The Blood Pit (22 page)

Rachel tactfully stood back and tried to be unobtrusive during the tears and embraces. Emma had seemed too stunned for coherent
thought and she hadn’t been able to provide much information. But Rachel sensed that she was glad of her presence … of not
being left alone with her pain. She’d sat for hours watching the DVD of the programme she and Simon had made together.
House Hunters
. She and Simon had been guided from property to property – all cottages in the Tradmouth area similar to the one they were
renting – by a hyperactive blonde presenter. As Rachel watched the episode with her, time and time again until she knew everything
they were going to say before they said it, she thought they seemed a nice couple. Intelligent but uncomplicated. The sort of
people who just want to get on with their jobs and their lives. Not the sort of people who get murdered unless they are in
the wrong place at the wrong time and the killing is motiveless. The more Rachel watched Simon Tench being led, good humouredly,
from room to room, the more puzzled she felt.

Now that the victim’s widow was in the care of her parents – who seemed, in Rachel’s opinion, a nice sensible couple – further
questioning seemed inappropriate. Besides, Rachel was sure she’d learned all she was going to learn from Emma Tench. The next
thing on her list was a visit to Simon’s work colleagues.

She drove to the veterinary practice on the road out of Tradmouth and parked in the car park. A car drew up beside her and
disgorged a large woman with two equally large dogs – Irish wolfhounds, Rachel thought. Beautiful creatures. At the surgery
entrance they met a woman carrying a basket containing a black cat with large, frightened eyes. One of the dogs gave a half-hearted
bark for honour’s sake but fell silent when its mistress gave a yank on the lead.

At reception she flashed her warrant card discreetly at a
young woman in a nurse’s uniform. She needed to have a word with Mr Tench’s colleagues. The young woman’s eyes immediately
filled with tears as if she’d been suppressing her emotions all day and now the dam was about to burst.

‘He was a lovely man,’ she began to sob. ‘And so nice with everyone. It’s awful, it really is. Was it a burglary? I heard
it was a burglary.’

Rachel wondered how this story had got about. Someone had speculated and the theory had been taken as gospel, she supposed.
It usually happened that way.

Fortunately she didn’t have to wait very long amongst the dogs, cats, rabbits and assorted rodents. It amazed her how quiet and
well behaved they all were. It was as though the creatures had agreed a temporary truce for the duration of their visit. Dogs
wouldn’t bark at cats, cats wouldn’t chase rodents and so on. Or perhaps it was the atmosphere of the place that cowed them. They
knew exactly why they were there.

While she was waiting, Sam Heffernan came out of one of the rooms off the reception area to call in a patient – a dopey-looking
spaniel. He spotted Rachel and smiled. She smiled back. Keep on the right side of the boss’s relatives. After a while a middle-aged
man in a white coat, who bore a passing resemblance to a friendly Labrador, emerged from another room, walked over to her
and shook her hand.

‘I’m afraid I have to ask you and your colleagues some questions about Simon Tench, Mr Wicks.’

‘Terrible business,’ Peter Wicks, senior partner in the practice, muttered as he led her into his surgery. He looked at Rachel
and frowned as if he’d forgotten something. ‘I know you, don’t I? Isn’t it Rachel? Rachel Tracey? Little Barton Farm. You’re
Harry and Stella’s daughter.’

Rachel smiled. Peter Wicks had been looking after the beasts at Little Barton for years now. Not that Rachel had had anything
to do with that side of the farming business. She’d left all that to her father and brothers while she and
her mother – along with her sister-in-law – looked after the holiday lets that were so essential to make ends meet.

‘I trust all is well,’ the vet said with professional politeness, making conversation. Maybe to get away from the unpleasant
subject of murder.

‘Fine as far as I know. I moved into a place of my own a few months ago.’

Wicks nodded earnestly. ‘Of course. I was there for a complicated calving back in March and Stella mentioned something about
it.’

Rachel said nothing, mildly annoyed with her mother for discussing her private living arrangements. But then the farming community
was close knit: people took an interest in each other’s business so it was hardly surprising.

