The Blood Pit (29 page)

Heffernan was glad of Wesley’s presence. At least, as an old boy of a famous private school in Dulwich, he knew how to behave
in such establishments. He said a polite ‘excuse me’ to a passing boy and asked to be directed to the headmaster’s study.
The boy duly obliged and ten minutes later they were waiting outside the head’s study like a pair of recalcitrant schoolboys.
Dr Wynn was keeping them waiting. And Gerry Heffernan didn’t like to be kept waiting.

But just as he was about to approach the severe looking secretary in half-moon glasses who acted as guardian of Dr Wynn’s
gate, the intercom on her desk buzzed. She looked at the two policemen disapprovingly and told them they could go in. The
headmaster would see them now.

Wesley put a warning hand on his boss’s sleeve. No wisecracks. No ruffling of feathers. Dr Wynn would need to be treated with
the respect he was accustomed to if they were to get the most out of him. Heffernan understood. He’d leave this one to Wesley
who seemed to be at home in this sort of atmosphere.

Dr Wynn was a tall, thin man with a beak of a nose – a Ronald Searle headmaster from central casting. He stood up to shake
their hands politely and invited them to sit.
Heffernan, who looked as though he’d been expecting six of the best, obeyed without a word.

‘I understand from my secretary that you want to talk to me regarding a murder enquiry. Is that right?’ He instinctively looked
at Wesley for the answer to his question.

‘Yes. We’re actually investigating two murders – possibly three. All identical. You’ll have heard about the murders of Charles
Marrick and Simon Tench in the Tradmouth area?’ He wasn’t sure whether Wynn would follow news of gruesome murders. He looked
the sort who was still coming to terms with reports from the Punic Wars.

But Wynn leaned forward, a gleam in his eye. ‘The Spider, you mean. What’s that got to do with me?’

‘We have reason to believe the victims were old boys of this school.’

Wynn slumped back in his chair. He looked genuinely shocked. ‘Good Lord. Of course I only took up this post three years ago
so I wouldn’t know the boys involved. Are you quite sure about this?’

‘We’d be grateful if we could take a look at your records. And we’d like to talk to any teachers who might have known the
victims if we may.’

‘But surely this can’t have anything to do with Belsinger …’

‘It’s the only link we’ve found between the victims. Charles Marrick and Simon Tench both attended this school.’ He paused,
watching the headmaster’s face. ‘And so did a third victim. Christopher Grisham. He was murdered up in Chester a few weeks ago.
Identical MO.’

The headmaster fell silent for a while, lost for words for once. Then he looked up at Wesley, his lips pressed together in
a stubborn line. ‘I really fail to see what this can have to do with the school, Inspector. If these three former pupils remained
in contact after they’d left Belsinger and became involved in something unsavoury, the school can hardly be held to blame.’

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. The headmaster
certainly had a point. Only there was no reason whatsoever to suppose the three victims had remained in contact. Charles Marrick
and Simon Tench seemed to have very little in common. And there was no indication that Marrick and Grisham had been in touch
recently, if ever.

‘Are there any teachers here who would have known the victims? They probably would have been pupils here between 1989 and
1994.’

Dr Wynn thought for a few moments. ‘There’s Mr Foley – Physics. And Mr Vaughan – Music. Mr Hedge would have taught them history,
no doubt. He retired recently but he still does some supply work for us – filling in for absent staff. I believe he’s on some
archaeological dig at the moment out at Stow Barton.

Wesley looked at Heffernan who was sitting silently beside him. This was Neil’s training excavation. He thought of the anonymous
letters his friend had received and felt a thrill of excitement. He wanted to speak to Mr Hedge, sooner rather than later.

He gave the headmaster a businesslike smile. ‘This is a boarding school. Presumably there are housemasters and …’

‘Of course.’

‘Would you mind looking at your records to see if these boys were in the same house? And if so, which one.’

Wynn gave Wesley a curious look. He had hardly expected this young black policeman to be so
au fait
with the life of a public school. But then he was well spoken and he exuded a certain air of quiet confidence so perhaps
he had gone through the system himself. Although he rather baulked at the idea of any old Belsingians entering the police
force at any rank below that of chief constable. ‘Of course. I’ll ask my secretary to look at our records.’

