The Armada Boy (25 page)

Heffernan emerged from his lair.
"Thought you'd all join in the chorus.' He beamed at the assembled team.
'We had a good night last night. I reckon we've got Norman Openheim's killer
and I've got a lead on Sally Johnson ... positive sighting. I'm following
that up this morning.'

Rachel, cool and neat in a yellow
linen suit, spoke up. 'I'm going to see Wayne Restorick this morning, sir.
There have been reports of him hanging round the old chapel watching courting couples.
I thought he might have seen something.'

'I bet he has.' mumbled Steve
Carstairs under his breath.

Rachel heard and he was rewarded with an icy stare.

'Right, Rach. you do that. And I
want someone tactful to go and do their bit for Anglo-American relations down
at the Clearview. Hopefully we won't need them much longer, tell them. And find
out what you can about our friend Nigel Glanville... or Rat. as he
prefers to be known. If there's anything we haven't been told. I want to know
it .. . okay? Rach ... you go up to the hotel when you've seen Wayne Restorick.
And Steve, you can organise a search for this bike that was nicked from Bereton
on Sunday.'

Steve nodded - surely police work should hold more thrills than tracing missing
bikes.

Rachel looked longingly at her desk
drawer. She hadn't had a chance to look though the old file she had purloined
... and time might be short. If necessary she would have to stay late tonight.
Dave had suggested that they go to the cinema in Morbay; he would just have to wait.

The inspector's phone rang. He
jogged back to his office and picked the receiver up eagerly. It was Dr Bowman,
asking him to pop along to the mortuary when he had a moment. Only Colin Bowman
could make a mortuary sound like a gentleman's
club.

He put the phone down and it rang
again. He barked a greeting. The voice on the other end was female and sounded
anxious. She spoke with breathless urgency.

'Inspector ... it's Fern Ferrars.
I've had that dream again. Every night.,. more and more vivid.'

He tapped his foot impatiently.
'Yeah ... I'm pretty busy right now. Ms Ferrars .. .'

'Please listen. The skeletons ... in
the chantry. The answer's not there. It's somewhere else.'

Heffernan rolled his eyes. Why did
they always choose him? It was always the same ... a bus full of people and the
nutter would always sit next to him. What was it about him that attracted them?
He suspected it was because he was too soft. 'Well ... er ...
thanks for ringing, Ms Ferrars

'Listen... please. When you find the
boy then all will be clear. You must find the Armada boy.'

'Yes, love. I'll bear that in mind.
Thanks very much ...bye.'

He put the phone down and breathed a
sigh of relief. Next time he'd put her on to Wesley.

As if he'd read his thoughts. Wesley
appeared. 'Shall we be off to Neston now, sir? You got the address?'

'Somewhere. Hang on.' He rummaged in
his trouser pockets. I've just had a funny phone call, Wes ... from that clairvoyant
woman. Fern Ferrars.'

'Did she tell you your future?'

'Did she heck. Now if she could finger
villains for us she'd be useful. No ... she just went on about an Armada boy
again.'

'She said that before.'

'Someone should tell her the
Armada's been and gone. She mentioned skeletons and all.'

Wesley looked up with interest.
'What did she say?'

Heffernan tried to think. Having
dismissed Fern Ferrars as a nutcase, he hadn't been listening too closely.
'Something about not finding the answer with the skeletons... you've got to
find the boy. the Armada boy. That's what she said.'

Wesley shrugged. 'If the skeleton of
a boy turns up at Neil's dig I'll bring it in for questioning.' He grinned.

'Right, Wes. Let's see if we can
find Mrs Johnson. Ready to go on the hippie trail to Neston?'

Rachel's reception the first time
she had called on the Restoricks had hardly been welcoming. Now, she rang the
cheap plastic doorbell and waited. WPC Walton shuffled her feet behind her, a nervous
habit she had noticed before ... only the nerves it was
getting on were Rachel's. Annie Restorick answered the door, her expression
wary, even
hostile.

'Could we come in for a quick word.
Mrs Restorick?' Rachel said confidently, flashing her warrant card.

'No. I've got Mother on the toilet.'
She was about to shut the door when Rachel put out an arm to stop her.

'We want to talk to your son. Mrs
Restorick. We want to talk to Wayne.'

'He's not in.'

'Then we'll wait. It's important
that we speak to him.'

Annie Restorick looked frightened.
'What's he done? He's a good lad... it's the others who lead him on. They think
it's funny to get him into trouble.'

' He's not in trouble. Mrs Restorick.
We just want to talk to him. that's all.'

Annie looked undecided. As she
hesitated, considering the course of action that would get rid of her unwelcome
visitors the fastest, a figure appeared in the hallway behind her. The old lady
shuffled towards her daughter, her knickers draped loosely round
her ankles.

"Annie ... what you doing?' she
wailed pathetically. 'You shouldn't leave me ... not when I'm paying a visit.
Annie .. .' Her voice trailed off.

Annie Restorick turned and put her
arm round the old woman's shoulders. 'Come on. Mother... back to the toilet.
Come on.' She led her gently into the house.

