The Blood Pit (2 page)

He heard the growl of an approaching car engine and when the vehicle appeared round the bend in the drive, crunching the luxuriant
gravel beneath its tyres, he stood up. Wesley. Just the man he needed.

‘Your mobile was off,’ Heffernan said accusingly as DI Wesley Peterson climbed out of the car. ‘Where have you been?’

Wesley glanced down at his jeans and white T-shirt, not his usual working garb. ‘I told you I was taking the afternoon off.
It was Michael’s school sports day then we all went for something to eat. Pam would have skinned me alive if I’d been called
out. It was more than my life was worth to keep my mobile on.’

Heffernan knew that this was the time to bluster a little, to make Wesley feel guilty for his lack of dedication to duty.
But somehow he couldn’t manage it. He knew exactly how Wesley felt.

‘So did he win, then, your lad?’

‘Third in the egg and spoon race,’ Wesley said with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘He’s more the cerebral type.’

Heffernan smiled. The kid was clearly a chip off the old block, he thought. But he said nothing.

Wesley looked across at the open front door. He could see figures in white overalls huddled in the hallway, deep in concentration.
The police photographer and a couple of Forensic officers emerged from the front door, their faces
solemn and businesslike. There was none of the usual banter. Wesley knew that this was a bad sign. ‘So what’s the story here?’
he asked.

Heffernan didn’t answer. Instead he called over to the Forensic officers and asked if it was okay to go in. When they answered
in the affirmative, Wesley donned a paper suit and plastic gloves and the two men began to make their way to the house.

‘Nasty?’ Wesley asked.

‘You could say that.’

Wesley took a deep breath, preparing himself for the unpalatable. He came from a family of doctors but the genetic strong stomach
had somehow passed him by.

Gerry Heffernan led the way into the hall and pointed to a half-open door to his left. ‘In there.’ The way Heffernan said the
words made Wesley feel nervous. He hesitated before taking a bold step across the threshold.

The sight that greeted him made him freeze. There was blood everywhere, pooled on the floor and splashed up the walls, and
three white-clad figures were crowded around something lying on the sofa. Wesley recognised one of the figures as the pathologist,
Colin Bowman, intent on his work and deep in concentration. Wesley didn’t greet him. He had caught the metallic stench of blood
in his nostrils and his stomach was beginning to churn. He stepped out of the room quickly. He’d leave them to it for now.

Gerry Heffernan was waiting in the hall at the foot of the wide staircase, carpeted in cream to match the lounge. ‘Not a pretty
sight,’ the DCI observed.

‘Who was he? Or was it she?’

‘It’s a he. Wine merchant by the name of Charles Marrick.’

‘Could it be suicide? Or an accident?’

Heffernan shook his head. ‘No note and no sign of a weapon.’

‘Who else lives here?’

‘Only the wife. She found him. She’s in the conservatory at the back of the house with Rachel.’

Wesley nodded. If anyone was going to get anything out of the grieving widow, it was DS Rachel Tracey. She had a talent for
that sort of thing. A gift. And, to top all that, she had a good ear for a lie.

‘How’s the wife taking it?’

Heffernan thought for a second, searching for the appropriate words. ‘I get the impression she’s not exactly heartbroken.’

‘Think it could be a domestic?’

‘My first thought when I saw the body was that a woman couldn’t have done it. But I have to admit that I’ve known some pretty
scary women in my time.’

Wesley looked at him curiously, wondering if he was about to be the recipient of some interesting confidences.

But Heffernan didn’t elaborate on his last statement. ‘I suppose we’d better make Mr Marrick’s acquaintance,’ he said with
a sigh.

Wesley nodded. It couldn’t be put off any longer.

The two men entered the lounge gingerly, stepping over the Forensic team’s metal plates, put down to preserve any evidence
that might lie on the floor. Dr Colin Bowman was blocking their view of the thing on the sofa and when Heffernan greeted him,
he looked round and smiled.

‘Come in, come in,’ he said like a genial host, beckoning to them to come closer. The lady of the house must have favoured
cream and white, Wesley thought, and the overall effect was airy and light – or it would have been if it weren’t for the dark
stains on the walls and fabrics. At first he thought the deep-red sofa was a dramatic interior design statement. Until he saw
the body of Charles Marrick.

