The Blood Pit (20 page)

‘What do you mean?’

Petronella looked her in the eye. ‘Annette went out to the hairdresser’s one day and I was left alone with Charlie. He … He
was in his bedroom and he called downstairs to me to bring his mobile phone up. I didn’t think anything of it but when I got
there he was behind the door.’

‘Go on.’ Trish guessed what was coming but she hoped she was wrong.

She began to speak again, almost in a whisper. Her hands were shaking. ‘I went inside, calling his name, saying I’d found
the phone. But I didn’t realise he was behind me. He slammed the door shut and locked it. He was laughing … saying he had something
for me … a treat. Then he … he pushed me down on the bed and started pushing my skirt up. He was stronger than me. I tried
to push his hands away but he was stronger than me. He was rough … he hurt me and when he’d finished he said something like
“You enjoyed that, didn’t you,” even though I must have been crying. He …’

Trish sat down beside her and took her in her arms. ‘It’s okay. He can’t hurt you now,’ she cooed in her ear, aware that the
cliché she had just uttered – the first thing that had popped into her head – was a lie. Charlie Marrick could still hurt
her, even from beyond the grave. The memory of him would always be with her … polluting her life.

‘I was so ashamed,’ she sobbed into Trish’s shoulder. ‘After it happened I left right away.’ She broke away from Trish’s embrace,
took a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. Then she looked Trish in the eye. ‘I was so ashamed that I let it happen.’

Trish, lost for words, held her close as she began to sob her heart out.

Would Neil Watson have received the last letter yet? Possibly not. Post was usually late these days. The writer sat staring
at the blank computer screen. There was so much more to say. Information to be fed out little by little – moves in the blood
game. Neil Watson was losing the game at the moment. He still had no idea what he was dealing with.

The writer glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was almost time to go. But not before the next letter was started.

The Abbey of Veland owned much of the land round about but most of it was rented out to tenants who farmed it and paid the
abbey a generous rent. The abbey held great wealth and the abbot lived in some style while the brothers in their habits of
rough, white, undyed wool, prayed eight times each day in addition to their strict regime of work and study. They rose at
2 am for the office of Nocturns, then Matins at 4 am, then Prime at 6 am, and so on until the day ended with Compline at 8
pm followed by a light supper. It must have been an arduous life. No wonder they looked forward so much to their time at the
seyney house.

The writer switched off the computer. The letter would be continued tonight when there was more time.

The newspaper lay neatly folded and unread, on the breakfast table. The writer picked it up and began to scan the front page.
Police treating vet’s death as murder
was the headline. Then there was the smaller headline at the bottom of the page.
Skeleton in woodland still unidentified.

The writer’s hands shook but it was important to stay calm. Nobody should know what really happened.

Even though it was so hard not to tell.

Colin Bowman seemed subdued that morning. However, Colin being Colin, he still gave Gerry Heffernan and Wesley Peterson a
friendly greeting and offered them his customary refreshment before they made for the postmortem room. And it was over tea
and biscuits that the pathologist confessed that he was dreading what was to come.

‘I can’t say I knew Simon well but he seemed a really nice chap,’ he explained. ‘It’s one thing cutting up a complete stranger
but it’s quite another with someone you’ve met socially. I tried to get Roper from Morbay Hospital to do it but he’s busy
with a pile up on the by-pass.’ Colin sighed. This was the first time Wesley had seen him like this. Even pathologists who
are quite accustomed to death, he thought, have their limits.

‘Our Sam says everyone at the surgery’s really upset,’ Heffernan chipped in. ‘No one can believe that anyone would want to
hurt Simon. According to our Sam, he got on with everyone and there’s no way he had any enemies.’

‘He had one,’ Wesley said, then immediately regretted his flippancy.

Colin went on to ask how Emma was and Heffernan told him that her parents were on their way down to stay with her. Wesley felt
a great wave of sadness engulfing him as he followed Colin and Gerry into the white postmortem room and saw the shell of what
used to be Simon Tench lying on the stainless steel table.

