The Blood Pit (16 page)

‘It sounds similar to that murder in Rhode,’ said Wesley, hoping that if he confided in her a little, made a point of sharing
that part of his life, she might come to understand.

‘It’ll be a serial killer then,’ Pam said flippantly. ‘In which case I won’t be seeing you for a while. You’d better leave
a photograph so the kids don’t forget what their dad looks like.’ She saw the hurt expression on Wesley’s face and immediately
regretted her words. It isn’t his fault, she told herself, repeating it in her head like a mantra. It isn’t his fault. She
remembered what had happened last time she’d felt this pent-up fury. And she recalled her fall from grace with shrivelling
embarrassment … tainted with a frisson of excitement.

‘I’d better go,’ Wesley said, kissing her forehead with a tenderness that surprised her.

She put her hand on his arm. ‘I almost forgot. Neil called yesterday. He’s had another letter. I promised to tell you but with
my mother and everything, it went completely out of my mind.’

‘Did he leave the letter?’

She nodded. ‘I put it in the drawer so the kids couldn’t get at it.’ She opened the drawer and handed it over. ‘It’s all about
monks and blood. Pretty revolting.’

Wesley read it with a frown. The mention of the blood made him uncomfortable. Could the writer have known about Charles Marrick’s
death? Is that what the letters were about? He put it carefully into his pocket. ‘I’ll give him a call when I’ve got a moment,’
he said.

He left the house just as little Amelia began to cry for attention. He felt bad about leaving. But he had no choice so he
climbed into his car and started the engine. It was time to face the reality of violent death.

He was to meet Gerry Heffernan at the murder scene and when he arrived there he found him pacing up and
down like a caged animal outside the confines of the police tape that hung around the boundaries of the cottage’s small, gravelled,
front garden. Wesley parked some way away, by the entrance to a field full of Friesians, and the chief inspector greeted him
with a gruff ‘Hi’. He wasn’t a morning person.

‘So what have we got?’ Wesley asked.

‘A nurse came off night duty and found her husband lying dead in the lounge.’

Heffernan paused. And Wesley knew there was more … something that the DCI – the man with the strongest stomach at Tradmouth
nick – found disturbing.

‘Trouble is,’ he continued. ‘I know the victim. Well, I don’t know him exactly – I’ve never met him – but I know of him. He’s
our Sam’s new boss.’

‘A vet?’

‘Yeah. One of the partners in the practice. Name of Simon Tench. Our Sam’s mentioned him quite a bit. He took him round with
him to the farms … showing him the ropes. Our Sam liked him. He’s going to be gutted.’

Wesley nodded, unable to think of anything suitable to say.

‘There’s no sign of a break-in or anything missing so it’s not a robbery gone wrong. And there’s another thing, Wes.’

‘What?’

‘The MO. It’s exactly the same as the other one … Charles Marrick.’

‘You’ve been in?’

‘Took a peep. I tell you, Wes, it’s exactly the same. Two wounds in the neck. No defensive wounds. Bled to death. It can’t
be a coincidence. We’re looking for the same killer. I’d put money on it.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘A dodgy wine merchant and a popular local vet. What can they have in common?’

‘Search me.’

Wesley felt in his pocket. ‘Neil had another letter – blood and monks again. Could there be a connection?’

He handed the letter to Heffernan who scanned it quickly. ‘No harm in sending it to the lab, I suppose.’ He looked up and
saw the police photographer emerging from the front door. ‘I suppose we should take a look. The wife’s being comforted by
a neighbour. Rachel’s with her and Colin’s inside doing his bit. He’ll be demanding overtime at this rate.’

Wesley followed Heffernan to the front gate where both men donned white overalls.

As they entered the house Wesley looked around. The front door led straight on to the living room. Cream walls, wood flooring,
pale modern furniture. This was a rented property designed to appeal to the young professional market. Neutral. Inoffensive.
Apart from the blood.

Neither man spoke and even the normally jocular Colin Bowman looked subdued. The body of Simon Tench sat slumped in the cream
armchair, now stained a deep rusty red. Blood had gushed from two wounds on his neck and splashed on to the walls and the
low white ceiling before running down on to the chair and the stripped wooden floor.

Wesley put his hand to his mouth. The smell of blood was strong here and a couple of flies were buzzing around in search of
sustenance.

