The Armada Boy (24 page)

Heffernan called Wesley and told him
to get down to the hospital right away, then he approached the mini-mart
assistant.
She had just been joined by two other women and was holding court. beginning to
enjoy her fifteen minutes of fame.

'Hello, love. Inspector Heffernan
... Tradmouth CID. Can I have a word?' He looked meaningfully at the woman's
entourage, who slunk off, only to regroup a few yards down the road.

Can you tell me what happened?'

The woman, who gave her name as
Eileen Chard, was only too ready to tell her story. The bits about facing the
mad-eyed desperado with a knife would become more polished and embellished with
time for the benefit of family and neighbours, but to the police she gave the
bones of the account, plain and unadorned.

'So his two mates got away? Did you
see where they went?'

She shook her head. 'When they'd
gone he just stood there pointing the knife at me ... until he heard the police
car siren. I reckon that's what saved my life.' She put her hand to her heart
as if to calm its frantic beating. ' Is he dead?'

'No ... but it's touch and go.
apparently. Did you see the accident?'

'I'd just got outside but it all
happened so quick.'

'Sir.' A young, spotty constable
interrupted Mrs Chard's flow. He held out an exhibit bag for inspection.
Through its clear plastic Heffernan could see a flick-knife, open, with a long.
thin, lethal blade.

'Where did you find it?'

'Just in the road there, sir,"
said the constable nervously. 'He must have dropped it.'

Heffernan turned to Mrs Chard, who
was staring at the knife open-mouthed. 'Is this the knife he was carrying?'

Mrs Chard swallowed anxiously and
nodded, imagining the thing stuck between her ribs.

'Okay, Constable. You know what to
do.'

The constable turned and walked
away, carrying the knife as though it were some ceremonial blade to be
delivered safely to the white-coated high priest ... the guardian of the
mysteries of forensic science.

Heffernan stared after him. deep in
thought. Mrs Chard brought him back to reality by muttering something about her
daughter's tea. He gave her permission to go, noting that instead of going straight
home to feed her offspring she was waylaid by her
cronies. The daughter would have to get her own tea or go hungry.

Then he remembered where he had
heard the name Chard before ... it was the mention of the daughter that had
reminded him. Rachel had interviewed a Sylvia Chard concerning the nocturnal
goings-on at the old chantry. Sylvia had claimed that
Wayne Restorick had gone in for a little light voyeurism in his spare time, the
chapel being the time-hallowed place for that sort of thing. She had talked to
some other representatives of Bereton's golden youth too. They had all told the
same story:
Wayne Restorick liked watching couples at it. It might be worth having a word
with this Wayne - if he had been indulging in his hobby on Sunday night, he
could be a vital witness ... and they would need all the proof they could get
if they were going to prove
that Nigel Glanville - or Rat as he preferred to be known - had murdered Norman
Openheim.

The defence would make the most of
his shoplifting exploits in Maleton. but at least they had the knife: forensic
should be able to prove it was the murder weapon ... and the dead rat his
calling card. There was the problem of how he got from Maleton to Bereton. but Heffernan
was fairly confident the last piece of the jigsaw would turn up ... someone who
gave him a lift, a stolen car or bicycle. The inspector smiled to himself. It
was all sewn up and the murderer was lying unconscious in hospital with a
police guard. He wasn't going anywhere.

It was a lovely evening for the time
of year... just the evening for a quick visit to Neston.

He walked back to the incident room
in the village to see who was about. He found Rachel there, hunched over what
smell like a pile of musty old papers.

'What are you doing. Rach?'

She looked up. startled, and began
to put the papers away in her desk drawer. 'Nothing, sir... just an idea,
that's all.'

Ready to share it with us yet?'

'I'll... er... see how it goes, sir.
It might be nothing.'
 

Heffernan was intrigued, but he liked
to see his officers using their initiative. He'd got some good results in the
past by encouraging a bit of creative thinking in his team.

'Fancy driving me over to Neston?
I'll buy you a drink . . . and I've got a bit of news. Our friend Rat
threatened a woman with a knife and got knocked down by a car ... how's that
for divine judgment? He's been taken to Tradmouth Hospital. I reckon we've got
our man. I'll tell you about it in the car."

Rachel looked surprised. 'So we're
celebrating, sir?'

'Not exactly... not yet. Don't go thinking
this is a social drink... it's strictly work.'

'You're certain this Rat killed
Norman Openheim?'

'Pretty sure. There's the problem of
how he got from Maleton to Bereton in the lime. Can you check if there were any
cars or bikes nicked in the vicinity on Sunday night?'

'There was a bike nicked in Bereton
on Sunday evening. A girl called Sylvia Chard said her dad's bike went missing
... it was reported.'

Heffernan looked triumphant.
"That's it. then. Our friend Rat has certainly got it in for the Chard
family ... it was an Eileen Chard he threatened in the mini-market. Get a
search mounted for this bike, Rach. If Rat nicked it and rode over to Maleton
to do the
shop he could have been back in Bereton in under fifteen minutes.'