He lifted the telephone receiver and made the request. As they had time to fill, Wesley asked the question that had been on
his mind since he’d first seen the school.

‘How old is the building?’

Wynn looked rather gratified that he’d noticed the architectural gem that had become his fiefdom. ‘The earliest parts date
back to the thirteen century,’ he began proudly. ‘It was an abbey prior to the Dissolution. A house of Augustinian Canons.
Monks Island was a part of the abbey property. Henry VIII sold the land and buildings off to one of his cronies, of course,
after which it became a private house. When the family in question died out it became a school in the nineteenth century.’

Heffernan sat there in silence, listening to all this. As Wesley seemed to have established a rapport with the man, he was
quite happy to leave all the talking to him. In fact he was rather glad of the break.

After ten minutes of historical chat, Dr Wynn’s secretary produced the records for each victim with remarkable efficiency,
along with tea in bone china cups.

Simon Tench and Christopher Grisham had been model pupils. Grisham was a talented artist while Tench was academically bright,
especially at science and mathematics. Only Marrick had let the side down. Reading between the lines, he’d held the post of
School Bully. Always in trouble with masters. Always at the headmaster’s door for something or other. Like Tench he hadn’t
stayed on in the sixth form. But, unlike Tench, he hadn’t gone to take his A Levels elsewhere and then on to university –
he’d joined the vulgar world of commerce and made his fortune. Something Belsinger probably wouldn’t choose to record in gold
letters on their venerable oak honours boards.

But Wesley noted one thing with great interest. Charles Marrick, Simon Tench and Christopher Grisham had all been in Tavistock
House under the guardianship of housemaster, Mr Dean. And, according to Dr Wynn, Mr Dean had retired three years ago to run
a bookshop in Morbay.

As they took their leave of the headmaster, Wesley warned
him that they might need to visit the school again. But in the meantime he wanted to speak to Mr Dean. If he had been in
loco parentis
to the three victims for several years, it was likely he’d know their secrets. Or at least have his suspicions about what
they were trying to hide.

Parents might not know everything their offspring get up to. But a housemaster used to dealing with adolescent boys was bound
to know all the tricks. Or at least that’s what Wesley was pinning his hopes on as they drove away from the school.

Carl Pinney had received the sentence of a hundred hours’ community service for mugging DC Steve Carstairs. But, just as he
thought it was safe to return to the Winterham Estate, Lee Parsons and Paul Johnson ruined his day. They were waiting for
him outside Morbay Magistrates’ Court.

‘This is police harassment,’ Carl protested as he was led towards the patrol car. ‘I want my brief.’

‘All in good time,’ said DC Johnson patiently. ‘We’ve sent someone to search your house.’

Carl’s eyes lit up. ‘You got a warrant?’

When Paul Johnson nodded, Carl’s face was a picture of disappointment. The thought of getting one over on the pigs again had
momentarily lightened his life. He’d thought he’d hit the jackpot with that DC Carstairs but he’d been found out. Shame.

Half an hour later Carl Pinney was sitting in Interview Room Two at Tradmouth police station, his bored-looking solicitor
installed by his side.

This time it was a female officer who did the honours. She was blonde and quite fit, Pinney noticed, and she introduced herself
as Detective Sergeant Rachel Tracey. She informed him that his fingerprints had been found at the scene of a break-in – the
surgery where the Spider’s second victim had worked as a vet. She then proceeded to say that
a quantity of ketamine had been found hidden in his bedroom – the same drug that had been taken in the break-in.

Pinney, of course, knew better than to comment. If you kept silent they couldn’t do anything about it. And it annoyed them
no end.

Then he was asked if he’d ever been to Chester. Stupid question. Carl hadn’t been much further than Plymouth. Then DS Tracey
asked him if he’d ever met the vet, Simon Tench. The answer was a decisive no.

He knew they had enough to charge him with the break-in and drugs theft and he wished they’d just get on with it so he could
get home.

But, just as Pinney and his solicitor thought it was all over, an officer came in and whispered in DS Tracey’s ear.

She looked straight at him, her face expressionless, and he wondered what was coming next.

‘They’ve just found a blood-stained knife – it looks like the sort that killed Simon Tench,’ she said. ‘It had been put in
a waste bin in Tradmouth. The bin men spotted it when they emptied it. It’s being tested for fingerprints and the blood’s being
matched with the victim’s.’

