The Blood Pit (30 page)

‘We’d like to talk to you about some of your former pupils at Belsinger School. We understand that you were in charge of Tavistock
House.’

There was no mistaking it. The man looked worried. ‘Yes, I was housemaster at Tavistock.’

‘You’ll have heard that two of your former pupils have been murdered recently.’ It was a statement, not a question. He glanced
at Gerry Heffernan who was watching the former teacher as a cat watches a mouse.

‘Yes. Tragic. Such a waste.’

‘You knew the victims well?’

Dean shuffled his feet and looked round, uncomfortable. A customer brought a book to the till and Dean served him eagerly,
almost as though he was glad of the breathing space.

‘Well,’ he began as soon as the customer had left the shop, ‘I knew Simon Tench – very bright lad – he moved on to St Peter’s
School for the sixth form, of course, due to family circumstances. He was a nice boy. Great shame about …’ He hesitated for
a few moments. ‘The other one – Charles Marrick – wasn’t an easy boy to communicate with. He left us after his GCSEs. Not
an academic.’

‘I had the impression there was more to it than that.’

Dean looked flustered. ‘Oh dear. I never like to speak ill of former pupils …’

Wesley smiled to put the man at his ease. ‘It would help us a lot if you did.’ He paused. ‘A man called Christopher Grisham
was found dead up in Chester in very similar circumstances.’

The colour drained from Dean’s face and he put out a
hand to steady himself. ‘No. Not Chris. He was … He was a lovely boy … as was Simon. Who on earth would want to kill him …
or Simon? They were …’

‘I notice you’re not including Charles Marrick in your eulogy,’ Wesley said, glancing at the DCI who was listening intently.

Dean swallowed hard. He looked as though he were about to burst into tears. ‘Marrick was a nasty piece of work,’ he hissed.
‘When I heard he owned a successful wine business and had a big house in Rhode, my only thought was that the Devil looks after
his own. He was trouble from the moment he started at Belsinger. If I’d had my way, he would have been expelled but the headmaster
– the last one, not the present one, of course – wouldn’t hear of it for some reason. Maybe that’s why Marrick thought he
could get away with …’ He stopped in mid-sentence.

‘Get away with what?’ Heffernan asked. This was getting interesting.

Another shake of the head. ‘He got away with a lot of things, that’s all.’

‘Some of them criminal?’ Wesley felt that if he kept pushing, he might just get at the truth.

But Dean had closed his lips in a stubborn line. He wasn’t talking. Not yet at any rate.

Wesley leaned forward. ‘I can’t understand why you’re shielding him, Mr Dean. He’s dead and we’re trying to catch his killer.
And the killer of two other men who, according to you, were innocent of any wrongdoing. Or were they, Mr Dean?’

He paused to give the man a chance to reply but Dean remained silent.

‘Were the three victims friendly at all? Did they ever hang round together?’

‘Children’s friendships can ebb and flow, Inspector. Today’s bosom friend is tomorrow’s casual acquaintance and vice
versa. I really can’t be sure whether this particular trio were friendly at any particular time.’

Wesley was sure he was lying. He knew all right. But for some reason he didn’t want to say. And Wesley wondered why.

Gerry Heffernan was growing impatient. ‘Look, we’re trying to find out who killed your former pupils. What are you trying
to hide? Are you shielding someone? Another of your ex-pupils maybe?’

Wesley watched the man’s face but he was giving nothing away. However, he suspected Gerry had touched a nerve. There was no
doubt Dean was hiding something. But what and why, he had no idea.

Then he had a sudden thought. ‘The last headmaster – is he still alive?’

‘No. He passed away shortly after he retired.’

‘How did he die?’

This time Dean’s face clouded. He swallowed hard. ‘I’m afraid Mr Hadderson took his own life. He cut his throat.’

Gerry Heffernan caught Wesley’s eye. ‘Did he have any family?’

Dean shook his head. ‘No. He never married.’

‘Brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces?’

Another shake of the head. ‘Not that I know of.’

It was Wesley who asked the next question. ‘Any lovers, male or female? Any close friends?’

Dean’s face reddened. ‘I … Well there was Norman Hedge.’

‘Lover or friend?’

