The Armada Boy (17 page)

'I'd better get home, Neil. Pam's
been seeing little enough of me as it is.'

'How's the murder going? Arrested
any innocent people yet?'

Wesley, familiar with his friend's jibes against the authorities that had once
arrested him for possession of a small amount of an illegal substance in his
student days, responded with his usual 'No... not even any guilty ones.' Then
he added, 'But if you see a young bloke with a shaven head who looks like he's
been sleeping rough, you'll let me know, won't you?'

'Might do.'

Wesley knew better than to argue. He
changed the subject. 'Did the vicar tell you that there's a Spanish sailor
buried inside the church?'

'Yes. He did mention it. But it's
not referred to in the book I lent you and I can't see the villagers allowing
one to be buried inside the church. It was a bloody great honour to be buried
inside... the plebs had to make do with the churchyard. I think someone got
hold of the wrong end of the stick in all the rush to repair the church after
the war. And the thing's covered with some ten-ton cupboard so it's not easy to
have a look.'

'Will you check it out?'

'Sure... I'll try and go through the
church burial records if I've got time. There an bound to be some documents up
there referring to it. They got quite good at writing things down by 1588.'

Wesley had been watching the students
digging as Neil spoke. They hadn't uncovered anything of interest as yet -
fallen masonry from the chapel building and a medieval floor tile were the
total haul. Something, a thud of a shoe on wood perhaps, made him look round at
the hastily erected fencing that hid the excavation from public view. A head peeped
over the fence, supported by two elbows. When the figure saw Wesley looking,
the head disappeared and the sound of running feet on the packed earth of
the footpath receded rapidly into the distance.

Neil rolled his eyes. 'Not him again.
He's been watching us all day, but when I try to talk to him he just legs it.
I'd hoped some of the locals might lend a hand when we get to the buildings.
Don't know what he thinks we're going to do to him.'

'He's a bit slow... you know,
special needs.'

'You know him?'

'Sort of. His name's Wayne Restorick
... lives in the village.'

Neil shrugged. If Wayne Restorick wanted to peer at them from behind the fence,
it made no difference to him.

Pam Peterson was surprised to see
her husband arriving home so early. She had work to do - record cards to fill
in. Supper wouldn't be ready for at least another hour, maybe two. Wesley felt
a little peeved that his good intentions weren't appreciated - peeved that he
wasn't greeted with a delighted kiss and his supper steaming on the table.

The dining table was covered with
paper - exercise books and forms. Pam resumed her work while Wesley sat himself
down on the sofa and read the paper, annoyed with himself for feeling annoyed -
Pam had her work to do after all, and a man shouldn't
feel resentful when his wife gave her attention to her career. This is what his
head his conditioning as an educated man of the modem age, told him ... but it
would have been nice if she could have had his dinner ready when he returned
from a tough day.
Wesley found he couldn't concentrate on the paper and its stories which seemed
to swing between the boring and the scandalous.

After fifteen minutes of silence he decided to speak.
'How are you feeling?'

'Fine. This one's kicking away, though.
I find the kids watching my stomach. You can see him moving through my
clothes... like something out of
Alien
.'
She patted her stomach and laughed softly.

Wesley took pity on her, working her
way through the piles of paperwork. Tomorrow he could well be working late
again: he really ought to do his bit when he got the chance.

'Shall I make the supper?"

Pam grinned at him. I thought you'd
never ask. Look through the freezer. There's bound to be something.'

Wesley obeyed. A frozen shepherd's
pie found its way into the oven.

'Any news on Sue and Jim?'

'I haven't seen them.' Pam sounded
concerned. 'And I hardly like to go round. Sue said they've got till next
week.'

'Let's hope something turns up for them.'

"Not much chance of that. Let's
not talk about it, eh? I hate even thinking about it'

Wesley indulged her. He didn't want
to think of their neighbours being made homeless any more than she did. Twenty minutes
to supper. Wesley discarded the paper which contained nothing but politics and
sex with a seasoning of violent crime. He looked round for something that would
take his mind off the problems of everyday life and eagerly seized upon Neil's
book about Bereton which was lying on the cluttered coffee table.

He flicked through it, not reading properly
- that could wait till he had more lime - but scanning the pages for anything
interesting that caught his eye. He saw a section on the local girls who had married
American GIs in the war. There were no names: Ms Mallindale's writing was high
on generalisation and short on specifics, a style that Wesley found intensely
irritating. He flicked backwards, past the eighteenth century and the Civil War
to the section that described the events of 1588.

He read the flowery speculations
about the thoughts of the Spanish sailors as they stumbled up Bereton Sands. He
craved hard facts based on well-conducted research, not romantic suppositions.

There was a mention of the burials
in the chantry but only an oblique reference to one of the sailors, a young boy
in his teens, who had been sheltered by a local family with tragic
consequences:
 
no hint was given of what
these consequences might have been. It was all too much for Wesley. He threw
the offending book to the other end of the sofa and got up to see how the
shepherd's pie was faring.