'Yes. sir ... I'll see to it. But I
was thinking that if Norman wasn't robbed the motive might be something more
personal - maybe something in his past, something that happened when he was
over here in the war.'

'You've been reading too many
whodunnits, Rach. You know as well as I do that it's usually your nearest and
dearest who do you in ... or some little toerag with a knife after money for
his next fix.'

'Was Rat an addict?'

"Not that we know of... I was
just speaking generally.'

Where are we going to in Neston?'

'Hospital... where else?'

'But the suspect's in Tradmouth ...'

Heffernan grinned secretively. 'But
Sally Johnson isn't. Come on.'

They drove to Neston. Rachel listened
to the tale of Rat's failed attempt at robbery in virtual silence, punctuated
only by a few affirmative noises. The pitch-dark country roads needed
concentration. Neston Hospital was a modern building on the outskirts of the
town, not far from where Sally Johnson's hire car had been found.
The Accident and Emergency unit was built in the Roman villa style, so beloved
of supermarket chains. Heffernan. Rachel noticed, was curiously subdued as he approached
the reception desk and showed his warrant card.
Hospitals always had that effect on him. His wife had been a nurse, she
remembered. He had met her many years ago when he had been in the merchant navy.
The story of how he had been winched off his ship suffering from appendicitis,
ended up in Tradmouth Hospital, married his nurse and came ashore to join the
force was well known throughout the nick. Maybe the presence of so many members
of his late wife's profession brought back painful memories.

It was a generous slice of luck that
the doctor who had been on duty the night Sally Johnson disappeared was on duty
that evening.

Dr McTaggart was a tall, red-headed
Scot, who hardly looked old enough to have left school. He was pale: freckles
stood out against the whiteness of his skin. His eyes were underlined with dark
smudges. Dr McTaggart looked exhausted. Heffernan hoped he wouldn't have
anything too complex to deal with before he got himself a good night's sleep.

The doctor looked relieved that Heffernan
and Rachel appeared to be medically fit: he obviously had the same misgivings
as the inspector. He sat down in a cubicle, stethoscope around his neck, head
in hands.

What do you want to know?' he
yawned.

They told him. He got up wearily and led them to reception, where he dug out
the records for the appropriate date. As the receptionist had said on the phone,
seven people had come in that night requiring treatment. It had been a quiet
night, the doctor said wistfully. There were two injuries that caused loss of blood.
A farmer had cut his leg tripping over a scythe - illustrating the perils of
primitive technology - and a young man had come in with a badly cut hand. It
was the latter who interested
Heffernan.

The doctor described him. 'Young ...
average height... fair-haired ... well-spoken.'

'Was anyone with him?'

'An older lady ... spoke with an
American accent. She seemed very concerned for him,'

'Did he say how he'd sustained the
injury?'

'I didn't ask but he told me anyway,
He said he'd cut it on some broken glass.'

'Do you think he was telling the
truth?'

'He'd ripped a slice out of his
hand. I had no reason to disbelieve him.'

'Have you got an address for this
unlucky lad?'

The doctor nodded. 'It's all in the
file.'

'And the lady who was with him ...'
He produced Sally Johnson's photo. 'Is this her?'

Dr McTaggart took the picture and
stared at it with bloodshot eyes. 'Yeah ... that's her. What's she done?'

'We don't know yet.' Heffernan
returned the photo to his wallet. He put a fatherly hand on the doctor's
shoulder. 'If I were you. Doc, I'd go and get some kip.'

The doctor yawned. 'Fat chance ...
another eight hours to go

'Go and get the doc a strong coffee
from the machine, Rach.' He handed her a coin. 'He looks like he needs it.'

Dr McTaggart looked up at Heffernan
gratefully while Rachel stormed off indignantly in search of the drinks
machine. She really would have a word with someone about the inspector's assumption
that if drinks were to be provided it was always the
female officer present who did the providing.

When she had gone. Heffernan turned
back to the doctor. 'Now then. Doc ... about this patient of yours. I don't
suppose you'd have a name and address for me, would you?'

Friday morning dawned and Wesley
Peterson was tired. Torn from his supper the previous evening and suffering
from a bad attack of indigestion, he had rushed to Tradmouth Hospital to watch
Rat. unconscious and sprouting tubes and wires, in case he
came round.

The doctors assured Wesley that the
patient was unlikely to regain consciousness for some time ... if at all.
Staying at the hospital would have been a waste of time. He put a uniformed constable
on guard and returned home to Pam. Rat would be saying nothing that night. The
inspector had given instructions that the injured man was to be charged with
Norman Openheim's murder. Wesley had his reservations. It would all depend on
what forensics came up with when they examined the knife and whether the
missing bicycle - when it turned up - would have his prints on it.

The inspector was in an alarmingly
cheerful mood when Wesley arrived at the incident room: a virtuoso rendition of
'A policeman's lot is not a happy one'
was clearly audible through the thin partition that separated off Heffernan's
inner sanctum.
There were barely suppressed giggles amongst the junior ranks, and Wesley
allowed himself an indulgent smile as he studied the report of Heffernan and
Rachel's visit to Neston Hospital the previous evening.