‘That really isn’t for me to say,’ Dean replied, coy as a maiden aunt.

‘Dr Wynn mentioned a Mr Hedge who taught history. He said he was taking part in a local excavation.’ He looked Dean in the
eye. ‘I presume this is the same Mr Hedge?’

‘That’ll be Norman. Yes.’ He looked worried. ‘If you think
he might be a suspect, you’re mistaken. Norman wouldn’t hurt a fly. He …’

‘That’s as may be, Mr Dean,’ said Wesley smoothly. ‘But we still need to speak to him.’ He caught Gerry Heffernan’s eye. They’d
learned all they could for now and pressing Dean further might be counterproductive. They’d call back soon. Besides, Wesley
wanted to look at the postmortem report on Belsinger’s former headmaster, Stanley Hadderson. He was wondering if there might
have been more to the apparent suicide than met the eye. If the wounds on his throat were the same as those on the recent
victims, it would open up a whole new set of possibilities.

Wesley took his leave, saying they’d call again, but trying to make the words sound as unthreatening as possible. If they
were to get the full story out of Mortimer Dean, they needed him in a co-operative frame of mind.

But as soon as they’d left the shop, Dean turned the sign hanging on the door round to ‘closed’ and rushed to the back office.

He took a deep breath before switching on his computer. Like the police, he needed to know the truth.

When I discovered the truth about Brother William it just seemed right to link it to my own story. We’re the same, Brother
William and I.

Perhaps I’m growing tired of this blood game. But I can’t tell you what it all means. You’ll have to find that out for yourself,
Neil. Think of it as a test.

It was time to go back … and to pick up the local evening paper on the way. The writer needed to find out how much the police
knew. With DNA testing available, they could do wonders these days and it surely wouldn’t be long before they discovered his
identity.

But would they make the connection? Probably not. The only way they could find out the truth was if a confession was made.

Perhaps I shouldn’t tell. Perhaps it would bring nothing but misery. But I know I can’t keep it a secret much longer. I know
I deserve punishment for what I did. Maybe I deserve death.

The urge to tell the truth was overwhelming. But why Neil Watson had been selected as Father Confessor, the writer wasn’t sure.
Perhaps he’d just looked as though he might understand.

*

Wesley arrived home at seven thirty and Pam rushed to greet him as soon as she heard his key in the door. She’d had a tough
day at school. And besides, she hadn’t seen her husband since he’d set off early the day before, bound for Chester and a night
at some anonymous small hotel. Pam was surprised at how much she had missed him. She wanted to see him – almost as much as
she had back in those heady days when they’d first met.

As soon as he walked in through the door, he kissed her and asked how the children were. They were fine, she said. No problems.
They were both in bed. Michael was reading and Amelia had fallen asleep immediately, exhausted by her day at the nursery. As
if on cue, Michael appeared at the top of the stairs, a book clutched in his hand. Could Daddy read some of it with him?

Wesley ignored his growling stomach and hurried upstairs to do his fatherly duty and when he came down half an hour later,
he found Pam slumped in front of the television, watching a cookery programme, too tired to do anything but lift her head
and tell him that his dinner was in the microwave and suggest that he bring it in on a tray so they could catch up.

With the TV chefs chattering in the background, Pam launched into an account of the hellish couple of days she’d had while
he’d been away. Her mother had deigned to stay last night but she’d expected to be waited on hand and foot and hadn’t seemed
in the least bit repentant about letting them down on the night of their anniversary. At work the headmistress was being a
bitch to one of the classroom assistants, one of the other teachers was on the point of a nervous breakdown, and to top this
she was going to have to spend most of next weekend doing pointless paperwork. Wesley put his arm around her. He sympathised
– the police force was exactly the same. Perhaps, he said whimsically, there’d be a revolution soon – towering
bonfires of forms and paperwork on the corner of each street. Beacons of freedom.

Wesley’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice coming from the television. He’d been about to
go to the kitchen to fetch his dinner but instead he shuffled forward in his seat and searched for the remote control to increase
the volume.

Fabrice Colbert was setting fire to something rich and creamy in a frying pan after pouring brandy all over it. It was a theatrical
performance that had little to do with the kind of cooking that goes on in ninety-nine per cent of homes. But that was what
Colbert’s diners paid good money for.