But something in June Mallindale's
overdramatised account reminded him of Heffernan's visitor. Fern Ferrars, the
inspector's self-appointed psychic consultant. She had spoken in the same terms
as June Mallindale; maybe she had read the book. What was it she'd said? A boy
coming up from the sea ... the Armada boy.
Find the Armada boy. Maybe Neil would do just that.

It was nine o'clock. Gerry Heffernan
had no qualms this time about ringing Wesley. He was hardly likely to have put
himself to bed yet.

Heffernan was one of that rare and
unregarded breed of human being who didn't possess a car. Parking was a virtual
impossibility at his small whitewashed cottage at the end of Baynard's Quay,
and Tradmouth's steep, narrow streets had been difficult to navigate by horse
and cart, let alone carriages of the horseless variety. Heffernan used whatever
public transport was available or, when on duty, relied on another police
officer to get him to his destination.

Wesley picked him up at exactly 9.30,
trying hard to contain his curiosity. 'Where are we going?'

'Seddon Hotel, Neston.'

'Am I allowed to ask why?'

'Course you are. But I was going to
keep it as a surprise.' Heffernan was grinning widely. He was in a good mood.

'Well?' said Wesley impatiently,
turning the car on to the Neston road.

'It's good news, Wes. A call came
through at five to nine from reception at the Seddon. Someone there who'd been
listening to the local news on the radio when they should have been working said
she'd just checked in.'

'Who?'

'Sally Johnson, our GI bride. She's
alive and well and stopping in Neston.'

Chapter Seven

The parish church of St John. Bereton.
has been the jewel of our village for over six centuries.

During the Second World War the
church's treasures were taken away for safe-keeping when our village was
evacuated. The largest item to be moved was our magnificent rood screen, dating
from the fifteenth century. Whatever could not be removed from the church was
sandbagged. The Bishop of Exeter left a touching message on the church gate explaining
to our allies what the church meant to our community and entrusting it to their
care. But war is a destructive business: the church received a direct hit which
blew out the south wall.

From
A History of Bereton and It's People
by June Mallindale

The Seddon Hotel had been built in
the age of coach and horses, that much was obvious from the archway leading to
the cobbled courtyard, big enough to let through a carriage of Dickensian proportions.
The Seddon, half timbered with its leaded windows twinkling golden in the
night, evoked pictures of Mr Pickwick and Merrie England ... a suitable retreat
for the home-coming exile.

Wesley and Heffernan stepped up to
the monumental oak reception desk. An efficient-looking young woman in a severe
grey suit greeted them with a corporate smile. They showed their identification
and the smile was switched off.

'It was the new girl. Inspector. She
was typing up some invoices in the back office and she happened to be listening
to the radio. She recognised the name . .. Sally Johnson. She checked in this
afternoon.'

"Right. Thanks for telling us.
Can we speak to Mrs Johnson?'

I'll
just ring up
to her room.'

The phone in Sally Johnson's room was
answered promptly. 'She's o
n her way down,'
the reception
ist
 
said almost in
a whisper when she'd put the phone down.

Wesley and his boss fixed their eyes
on the fine oak staircase, deeply carpeted in claret red. A woman appeared at
the top. Wesley looked away in disappointment. She glided down the stairs,
tall, elegantly dressed in a simple blue dress that flattered in all the right
places. Her ebony skin was skilfully made up to enhance her fine cheekbones and
her hair, straight and shining like jet. was pulled back in a knot. She was
stunning, Wesley noted, a little older than him perhaps ... early thirties. She
approached
Wesley, smiling confidently.

'You wanted to see me. Officer ...not
another speeding ticket, I hope.' Her voice was well bred, Home Counties. She
held out her hand. 'Sally Johnson.'

Wesley stared a
t her for a moment. 'I'm sorry?'

'Sally Johnson ... you wanted to see
me.' She tilted her head expectantly.

'I'm terribly sorry, madam. I think
there's been some mistake. We're looking for a missing woman ... a Mrs Sally
Johnson. An American lady.'

'And quite a bit older than you,
love,' Heffe
rn
an chipped in bluntly. 'Sorry to have bothered you.'

'That's quite all right.' She loo
ked Wesley up and down, reluc
tant to let him go. 'As a matter of fact
I'm down here covering the Neston Arts Festival for the Daily Bugle. I've heard
about this missing woman ... GI bride, wasn't she? If there's anything you can
tell me about the case ...' She gave Wesley a meaningful look. 'I'm sure my
editor would be very grateful. .. and so would I. After all, the festival
happens every year and one controversial playwright is very much like another.'
She smiled. She was a very good-looking woman ... and she was pointedly
ignoring Heffe
rn
an. 'How about you join me for a drink. Sergeant?'

'Put him down, love. He's a married
man.'

Wesley looked at his boss gratefully.
Sally Johnson was a woman who was not used to taking no for an answer. At that moment
all he
wanted to do was to get home. I'
m sorry, Mrs Johnson…'

'Miss'.

'I'm sorry. Miss Johnson, but there's
been a misunderstanding. We really must be going. Sorry you've been bothered.'
Wesley made a rapid exit.