Normally Gerry Heffernan would have indulged in a bit of idle chatter, small talk to relieve the tension, but today he stayed
silent as Colin moved aside to give them a better view, like an artist showing off his handiwork.

The corpse of Charles Marrick lay slumped against the cushions, staring at the ceiling with sightless eyes. The expression
on the dead man’s pallid, almost white, face – a desperation, as though he was pleading for help which never came – made Wesley
take a step back. Then his eyes were drawn to the neck. Blood must have gushed like a fountain from the pair of neat wounds,
close together and perfectly aligned like a vampire’s kiss. Most of the blood had been absorbed by the sodden sofa but some
had splashed on to the surrounding walls and furnishings and trickled down on to the creamy carpet below.

‘There are two neat stab wounds close together and both of them pierced the artery,’ Colin pronounced with inappropriate cheerfulness.
‘Either lucky or he or she knew what they were doing.’

‘There’s so much blood,’ Wesley observed quietly. Then he felt a little silly at having stated the obvious.

Colin Bowman cleared his throat. ‘Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?’

Heffernan looked up. ‘You what?’

‘Shakespeare … the Scottish Play.’ He turned to the corpse. ‘What I can’t understand is why there are no defensive wounds.
He was a youngish man and fairly fit, I should think. Why didn’t he put up a fight? And why didn’t he call for help? He probably
didn’t die instantly and there’s a phone on the table by the window.’

‘Unless he was restrained or knocked out somehow,’ Wesley suggested. ‘Any sign of a head wound?’

Colin Bowman shook his head. ‘Nothing obvious. But something might come to light when I get him on the slab. And there’s nothing
to suggest he was tied up.’ He glanced across at the windows. One of them was open and the white voile drape, spotted with
dried blood, billowed gently in the breeze. ‘Lovely evening,’ he observed absentmindedly.

‘Not for him,’ Gerry Heffernan replied before marching out of the room.

The feeling of the knife in his hand gave Carl Pinney a sense of power. And the blood on the narrow blade meant that it had
been used before – blooded like a warrior’s sword. Proved. Carl hadn’t washed the blood off – he hadn’t fancied it, watching
the water in the basin turn red as it floated off in russet clouds. Instead he had dropped it into a thin supermarket carrier
bag. It’d be safe there.

Somehow he didn’t feel like company so he hadn’t gone to meet the others. But he needed something to blot out reality. He
still had some of the stuff him and Nathan had nicked from the vet’s surgery in Tradmouth left but he was keeping that for
a rainy day. Besides, he fancied something stronger and that would cost money. He felt in each pocket but found nothing but
the unfruitful scratch card he’d nicked from the newsagent’s the previous day. Daz would have what he needed – but Daz didn’t
give credit so he had to get hold of cash and fast. He could always go back home to see if there was anything in his mum’s
purse – she’d be in no fit state to stop him. Or he could try his luck in Abbeyside. There were a lot of upmarket flats and
houses in Abbeyside, some owned by well-off single people who’d soon be arriving home after an evening in the pub. Ripe pickings.

He pulled his hood up, concealing his acne pitted face, and slouched down the street. The no man’s land between the Winterham
Estate and Abbeyside was a small district of small terraced houses, some rundown, some newly gentrified by optimistic first-time
buyers who’d convinced themselves, despite all evidence to the contrary, that the area was on the up and that the Winterham
Estate was improving daily. There were shops and takeaways on the main road but these didn’t welcome the likes of Carl. The
shopkeepers kept wary vigilance and regularly called the police who responded
with half-hearted boredom. Their hands were tied unless a crime was actually committed. And hanging round in a threatening
manner didn’t constitute a crime. At least not yet.

But Carl had no intention of drawing attention to himself that evening. He had been to Abbeyside many times before: he had
watched the new young residents talking on their mobile phones, carrying their laptops in black padded cases, their wallets
and handbags stuffed with cash and credit cards. As far as Carl was concerned, they were easy prey. Asking for it.