‘Nasty,’ was the first word Colin greeted them with. ‘I met him recently, you know, at a Rotary Club do. He seemed a really
nice chap and I know his wife from the hospital. Where is she now, by the way?’

‘Being looked after by a neighbour,’ Wesley answered quietly, staring at the dead man’s face which bore an expression of horrified
surprise.

‘They got married eighteen months ago and rented this place,’ Heffernan said. ‘They were looking for somewhere to buy. In fact
they were on that property programme on the telly –
House Hunters
. He was full of it, our Sam said … being on telly like that.’

‘So Sam reckoned he was a nice bloke … not the type to have enemies?’ Wesley said quietly, almost whispering in the presence
of the dead.

‘Oh aye. Opposite to that Charles Marrick.’

The pathologist looked up. ‘Bad business, Wesley. Terrible.’

‘Would you say Tench and Marrick were killed by the same person?’

Colin nodded. ‘It looks that way. But why?’

The two policemen looked at each other. They didn’t have an answer for that question. Yet.

‘How long has he been dead?’

Colin took a deep breath and looked at his watch. Normally he kept a professional distance from his cadavers … it went with
the job. But standing there next to the corpse of Simon Tench, he seemed genuinely upset. ‘It’s only an estimate but I reckon
about twelve to sixteen hours. So that means he died yesterday evening … any time between seven and eleven. Maybe I’ll have
a better idea when I’ve done the PM.’ He looked at Gerry Heffernan. ‘That boy … the one you arrested – I presume he’s still
in custody?’

‘Afraid not, Colin. He tried to mug DC Carstairs but unhappily our Steve took it upon himself to punch the little bugger in
the cells. Place crawling with solicitors – they move like arthritic snails when you’re buying and selling your house but,
boy, do they shift when the likes of Pinney snaps his dirty little fingers. The little toe-rag knows his rights. He was released
the next day.’

Colin Bowman gave Heffernan a meaningful look as if to say ‘If you’d held on to him, Simon Trench might still be alive’. Heffernan
couldn’t think of anything to say. He was thinking the same himself. And he was blaming Steve Carstairs for making it so easy
for Carl Pinney. He’d played right into his hands.

‘I suppose we’d better pick him up again,’ said Heffernan with a sigh.

‘There’s no sign of a struggle. If Pinney had attacked him …’

‘Perhaps he’d fallen asleep in the chair. Perhaps he didn’t have a chance to fight his killer off. We’ll have to see if anything’s
missing.’

Wesley nodded in agreement then he suddenly remembered something. ‘Colin, have you had a chance to look at those bones from
the wood yet?’

The pathologist gave him a rueful smile. ‘Sorry, Wesley. I’ll get round to them as soon as I can. In the meantime, I’ll book
this PM for tomorrow morning. That suit you?’

The chief inspector grunted in the affirmative as they left Colin to his work and made a swift tour of the small house.

Gerry Heffernan broke the silence when they’d reached the living room again. ‘Tell you what, Wes, you go and have a word with
the wife …’

‘Widow,’ Wesley corrected automatically. Meeting Emma Tench wasn’t something he was looking forward to. But he had no choice.
He needed to find out what she knew. To gather any clues he could about the dead man’s background or associates that might
lead him to the killer. Unless, of course, the attacks were random. That was a possibility that couldn’t be ruled out.

Gerry Heffernan had picked up a DVD that had been lying on the coffee table. The case bore the words ‘
House Hunters
– our episode’ in neatly printed letters. He dropped it into a plastic evidence bag and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

The two men parted at the front door. Gerry Heffernan cadged a lift back to the police station in a patrol car, leaving Wesley
to face Simon Tench’s widow. The nearest cottage stood about fifty yards away and Wesley walked up its crazy-paved path, bordered
with an untidy array of bright flowers – an English cottage garden, in stark contrast to the minimalism of the Tenches’ home. The
paintwork of the front door
was faded green and there were old-fashioned net curtains at the small, leaded windows. This was an old person’s house, Wesley
guessed. But he had learned long ago never to underestimate the powers of observation of the average senior citizen. They
had time to take in details unnoticed by the young with their hectic, overstretched lives. Perhaps he would be on to a winner
here. He certainly hoped so.