‘So what would you like to know about Simon? I can tell you now that he didn’t have any enemies. He was popular with everyone
– a good man and a good vet. He’ll be sorely missed.’

Rachel had heard eulogies like this before about the recently dead. But this time, she knew it was meant sincerely. Simon
Tench had been liked. Loved even. And his murder seemed to make no sense.

‘It was a random attack surely. A robbery gone wrong.’

‘I’m afraid it doesn’t look that way, Mr Wicks. We think Simon was deliberately targeted. There was no sign of anything missing.’

Wicks shook his head. ‘I find that so hard to believe. Who’d want to … ?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’

The vet gave Rachel a weak smile. ‘Of course you are. How’s Emma bearing up? I was thinking of going round to see her …’ He
sounded uncertain of his reception. But then most people are lost for words in the presence of the bereaved at the best of
times.

‘I’m sure she’d appreciate that, Mr Wicks.’

The man nodded. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he said. ‘I’ve been wondering if we should offer a reward or something
…’

Rachel smiled. ‘Perhaps it might be worth discussing it with DCI Heffernan – he’s in charge of the case. His son works here
– Sam Heffernan.’

‘Ah, Sam … nice lad. He mentioned something about his father being in charge of the investigation.’

‘I know this might seem ridiculous but you said Simon Tench didn’t have any enemies. Are you absolutely sure about that? Could
there be someone he’d annoyed … someone who’d threatened him?’

The vet shook his head. ‘There are times in our profession when farmers lose valuable animals and put the blame on us.’

Rachel nodded. As a farmer’s daughter she knew that sort of thing happened on occasions when livelihoods were threatened and
emotions ran high.

‘But I’m not aware of Simon being involved in anything like that.’

‘I understand he lost a valuable foal on the day he died.’

‘Yes. I’m afraid these things happen. It’s a cause of great regret of course but …’ He shrugged. ‘In this case I believe the
owner took it philosophically – realised there’s nothing Simon could have done.’

Rachel had heard this story before. The consensus of opinion seemed to be that the unhappy horse owner had nothing to do with
Tench’s death. But it would still have to be checked out. If the owner turned out to have borne a grudge against Charles Marrick
as well for some reason, he or she would move rapidly up the list of suspects. But something told Rachel that things wouldn’t
be quite that simple.

‘There was the burglary, of course. Simon was out on a night call and he came back here to the surgery for some supplies.
He disturbed some little thug in a hoodie breaking in to nick ketamine – we use it as a tranquilliser for larger
animals. Simon saw the light was on and came to investigate – kid pushed past him. Got away with the ketamine. That’s all
there was to it really. We did report it of course.’

Rachel’s heart began to beat a little faster. There was a possibility – albeit a small one – that the kid in the hoodie was
Carl Pinney. And if he was back in the frame, the DCI would be delighted.

She was about to thank the vet and leave when Wicks suddenly raised his hand as though he had remembered something. ‘There
was one incident not long ago. I almost forgot because the person involved doesn’t use our practice any more. There’s a smallholder
near Neston … city boy trying to play at farmers. You know the type.’

Rachel nodded. ‘What happened?’

We had a call from this man. Barty Carter his name is. He made his pile in London – something in the city – and decided he’d
try the country life. He thought it was all Barbours, green wellies and Range Rovers … had no idea about real farming. He
planned to keep pigs and develop his own range of designer sausages and luxury black puddings – well that’s how he described
them.’

‘And?’

‘When one of the pigs took ill he called Simon out. And Simon told him in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t looking after
his stock properly – basically because he hadn’t a clue how to deal with animals rather than malice aforethought. Simon gave
him a good telling off and threatened to report him to the authorities if he didn’t get his act together. Carter wasn’t pleased.
Ordered Simon off his smallholding with a shotgun and never used this practice again.’ He suddenly looked worried. ‘I’ve been
a bit concerned about those pigs actually. I was wondering if I should go up there … if it’s an animal welfare issue.’

‘I could pop up there to have a word,’ said Rachel. ‘Call you in if necessary.’

After promising to arrange the visit, Rachel interviewed Simon’s remaining colleagues. They all sang the same tune. Simon
Tench was wonderful. Nobody would want to harm him.