Rachel looked at Trish. They were
thinking the same thing.

'Mind if we come in. Mrs Restorick?'
Rachel called, not giving Annie the chance to object. 'Thank you," she
added firmly.

They stood in the shabby hallway,
the front door closed behind them.

'We'll just wait till Wayne gets
back ... nothing to worry about,' she shouted through. There was no answer.

They stood there in the hallway a
full five minutes. The only sounds that could be heard were Annie's voice
crooning words of reassurance to her mother, then the toilet flushing. It was a
small place to have a downstairs toilet. Rachel thought.. . probably put in for
the old lady's benefit.

Then she heard another noise. It
came from upstairs ... a creaking, like footsteps. Annie had said her son was
out. She had lied.

'Wayne,' Rachel shouted up the
stairs. "Can we have a quick word with you, please? Nothing to worry
about. Just come on down. We can't talk to you up there, can we?'

Annie tore from the back of the
house like an avenging fury I've told you he's out ... how dare you come in my
house and...'

She was cut off in mid-sentence by
the appearance of Wayne. His flabby body was squashed into a shrunken,
washed-out T-shirt and jeans that looked a size too small for him. He moved awkwardly
down the stairs.

"What do you want?" he
asked, a vacant expression on his face.

'We just want to know where you were
last Sunday. Wayne.'

Rachel said gently. 'There was a man killed and we think you might be a very
important witness. Do you know what that means, Wayne?'

'Course he knows what it means. And
I've told you once ... he was here all night.'

'No he weren't... he went out.'

Annie Restorick swung round. Her
mother, escaped from the confines of the toilet, was standing behind her. a grin
of pure, childlike mischief on her face.

'Don't be daft. Mother. You don't
remember.'

'I do. You was watching that
Inspector Morgan
. Wayne said it were
boring so he went out. I saw him. He went out... out to the pub.'

'Oh, shut up. Mother. You don't know
what you're saying. It was another night you're thinking of.' She turned to
Rachel. 'Take no notice of Mother ... she don't know what she's on about half the
time.'

Rachel was unsure of her next move. She
looked at the inexperienced Trish. but it was no use seeking guidance from that
quarter.

'Okay, Wayne ... but we might want a
little chat another day. Nothing to be scared of... just a few questions,
okay?'

Wayne looked at his mother, who
shook her head. 'You'll not take him anywhere. He's easily led . .. you lot'd
get him saying all sorts. I know what the police are like.'

'I can assure you. Mrs Restorick,
that if we question Wayne there'll be an appropriate adult present... you or a
social worker or...' Whoever it was, Rachel hoped it wouldn't be the mother.

This did nothing to appease Annie,
who pointedly opened the front door to let them out.

When they had gone Wayne returned to
his room. He lifted up a comer of his mattress and took out something small and
shiny. His treasure... his shiny treasure. Whatever the police were after, they
weren't going to get their hands on his treasure.

The address Dr McTaggart had given
for Sally Johnson's companion turned out to be a flat above a shop near the
centre of Neston. The shop, displaying a collection of brightly coloured carved
wood surrounded by a selection of objects in the ethnic style, was called
Carver's Emporium. It was sandwiched between a vegan health food shop and an
outlet for healing crystals.

There was no sign of the flat entrance
so they went round the back, where a flight of iron steps led upward to a
freshly painted sky-blue door. Their footsteps clanged on the metal steps ... a
warning of approaching visitors better than any doorbell.

The door was opened by a young man.
The first thing that struck Wesley was his good looks; the fair hair flopping
casually over one eye. the diffident smile. Here was a young man who would
charm his way through life ... and prosper by it.

'Morning, gentlemen ... hope you're
not selling anything. I'm skint... honestly.' As if to emphasise the point, he
turned out his empty pockets and shrugged dramatically.

They produced their warrant cards.
'Oliver Ballantyne?" The young man nodded. 'If we could just have a quick
word, sir ... won't take long.'

A flash of alarm crossed Ballantyne's
face but his features composed themselves almost immediately into their
habitual amiability.' You'd better come in, officers .. . though I can assure you
I was nowhere near the bank on the day in question.' he said jokingly.

Heffernan decided to play the dull
copper ... he felt it was expected of him. 'What bank would that be, sir?'

Oliver Ballantyne had the grace to
look apologetic. 'Er... only joking. Would you care for a coffee? I've just put
the kettle on.'

Wesley, forced by Pam to take an
interest in interior decoration from time to time, looked round the flat. It
was stylishly furnished with polished floorboards and richly coloured hangings
on the whitewashed walls. Understated but expensive. Here and there a piece of
modem sculpture was placed to provide a conversation piece ... a strategy the
police weren't falling for.
The air smelled deliciously of sandalwood and fresh-ground coffee. Ballantyne
displayed no signs of guilt. He hadn't even enquired about the reason for their
visit ... a strange thing in itself, Wesley thought.

"No coffee for me, thank you,
sir. Perhaps Sergeant Peterson…?'