Rachel Tracey answered his knock on the door and gave him a shy smile as she stood aside to let him into the tiny, dark hallway.

‘She’s very upset,’ was the first thing she said. ‘But she’s a sensible woman … a good witness. Not that she’s been able to
tell me anything much. When she left the house to go to work she says Simon was upset about some foal dying, but apart from
that everything seemed normal.’ She leaned forward. ‘I think she suspects it was suicide.’ She said the words almost in a
whisper.

Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? Was he depressed then or … ?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘She didn’t mention anything like that. But she said he was sensitive … took the death of any animals
in his care very hard. She said he found professional detachment far more difficult than she does. She hasn’t talked about
suicide in so many words but I can tell it’s on her mind.’

‘Well, I can put her mind at rest then. There’s no sign of a weapon and, unless it’s a remarkable coincidence, it looks identical
to Charles Marrick’s murder.’

Rachel looked surprised. ‘Are you sure?’

Wesley didn’t answer. ‘Is she up to having a word with me?’

Rachel nodded and put a hand on his arm. ‘I knew him slightly, you know. Met him at a Young Farmers’ do and he’s been to my
parents’ farm to treat the beasts. He was a really nice bloke. Everyone liked him.’

Wesley didn’t reply. She led him through into a small cluttered living room, all faded chintz and old hunting prints.
A young woman in a pale blue nurse’s uniform with a bloodstained hem, was seated next to an elderly lady with white hair,
bent back and sharp pale blue eyes. The old woman’s liver-spotted hand was resting on her companion’s – a gesture of comfort.

‘This is Detective Inspector Peterson, Emma,’ Rachel said gently. ‘He’d like to ask you some questions if that’s all right.’

The young woman gave a weak smile and nodded, giving Wesley a long, assessing look.

Wesley addressed the elderly lady. ‘Do you mind if I sit down, Mrs … er … ?’ He knew manners counted a lot for her generation.

‘Mrs Crimmond. Please do.’ The voice was clear and decisive. ‘Where are you from?’

Wesley considered the question for a moment. ‘Originally from London but I studied at Exeter University. My wife’s from Devon
and we moved here a few years ago.’ He looked into her eyes and knew that he hadn’t answered the question satisfactorily.
‘My parents are from Trinidad. They came here to study medicine. My sister’s a doctor too. She works as a GP in Neston.’

The old lady nodded, satisfied at last. Some would have taken the implication of her questioning as slightly racist, but Wesley
guessed that Mrs Crimmond was of an age when she could disregard political correctness in order to ascertain exactly who she
was dealing with.

Wesley turned to Emma and gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Tench. I’m afraid we have to ask
you some questions. Are you feeling up to …’

Emma Tench looked shell-shocked as she drew her hand away from the old lady’s and nodded her assent. She’d answer any questions
he wanted. But it was clear from her expression she didn’t expect the first one he asked.

‘Did you or your husband ever have any dealings with a man called Charles Marrick?’

Emma’s mouth fell open for a moment. Then she took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I knew him. He was a patient of mine. He was
rushed in with a burst appendix last year. I saw it on the news that he’d been found murdered. But what’s that got to do with
Simon?’

There was a long silence while Wesley decided how much to reveal to her. She was a sensible woman, he thought. And a discreet
phone call to the hospital earlier had confirmed that she’d been on duty and was therefore in possession of an unbreakable
alibi. He decided to take the risk.

‘There are certain similarities between Mr Marrick’s death and that of your husband. We think there might be some connection.’

Emma Tench closed her eyes. Wesley could hear her breathing against the background of muted birdsong that seeped in through
Mrs Crimmond’s old, ill-fitting windows.

‘How exactly?’ It was Mrs Crimmond who asked the question, cocking her grey head to one side like a curious bird.

‘As I said, there are, er … certain similarities.’ He turned back to Emma. ‘Can you think of any link at all, however tenuous,
between Mr Marrick and your husband?’

Emma looked up. ‘Only what I’ve already told you … that I nursed him once.’ She paused. ‘I didn’t like him much and I can assure
you he had nothing in common with Simon. Nothing at all.’ There was another long silence then Emma spoke again. ‘I was scared
Simon might have killed himself, you know. He felt things very deeply and he lost a valuable foal yesterday. It wasn’t his
fault but he was the type who always blamed himself. I thought …’