But on the way out to the car, she called the police station on her mobile requesting a check on Barty Carter. And somehow
she wasn’t surprised when the reply came back and she discovered that Carter had form.

Trish Walton was only too glad to get away from Foxglove House and Annette Marrick’s self-pitying complaints. On her return
to the police station, she couldn’t stop thinking about Petronella’s revelation. Marrick’s stepdaughter hadn’t really been
considered as a serious suspect and, as far as she knew, she had no connection with Simon Tench. But, on the other hand, her
alibis for both murders were shaky and if you opened enough cupboards, all kinds of skeletons were likely to tumble out. And
Charlie Marrick had raped her, which was motive enough in Trish’s book for that particular murder.

Steve’s vindication was the talk of the CID office. The consensus of opinion was that it was a triumph for common sense against
the sort of villain who can mete out brutality to his victims but can’t take even the lightest tap when he’s on the receiving
end. Police one, villains and their briefs nil. An honourable win.

DCI Heffernan promised to break the happy news to Steve and tell him that he was to report for work first thing tomorrow. They
needed all the manpower they could get.

Heffernan seemed to be in an unexpectedly good mood, considering he had two unsolved murders and an unidentified skeleton
on his hands. He told Trish to knock off early at half four. She’d had a tough few days nursemaiding the Marrick ménage, he
said before telling her to go off and enjoy herself. Trish hadn’t turned down his offer. She was
glad to get away from the pressure of the incident room. And besides, she’d seen a pair of particularly desirable shoes in
a Morbay shop a week or so ago and she was wondering whether they were still there.

She drove out to Morbay and, when she’d visited the shoe shop and decided that the shoes were too uncomfortable and far too
expensive, she returned to her car and sat there for a while, thinking. She was within walking distance of Steve’s flat. He
would be returning to work first thing the next morning so maybe she should pay him a call and bring him up to speed on the
case. After all they had been close once and, even though Rachel Tracey, her housemate, kept telling her she was well rid
of him, there was still a slight pull there, a faint attraction normally suppressed, which floated to the surface and bobbed
there occasionally.

Trish climbed out of her car and walked down the busy streets to Steve’s flat. But as she arrived at the front door, she experienced
a sudden flurry of panic. What if he wasn’t in? What if he took her visit the wrong way? Interpreted it as a come-on?

She stood on the doorstep, shifting from foot to foot, in two minds whether to leave there and then and forget the whole thing.
She was only there on impulse after all. But then Steve was a fellow officer and he had been falsely accused. She was giving
him the support of a colleague and making certain he had the necessary information to do his job properly. Nothing more.

When Steve answered the door, he looked dishevelled and rather sheepish. He grinned at her nervously, almost as if he had
something to hide. After a few seconds he stood aside to let her in and, as she entered, Joanne emerged from the kitchen and
gave her a shy smile. Trish tried to smile back but she suspected the result was more of a snarl. It looked as if Steve had
found plenty to do in his period of enforced
idleness, Trish thought, her inner bitch rising to the surface for a split second.

Trish cleared her throat. It was probably best to stick to the subject of work. ‘I presume the boss has been in touch about
you coming back tomorrow?’

Steve looked puzzled and shook his head.

‘He said he was going to call you tonight. I’m surprised he hasn’t done it already … God knows we could do with an extra pair
of hands. It’s good news. You’re in the clear. Pinney threw his dinner round his cell and slipped on the wet floor after the
mess had been cleaned up. His story’s been shot to pieces.’ She tried to inject some excitement into her voice but Steve wasn’t
looking impressed.

He put his arm round Joanne, who stood rather stiffly beside him. ‘I’d feel better if they’d believed my version in the first
place over that little toe-rag’s lies. Why is it they always have to believe these … ?’

‘That’s just the way it is, Steve – you know that as well as I do. They’ve got to investigate any complaints against the police.
Sometimes it’s not fair but …’

‘It stinks,’ Joanne piped up, folding her arms defensively.

Trish looked at her. ‘Yeah. You’re right. It does stink.’ She turned back to Steve. ‘I don’t know if you want me to bring you
up to date on the case.’