As he went about his work, Colin was uncharacteristically silent and as soon as he’d finished, he nodded to his assistant
who began to sew up the incisions Colin had made with quiet efficiency. Then Colin removed his green gown and signalled to
the two detectives to follow him to his office. When he asked if they’d like another cup of tea they could tell that the question
wasn’t just asked out of politeness – he needed the tea to revive him, to calm his nerves. For some men it would have been
a glass of whisky but for Colin Bowman it was a cup of strong Earl Grey.

‘Well?’ said Gerry Heffernan as the tea was poured from Colin’s bone-china pot – a venerable antique.

‘It looks exactly like the other one. Of course I won’t know if the body contains hemlock until we have the toxicology report
but the lack of defensive wounds certainly suggests he was incapacitated somehow when he was stabbed. There’s no sign that
he was restrained in any way.’

‘And hemlock causes paralysis?’

‘Oh sure. As I said in my report, its effects are not dissimilar to curare and that’s used to paralyse patients during operations.
It’s a little slower acting of course, but quite effective. The muscles are paralysed but the mind remains clear until death.
Nasty. There was no sign of quail in the stomach contents this time by the way. In fact he hadn’t eaten for a while, although
he’d had a wee dram shortly before his death.’

‘Whisky?’

‘That’s right.’ He paused for a few moments. ‘There was something I noticed – some very faint scarring to the left forearm
almost identical to the marks I noticed on Charles Marrick. It’s very old scarring so it’s probably got nothing to do with
…’

‘It’s strange all the same,’ said Wesley. ‘What about a time of death?’

Colin shrugged. ‘Any time between seven o’clock to ten
o’clock on the evening before he was found. Sorry I can’t be more specific.’ He drained his teacup and reached for the pot.
This was a two-cup situation. ‘I’ll let you have all the lab reports as soon as they come in. I really hope you catch whoever
did this. Simon never did anyone any harm … he didn’t deserve …’

Simon Tench’s death had driven all thoughts of the skeleton in the woods out of Wesley’s mind. But he suddenly remembered
there was something else he needed to ask. ‘By the way, Colin, have you had a chance to examine those bones that were brought
in … the ones that were found in the woods near Sunacres Holiday Park?’

Colin shook his head. ‘Not yet, I’m afraid, but I’ll make a thorough examination this afternoon. I trust you’re going through
your missing persons records.’

‘I’ve got someone on it. But with Charles Marrick’s murder and now this …’ He left the sentence unfinished. Colin didn’t need
it spelling out.

As Wesley and Heffernan took their leave, Colin raised a hand in farewell.

‘Any thoughts, Wes?’ the DCI asked as they walked along the embankment by the river to a fanfare of shrieking sea gulls.

‘Only that our two victims have nothing in common. One was a right bastard who’d nick his own granny’s walking stick given
half the chance and the other was said by everyone who knew him, including your son, to be some sort of saint. However, they’re
both male and around the same age.’ He hesitated. ‘What about Neil’s letters? Could they have something to do with these murders?’

Heffernan frowned. ‘No idea. But there’s something we’re missing here, Wes.’

The only thing they had to do was to find out what that something was.

*

Carl Pinney was still being held for questioning. His story about eating pizza with his sister, Chelsea, at the time Simon
Tench was killed was flimsy to say the least … and it certainly didn’t convince Gerry or Wesley who suspected that Chelsea
would back up her brother against the police any day. With this uncertainty in mind, Pinney’s clothing had been collected from
his home by a couple of uniformed constables who had had to endure Carl’s mother’s swearing and abuse and young Chelsea’s
spittle in their faces.

The custody sergeant, Dan Zachary, had finished his shift. Another day closer to his eagerly anticipated retirement. He normally
shook the dust of Tradmouth police station off his feet as soon as work was over and headed straight for home where he would
cook a meal for his wife who worked in a care home. With no children to upset the equilibrium, theirs was a marriage of equals
before it became fashionable.

But today Dan broke with routine and climbed the stairs to the CID office because something was worrying him … something he
wanted to talk over with Gerry Heffernan. Dan had known Gerry for years, ever since he’d been transferred to Tradmouth from
Morbay nick as a young detective constable. Gerry had risen in the ranks of CID to become chief investigating officer dealing
with any serious crime that occurred in the Tradmouth area, but Dan had been content to stay in uniform, eventually carving
out a niche for himself in the custody suite.

