The Blood Pit (23 page)

Joanne squeezed his arm, whispered something in his ear, then disappeared back into the kitchen. Trish waited until she was
out of sight before she continued. ‘A lot’s happened since you … You know this vet’s been murdered – same MO. But, unlike Charles
Marrick, he didn’t have an enemy in the world.’

‘Random attacks then?’

Trish shrugged. ‘The boss doesn’t think so. Charles Marrick was a nasty piece of work. He raped Petronella Blackwell … his wife’s
daughter. And he swindled that chef, Fabrice Colbert … who’s not French but that’s another story. There
must have been people queuing up to put the knife in. But this vet, Simon Tench, was just the opposite – everyone liked him.’

Joanne appeared again and resumed her place at Steve’s side.

‘Maybe he was leading a double life. Maybe he had a grubby little secret,’ Steve said with a confident swagger, probably calculated
to impress the new girlfriend. ‘The boss wants me back tomorrow then?’

‘That’s what he said. I expect he’ll be in touch.’ Trish glanced at Joanne who appeared to be listening intently. ‘By the way,
how’s your dad?’

Steve’s expression gave nothing away. ‘He’s okay.’

She hesitated before saying, ‘Probably see you tomorrow then,’ and turning to go, uncomfortably aware that she’d said too
much when Joanne was within earshot. But it was done now.

‘Probably,’ was Steve’s cool reply just as the phone on the wall began to ring.

‘That might be the boss now,’ she said.

Steve, looking unimpressed, moved to pick up the receiver.

Gerry Heffernan had just telephoned Steve Carstairs, to tell him to be at his desk first thing the next morning. He’d delayed
making the call, saying he wanted to make Steve sweat for as long as possible. Wesley, however, doubted if this tactic would
do any good. Steve, as far as he could tell, was as thick skinned as your average elephant and any attempt at subtlety would
be wasted on him.

As he finished his call, Gerry sensed that the news hadn’t come as a surprise to Steve. But then he’d always been cocky and
over-confident. Perhaps that’s why Gerry always had to fight the urge to slap him down.

When Wesley wandered into his cluttered inner sanctum, he looked up and smiled. ‘Come in, Wes, sit yourself down. Let’s go
over what we’ve got, shall we?’

Wesley said down with a sigh. They seemed to have a lot – especially about Charles Marrick – but, as yet, nothing seemed to
make much sense.

‘I really can’t see any link between Simon Tench and Marrick,’ Wesley began. ‘Do you think Tench’s could be a copycat killing?
If one of our local nutters discovered the details of Marrick’s death and …’

‘We’ve not released the details. It’s hardly public knowledge. And why target Tench?’

‘Some people don’t need a reason.’

‘Tench must have let his killer in. Same with Marrick. It was someone they trusted.’

‘Maybe.’ Wesley shuffled his feet, at a loss for something else to say.

‘We’re just waiting for Tench’s toxicology report from Colin. By the looks of it he didn’t put up a fight, exactly the same
as Marrick. If he was given hemlock to paralyse him it means that whoever’s doing this has it all planned out carefully.’

But the DCI’s thoughts were interrupted by a perfunctory knock on the door. When the door burst open DC Paul Johnson was standing
there, his eyes bright with untold news. Paul was a tall, lanky young man, fond of athletics, and he almost bounded towards
Heffernan’s desk.

‘Sir, I’ve just had a call from Cheshire police.’

Heffernan leaned forward. ‘And?’

‘I did a check like DI Peterson asked me, to see if there had been any similar deaths anywhere else in the country and there
was a case in Chester a few weeks ago … bloke with neck wounds in a flat above a shop. Traces of hemlock found in the body. The
coroner gave a verdict of suicide but …’

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other.

‘I called them and asked them to send the reports and photographs.’

‘Good,’ said Wesley. ‘Are they still satisfied with the suicide verdict or … ?’

‘They were but since they’ve been alerted to our two murders, they’re looking at the case again. They’re e-mailing me the details.’

Wesley thanked Paul. He’d done well. He looked at his watch. It was six thirty already but he didn’t want to make for home
until they’d seen what Cheshire were about to send. It might be nothing to do with their case, of course. Just a coincidence.
But Wesley had an uncomfortable feeling that they were about to learn something important.

