's get down to the church. Come on."

Wesley gave Rachel an apologetic smile and left.

They found a patrol car parked outside the church gate and the church door standing open. An elderly lady polishing brasses inside the gloomy building looked up with curiosity as they entered. She was used to visitors in the ancient church; usually middle-aged couples, families with National Trust membership or the curious from overseas. But this pair looked different, purposeful.

Heffernan flashed his warrant card. "Is the vicar around, love?"

"There's one of your lot already here in the vestry," the woman said crossly. "Never see hide nor hair of a copper till sum mat goes missing, then they're queuing up when it's too late." She looked them up and down with distaste, then, as if on cue, Constable Ian Merryweather appeared, ambling down the aisle. He greeted the two newcomers warily, wondering what had brought CID to the scene of the crime so swiftly.

"I believe there's been a theft," said Wesley.

"Nothing much taken," said the constable, mildly affronted. "I could have dealt with it."

"I'm sure you could," said Wesley, smoothing ruffled pride. "But we were here for something else anyway. What was taken?"

Merryweather, surprised by Wesley's sympathetic tone, opened up a little. "Just a little picture. It was on the wall in the de Stoke chapel. No one noticed it was missing until today. It might have gone weeks ago, according to the vicar."