He slipped into a narrow alley that ran between a dry cleaner’s and a Chinese takeaway and stood quite still, waiting, like
a hunter, for his quarry to come into view, striding confidently, unaware of any danger. He felt in the carrier bag and touched
the cool metal of the knife handle. When it was over he’d go straight to Daz. His head was hurting and his mouth was dry.
He needed something to blot out the world and he needed it soon.

Carl waited hours – or it might only have been five minutes; his sense of time had gone completely haywire – before he heard
footsteps. One person walking quickly down the street towards his hiding place. Instinctively he crouched a little, making
himself invisible, coiled and motionless, waiting to pounce. The knife was in his hand but he couldn’t remember taking it from
the carrier bag. The footsteps were louder now, getting nearer. Then a shadow crossed the alley’s mouth, blocking out the evening
light, and Carl’s muscles stiffened. This was it. Prey. Time to move.

It happened quickly. Carl leaped out just as the figure had passed. Later he was unable to recall the exact words he used.
Highwaymen of old used to say ‘stand and deliver’ but Carl’s opening line was almost certainly smattered with four-letter
words starting with F and lacked the elegance of a bygone age. He came up behind his mark and pressed the knife against the
side of his throat, expecting the victim to freeze with
terror and hand over all his worldly goods meekly, without a word of protest.

His victim was a man, five ten and dark haired, wearing a soft black leather jacket that must have cost a fortune. He looked
young and fit and, what was more important, he looked as if he had money. In a fair fight, he’d beat Carl no problem. But nobody
argues with a blade: weapons are the great leveller … like death.

But things didn’t quite go to plan. The victim swung round and pushed Carl to the ground, sending the knife clattering into
the gutter. Then Carl was hauled upright. A pain shot through his body as his right arm was wrenched into an arm lock. He
was forced to the ground again and he flinched as a punch landed on his face.

As he lay helpless and groaning, his captor made a phone call and a few minutes later a patrol car sped to the scene, blues
and twos blaring. Carl’s nose was still streaming with blood when he was pushed into the back seat.

The intended victim, who had introduced himself as Detective Constable Steve Carstairs when he made the arrest, grinned with
satisfaction as he picked the knife out of the gutter. Then he climbed into the police car and sat beside Carl, leaning towards
him so that Carl could smell his aftershave and the faint whiff of garlic on his breath.

‘Not your lucky day, is it?’ Carstairs said in a gloating whisper.

The only suitable response Carl could think of was to spit in his face.

The life of a monk was essentially sedentary, spent in cloister, refectory or choir while the abbey’s servants did most of
the hard physical work. Periodic blood-letting had long been practised in monastic communities for the benefit of the brothers’
health. At first the procedure took place in the abbey’s infirmary and the usual disciplines of monastic life were little
relaxed. Gradually, however, it became the custom for monks to be bled every six to eight weeks in some outlying country manor
house owned by the monastery. This became known as the seyney house (from the Latin for blood). Here they would be bled with
a lancet from a vein in the elbow then they would recover in some comfort for five or six days. Each recuperating monk was
allowed a gallon and a half of beer daily, two good-quality loaves and other victuals. Servants attended him and the normal
regime of religious observation was much relaxed. In short, the seyney (or minutio as it was sometimes called) was a holiday.

But for some, it became a nightmare. A horror.

The writer read the words on the computer screen. It was best to stop there and stick to the facts. There would be plenty
of time for the real truth.

Neil Watson hadn’t felt like driving back to Exeter after
work. He’d visited the pub near the dig with some of his colleagues, putting off the evil moment when he had to return to
his empty flat. But an evening on the orange juice rather than his customary bitter had soon lost its appeal so he’d left
after the first drink and driven to Tradmouth. The letter was on his mind, nagging like a headache. And the only person he
could think of to share his burden with was Wesley Peterson. He could trust Wesley to put the problem into perspective.

Tradmouth was only five miles from the dig but by the time Neil parked his yellow Mini outside Wesley’s modern detached house
on the hill overlooking the ancient port, it was getting dark. Neil was glad to see that Wesley’s car was there. And Pam’s.

It was Wesley who answered the door. He looked pleased to see him. But, at the same time, he had the look of a man with things
on his mind.