And half an hour later when Paul brought them the e-mail from Cheshire police headquarters in Chester, Wesley knew that their
case had just become more complex.

It looked as though their killer had struck before.

The writer rose early that morning and switched on the computer. It was time to continue the tale. It helped so much to put
it all into words. That way, things made more sense.

There was corruption in the Abbey of Veland as there is in every place human beings gather together. What is it about our species
that makes it fall prey to wickedness?

I think Brother William was a pure young man, an innocent. He didn’t expect to encounter evil in the abbey that should have
been his refuge from the world. The corruption must have begun in a small way. A touch here and a look there. But for some
the lure of sin is too tempting to resist.

What happened to Brother William wasn’t his fault. But all victims blame themselves. I should know that more than anyone.

Perhaps it would be wise to strike the last sentence out. It gave too much away. Another day or so and the letter would be
finished. Another move in the blood game.

Gerry Heffernan had found it hard to get to sleep and when he did finally drop off, he’d been awoken by Sam leaving the house
– an early morning call to a calving just outside Whiteley. Eventually he decided to cut his losses and get up,
creeping around to avoid waking Rosie who’d rolled in late the night before.

For the past few days he’d been too busy to see Joyce and he was missing her company and her down-to-earth common sense. They’d
been seeing each other for almost a year now but Rosie still didn’t know of her existence and he saw no reason to upset the
delicate balance of household relations by telling her. It was Gerry’s secret and he told himself that he was just waiting
for the right moment to reveal it – a moment which never seemed to arrive. Rosie had been close to her late mother, Kathy
and he didn’t want to risk upsetting her. Sam, however, knew all about his dad’s lady friend and wished him luck. But then
Sam had always been easygoing and pragmatic. A chip off the old block.

He arrived at the police station early to find the details of the Chester case waiting for him on his desk, in the small space
in the centre that he left clear for anything he considered to be urgent. He’d glanced at them the previous night, just to
get the gist of what was what, but now he intended to examine them in detail – to see if there was indeed a link to the two
murders that had happened on his patch.

As soon as he picked up the papers, his office door opened and Wesley Peterson stepped into the room, looking annoyingly awake
for first thing in the morning.

‘You read it yet?’ Wesley asked eagerly.

‘Just about to, Wes. Come in, will you. Anything new?’

Wesley shook his head. Then he hesitated for a few moments. ‘Steve’s due back this morning,’ he said, his expression giving
nothing away.

Heffernan raised his eyebrows.

‘At least it’s another pair of hands. I’ve just heard through the office grapevine that Trish paid him a visit last night
– gave him the good news.’

‘Did she indeed? I wanted to prolong the agony so I didn’t ring him till late. He never let on that Trish had already told
him.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I would have thought she’d have more sense.’

‘Apparently he’s got himself a new girlfriend – someone who works with his dad – so if Trish has any hopes in that direction
…’

‘You seem to know all the gossip, Wes.’

‘We aim to please.’ He sat down on the chair by the DCI’s desk, collecting his thoughts. ‘I had a quick read through the stuff
from Cheshire before I went home last night.’

‘And?’

‘Sounds identical to our murders but the local force interpreted it as suicide. Victim tried to poison himself then, when that
wasn’t working fast enough, he stabbed himself a couple of times in the neck – struck lucky with the jugular vein. There was
no sign of a break-in or a disturbance and the knife was on the floor as though the victim had dropped it.’

‘Unlike our two cases. Wonder why the killer took the knives away when Marrick and Tench were killed.’

Wesley shrugged. ‘The weapon that killed Simon Tench hasn’t turned up yet. I’ve got uniform searching for it but it’s a question
of where to start. If Carl Pinney was telling the truth and the first one ended up in a carrier bag on the Winterham Estate,
the second could be anywhere.’ Wesley paused. ‘Look, Gerry, I’ve been thinking. What do the victims have in common – Marrick, Tench
and this new one up in Chester?’

‘Dunno. What?’

‘Well, they’re all male. And they’re all exactly the same age. Thirty-one.’