The CID office was buzzing like a beehive as Dan walked in. Computers were flickering and phones were ringing but Dan’s eyes
were drawn irresistibly to the crime scene photographs pinned up on the far wall.

He averted his gaze from the gruesome images and made his way to Gerry Heffernan’s office, where the man himself was sitting
back with his feet up on his cluttered desk, a picture of relaxation amidst the frantic activity. Sitting at the
other side of Gerry’s desk was a smartly dressed black man aged around thirty with delicate features and intelligent eyes.
Dan recognised DIWesley Peterson – his arrival in Tradmouth had caused a lot of talk, in spite of all the chief constable’s
diversity initiatives. But Wesley Peterson was an unassuming man who’d fitted into the team easily. He was popular with most
– especially with Rachel Tracey if canteen gossip was to be believed. But Dan only listened to gossip in the course of duty. You
could sometimes learn a lot from gossip.

In fact it was gossip that had brought him here. He had overheard someone talking in the canteen about Steve Carstairs’ alleged
attack on Carl Pinney, who was currently enjoying Dan’s lavish hospitality in what he called ‘The Pentonville Suite’ – he
liked to call all his cells after Her Majesty’s more famous hotels. Dan had listened carefully to what was being said before
returning to his desk to do a bit of checking. It was then he’d made an interesting discovery. A discovery that he thought
he ought to share with DCI Heffernan.

He rapped on the glass door and Heffernan looked up, signalling him in with a welcoming grin. Dan let himself into the office
and sat down on the spare visitors’ chair beside DI Peterson.

‘I’ve been looking through the records, Gerry. Comings and going down in the custody suite and all that. I’ve found a discrepancy.’

The two detectives watched him, all ears.

‘You know your DC Carstairs … Steve. There’s no record of him visiting the custody suite at the time Pinney claims he was beaten
up.’

It was Wesley who asked the obvious question. ‘Why wasn’t this picked up before?’

‘Pinney did have injuries – there’s no question of that. He howled for his brief and made the accusation and because Carstairs
had been down to see him before. Andy – the lad who was on duty – is new and I reckon he got mixed up.

Wesley looked at his boss. This seemed unlikely.

‘He said Carstairs had been to see the prisoner and been on his own with him which I wouldn’t have allowed if I’d been there.
So when Pinney was found about half an hour later with injuries, it was assumed … But according to the log, the prisoner was
taken his dinner after Carstairs left.’

Wesley sat forward. ‘So Pinney was unhurt after Steve had left.’

‘Looks like it.’

‘So how did he come by the injuries?’

‘Now that’s where I did a bit of detective work.’ He chuckled. ‘Don’t worry … I’m not going to apply to join CID at my time
of life.’

‘Go on,’ Wesley prompted. Dan was an amiable man, one of the old school, and his retirement do – when Chief Superintendent
Nutter would present him with the requisite clock/garden tools/television set – was booked for later in the year. He and Heffernan
knew from experience that Dan preferred pleasant chit-chat to stating the bare facts. He wasn’t a man to be rushed.

‘Well, it turns out that I overheard a mate of Andy’s saying that Pinney had dropped some food – or threw it more like – and
Andy had to mop it up. Do you get my meaning?’ He almost winked. ‘Mop. Water. Slippy floor.’

Gerry Heffernan’s smile started small at first then widened to a Cheshire cat grin. ‘Pinney fell on the slippy floor and thought
the chance of getting one up on Steve was too good to miss.’

‘And nobody thought to check the sequence of events till now.’ Wesley tried to keep the reproach out of his voice. Maybe if
the victim hadn’t been Steve who wasn’t exactly popular in some quarters, the enquiries would have been more assiduous.

‘We’ve been rather busy,’ Dan said righteously. ‘There’s a lot of villainy about, you know. Now summer’s coming
and there’re more yachts to nick from and tourists’ cars to break into. All the records were there ready if there was an official
investigation. I’d not had time to examine them, that’s all.’

‘I know, Dan. I’m not blaming you,’ Wesley said quickly. ‘It’s just a pity Andy never thought to put two and two together.’