‘Wish you could cook like that.’ Pam reached across and gave her husband a playful push.

‘Mmm.’ Wesley listened for a few moments to Colbert’s – or rather Collins’s – mock French accent and gave a derisory snort. ‘Do
you know his real name’s Darren Collins and he’s as French as I am? Comes from London. It’s all an act.’

Pam raised her eyebrows in disbelief then she started to laugh. ‘You’d never guess. He’s got it off pat, hasn’t he?’

Wesley had seen more than enough of Darren Collins over the past week or so and he was about to turn down the volume when
something on the screen caught his eye. Behind the chef there was a banner anonouncing ‘The Best Food Show – fifteenth to
the nineteenth of June. Chester Pavilion’. His heart started beating more rapidly. Christopher Grisham had died on the sixteenth
of June. Collins had been in Chester when he died. In fact he hadn’t a believable alibi for any of the Spider murders. And
a chef of his ability would know all about hemlock – if only to recognise the leaves of the wild variety and know that it
wasn’t wise to add them to a salad.

‘What’s the matter?’ Pam asked.

He stood up. ‘I’ve got to ring Gerry.’

‘Are you two joined at the hip or something? You see him all day.’

Wesley realised that this would have to be done tactfully. ‘I won’t be long and I promise I’ll try to make it to Maritia’s
next Sunday for lunch. That friend of Mark’s will be there, won’t he … Jonathan?’

Pam recognised a repentant husband when she saw one but this wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

‘I’ll have a lot of work to do for Monday,’ Pam said quickly. ‘I’m sure Maritia won’t mind if we can’t make it. She’ll understand.’

Wesley shrugged. Pam had a point.

After he’d eaten his dinner and switched the dishwasher on, he sneaked into the hall to call Gerry Heffernan. Perhaps it was
time they had another word with their favourite celebrity chef. And if they could find that he had some connection with Belsinger
School, so much the better.

It had started to rain in Morbay. It often rained, giving the lie to those posters back in the 1930s that boasted of the resort’s
sand, sea, sun and smiling, swimsuited beauties.

The pavements near Morbooks glistened in the feeble yellow streetlights. It was dark now. Evening. And Mortimer Dean had finished
his meal and cleared away. He lived over the shop. He liked it that way. He loved his books as he’d loved his charges back
at Tavistock House. His books were his children now and they didn’t answer back. Or make trouble like Charles Marrick had
done. Books were perfect companions.

He’d laid out biscuits on a plate in the kitchen, ready for his visitor. Chocolate biscuits of course. The very best. He didn’t
entertain that often. He had taken four pairs of glasses from the cupboard – two sherry, two wine, two spirits and two beer.
He really had no idea what his visitor would like to drink. He had also filled the kettle in case tea or coffee was required,
covering all eventualities.

He looked at his watch and had a final tidy round, realising
that he’d become so used to solitude that a simple visit now filled him with panic. Once he’d taken entertaining in his stride
– in his years at Belsinger the senior boys in Tavistock House and his fellow masters would often drop in for tea and chatter.
But those days were long gone – a distant memory. Dean examined his reflection in the large mirror hanging above a mahogany
sideboard too big for the room. He was getting old. A step nearer death every day. But at least he had his books.

When the doorbell rang he adjusted his bow tie in the mirror, hurried down the stairs and fixed a smile to his face as he
undid the lock.

Friday dawned bright and sunny. And the sun had brought out the weekend sailors on the River Trad, escaped from the confines
of their city offices a day early to make the most of their precious leisure time in their Devon retreats.

Even though the killer everyone was calling the Spider was still at large and the skeleton in the woods remained unidentified,
Wesley felt remarkably cheerful. Although one look at Gerry Heffernan’s face told him that the DCI didn’t share his good spirits.

‘Something the matter?’ He felt he knew Gerry Heffernan well enough by now to do a little prying.

Heffernan sat at his desk, turning a cheap plastic pen over and over in his fingers. ‘Joyce’s mum was rushed to hospital yesterday.
Suspected stroke. Joyce rang me last night – she was in a bit of a state so I went round.’ He looked up. ‘It doesn’t look
good, Wes.’