Gerry Heffernan scratched his head. Why hadn’t he noticed something so obvious? But, as far as he knew, nobody had ever been
murdered for being a certain age before. There must be more to it than that. ‘What are you saying, Wes?’

‘We need to know more about their backgrounds. Perhaps
we should visit Foxglove House and Tench’s cottage and have a look through their things.’

‘I was thinking of a trip to Chester, Wes. I’d like to talk to the team who dealt with the case.’

‘And got it all wrong,’ Wesley pointed out helpfully. ‘If they put it down to suicide, they probably weren’t paying much attention.’

‘Well you can’t blame them – it certainly looked that way. Anyway, I’ve got a cousin who’s a DS at Chester police headquarters.
I’m thinking of giving him a ring and arranging a visit. Nice place, Chester.’

Wesley looked at his boss. He was so transparent. He fancied a trip up north. He’d probably fit in a visit to Liverpool while
he was at it for a family reunion. But on the other hand, they did need to have a closer look at the death of Christopher
Grisham, the man whose bloody death in a Chester flat had been dismissed as suicide.

‘Has your mate Neil had any more of those funny letters?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘You don’t think they can have anything to do with this?’

‘It seems a bit strange that someone starts killing people by bleeding them to death then Neil starts getting letters about
monks being bled. Coincidences happen but …’

‘Anything from the lab?’

Wesley shook his head. ‘I sent the second letter there but they didn’t come up with anything useful.’

There was a knock on the door and Rachel bustled in, a sheet of paper in her hand. She waved it triumphantly at Gerry Heffernan.
‘I talked to Peter Wicks at the vet’s and he told me about a man who threatened Simon Tench. Smallholder called Barty Carter
– city boy who fancies himself as a farmer.’

Wesley could hear the disapproval in her voice.

‘This Carter didn’t have a clue about looking after his livestock and when Tench pointed out the error of his ways, he was
threatened with a shotgun. And Carter’s got form.
Affray outside a London nightclub when he was eighteen. He’s a violent man.’

Wesley caught Heffernan’s eye.

‘Okay, Rach,’ the DCI said patiently. ‘You check him out. But don’t go alone, eh. You can take Steve … keep him out of mischief.’

Rachel disappeared back into the organised chaos of the CID office and Heffernan stood up. ‘You wanted to have a look through
Marrick’s things … see if we can find any sort of link with Tench and this Grisham up in Chester.’

‘Yes. And we can visit Tench’s place as well. There must be some connection. Where are people of the same age thrown together.
School? University?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Heffernan replied, reaching for his coat.

The post came unusually early that morning and Neil saw the letter, squatting on his doormat like some malevolent toad. He
recognised the envelope – same as the others. This was all he needed first thing in the morning with the drive down to Stow
Barton ahead of him.

It was about time Wesley did something, he thought to himself. What was the use of having an old friend in the CID if he couldn’t
do you a favour from time to time? But with these murders, Wesley had been rather preoccupied. No use whatsoever.

He rinsed a smear of marmalade off his fingers and donned the pair of heavy rubber gloves he kept for clearing out the sink
when it blocked, as it had a habit of doing. Then he picked the letter up awkwardly. The gloves were too thick but at least
this way there’d be no fingerprints except the sender’s … and all the post office employees who had handled it as it made
its journey to his door. He suddenly felt a little silly and took off the gloves.

He slit the envelope open and extracted the letter inside
using the corner of a tea towel, spreading it out on the top of the sideboard as the kitchen table was covered in crumbs as
usual.

He read it through twice. The sender seemed to be telling the story of a Brother William and this new, personal slant rather
intrigued him. The mention of evil – of Satan dwelling in the Abbey of Veland – seemed rather melodramatic. But then that was
probably Lenny’s style – if he was indeed the author of the letters. Neil told himself that he shouldn’t jump to hasty conclusions.

The writer was treating it as a game. The blood game. But it takes two to play a game and Neil wasn’t going to participate.
Suddenly he felt less afraid. All he had to do was ignore his tormentor and he’d get sick of waiting for a response. The writer
was a nutter. Nothing more.

He tried to forget about the letter as he drove to the dig. He wouldn’t have to think about it again until it was time to
go home, he told himself. He would put it from his mind and give it to Wesley like the others – get it off his hands.