Carl Pinney looked up at her, suddenly worried. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’ he said with a hint of defiance.

‘Don’t worry. If there’s a connection, we’ll find it,’ she said, glancing at his solicitor who yawned ostentatiously, obviously
wishing he was somewhere else.

‘Piss off,’ said Pinney as he rose from his seat, sending it flying to the floor with a loud crash. The solicitor looked embarrassed
and told him to sit down. He wasn’t doing himself any favours.

Rachel enjoyed reading out the charges. Sometimes job satisfaction was a wonderful thing.

When Wesley and Gerry heard the news about Pinney’s arrest, the DCI observed that the little toe-rag deserved it.
But even with this new link to Simon Tench, somehow neither man could see him as the murderer – particularly with the new
developments up in Chester. And they mustn’t forget the hemlock. The administration of hemlock to paralyse the victims before
they were bled to death showed forward planning and subtlety way beyond the likes of Pinney. The Spider was undoubtedly intelligent
which made him all the more dangerous. And there was no sign of a break-in at any of the murder scenes which meant the victims
probably admitted the killer.

‘So what’s our next move, Wes?’ Heffernan asked as he lolled back in his black leather executive seat, his feet planted firmly
on his desk.

‘I want a word with this housemaster, Mr Dean … and Mr Hedge, the history teacher – the one who’s working at Neil’s dig.’

‘You thinking of those funny letters?’ Heffernan asked as though he’d read Wesley’s mind.

‘I’ll give Neil a ring and see if Hedge is there. We don’t want a wasted journey.’

He made the call but a few minutes later he replaced the receiver, a look of disappointment on his face. ‘Hedge isn’t there
this afternoon – hospital appointment. He’ll be there first thing tomorrow.’

‘I suppose it can wait.’

‘Morbooks,’ Wesley said suddenly.

‘You what?’

‘Morbooks. Mr Dean’s bookshop. Let’s go and have a word with him.’

Gerry Heffernan nodded. For want of any better leads, Mr Dean looked like a good bet. He might be able to throw light on some
event in the past that connected the three victims. ‘Let’s not warn him we’re coming. I’ve come to favour the element of surprise.
If there is something to hide, we don’t want to give him time to concoct a story, do we?’

Wesley couldn’t argue with that. The retired housemaster’s initial reaction to their questions might tell them a lot more than
the answers he gave.

They drove to Morbay via the car ferry that shuttled to and fro across the River Trad. It took a few miles off the journey
and, as the main tourist season wasn’t yet upon them, there wasn’t much of a queue on either side of the river. The roads
leading through Morbay’s outer suburbs to the town centre were congested as usual and Gerry Heffernan muttered under his breath
as he sat in the passenger seat. But when they eventually reached their destination, they found a free parking space just
outside Morbooks which improved the DCI’s temper no end.

The shop stood in one of Morbay’s smarter suburbs – a leafy, hilly area of Victorian villas, near the entrance to Pent’s Cavern
– a labyrinth of prehistoric caves which became a bustling attraction in tourist season. Wesley could see a handful of people
at the Cavern’s ticket office, queuing for admission to the depths below the earth where their distant ancestors toiled with
flint tools. The Cavern’s proximity to Morbooks would, undoubtedly, be good for Mr Dean’s trade.

As Wesley pushed the door open, a bell rang loudly in the bowels of the shop. Bookshops had always held a fascination for
him and once he was inside one, it was very difficult, Pam had often found, to get him out. Near the front of the shop was
a large display of books about Pent’s Cavern and prehistory in general and Wesley couldn’t resist picking up a couple of books
and flicking through their pages. Gerry Heffernan, meanwhile had spotted the Ships and Sailing section and was on his way
to investigate when an elderly man appeared. He was medium height, bald as an egg, and there was a permanent expression of
benevolent surprise on his round face.

‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’ he asked. There was a hint of wariness in his voice, almost as though he’d guessed
they were policemen. Wesley hadn’t thought he was that obvious.

Wesley flashed his ID card and said they were looking for a Mr Dean. The man replied that he was Mortimer Dean and asked how
he could help. He sounded almost eager, playing the good citizen to perfection.