The Blood Pit (37 page)

Neil called in at the dig on Saturday afternoon, just to check that everything was okay. When he arrived he saw no sign of
disturbance. Just an archaeological site with the foundations of a substantial, high-status building, clearly visible now
and laid out before him like a plan in the rough brown earth.

He hadn’t heard a word from Annabel since her despondent call the previous day when she’d reported that the last abbot’s journal
was missing. Someone had taken a contemporary account of life at Veland Abbey from the archives – either that or some wannabe
librarian on work experience had put it in the wrong place. These things happened. But he was still curious. He wanted to know
exactly what had gone on at the seyney house. And whether Brother William had ever actually existed.

He looked around. Everything was ready for an early start on Monday and there was nothing more to do. The powers that be had
declared the training excavation a success, for
which Neil was truly thankful. The archaeological unit’s funding was always a headache and at least the payments from the
trainees had helped to fill the coffers a little as well as spreading the word.

He was just about to leave the site, locking the gate behind him, when his phone rang. He heard Diane’s voice on the other
end of the line and his heart lifted a little. She was asking what he was doing. She was inviting him round. Things were looking
up.

Half an hour later he was at Diane’s door. She lived in a flat on the outskirts of Neston – a slightly rundown Victorian house
with flaking green paint. Cheap and not particularly cheerful.

Diane led Neil to her flat on the first floor which turned out to be more spacious than he had imagined. Diane had tried to
conceal its basic shabbiness, cheering it up with bright Indian throws and wall hangings which, as Neston was known for that
sort of thing, had probably been bought locally.

‘I’ve just been to the dig to check things over,’ Neil said as he made himself comfortable in a sagging armchair.

‘No sign of Lenny?’

Neil shook his head. ‘I reckon we gave him the fright of his life when we turned up that night. He seemed remarkably quiet
yesterday, didn’t he?’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve had another letter.’

Diane began to finger the beads around her neck. ‘What does it say?’

‘It rambles about this monk who lived at Veland Abbey. Brother William. I’ve asked Annabel to go through the archives for any
reference to him but …’

‘But what?’

‘I’m just scared the letters might have something to do with these Spider murders. My mate Wesley’s working on the case –
the victims were left to bleed to death and …’

The colour drained from Diane’s face. ‘But why should the killer write to you?’

‘I was on telly, wasn’t I? I stuck my head above the parapet.’ He paused. ‘Whoever wrote these letters is interested in history.
He knows all about the abbey and the seyney house.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Norman Hedge was a history teacher and he’s
interested in the history of Veland Abbey. He was the first to put his name down for that trip to the abbey ruins next week.’

Diane considered this possibility for a few seconds. ‘You think it could be him?’

‘Probably not. He seems remarkably sane. Lenny’s probably a better bet with all his bronze age ritual stuff. Or is it the
Aztecs?’ Neil said, earning himself a smile. ‘Very big in Devon, the Aztecs.’

Diane sighed. ‘Poor Lenny.’

‘You’re not sorry for him?’

‘Aren’t you? Just a little bit?’ She sat on the arm of Neil’s chair. He could smell her perfume – Patchouli oil, the scent
that was the biggest seller in Neston’s foremost New Age supermarket.

She bent towards him and he reached out to touch her face. Before he knew what was happening they were kissing, tentatively
at first, then with more passion. Diane stood up and held out her hand. Neil took it, clasping her fingers tight, and allowed
himself to be led towards the bedroom.

On the way to Plymouth, Wesley and Heffernan had stopped off at Norman Hedge’s little modern bungalow on the outskirts of Millicombe.
But even though his pale blue Ford Fiesta was parked in the drive, Hedge wasn’t at home – or he wasn’t answering his door.

They gave up and drove to Plymouth. St Giles’ church was easy to find. It was stark and modern – built in the architectural
nadir of the 1960s – as was the church hall
attached to it. Saturday was the day St Giles’ church entertained the homeless and there seemed to be rather a lot of them, Wesley
noted with a little sadness. A local doctor had come along to give medical treatment and advice in one of the small offices
off the main hall and there was a long queue for his services. Brother Francis was doling out bread and steaming soup with
the parish priest, exchanging a few words with the men as they collected their food, asking how they were and generally exuding
sympathy.

Brother Francis looked the part. Tall and thin with the long, sensitive pale face of the ascetic scholar, he wore a small
neat beard. He could have come from any century in his dark monk’s habit. But his surroundings were firmly rooted in the present
day.

Wesley felt awkward standing there watching the gaggle of men – and a few women – who were lining up so patiently for their
humble meal. He knew that a good proportion of them would have seen the inside of a prison at some time in their life and
he also knew that they’d probably consider him as an enemy. A representative of the society that had rejected them and kicked
them in the teeth.

He waited patiently until the queue had dwindled, Gerry Heffernan standing silently at his side. ‘Poor sods,’ was his only
comment. Unlike many in CID, Wesley had always known that the boss had a marshmallow heart.

Brother Francis looked wary as they approached. If he worked with the homeless, he was probably used to the police coming
to call. And ready to leap to the defence of the underdog.

Wesley showed his ID discreetly, not wanting to cause alarm. ‘Brother Francis?’

The monk nodded.

Wesley smiled sweetly. ‘We’re sorry to bother you. Very good work you’re doing here.’

‘Very necessary work, Inspector … unfortunately. How
can I help you?’ There was still some wariness there, despite Wesley’s best efforts to appear sympathetic and unthreatening.

‘I believe you received an e-mail recently from a gentleman called Mortimer Dean.’ It was a statement not a question.

Brother Francis nodded. ‘That’s right. Mortimer was my teacher. My housemaster in fact. We’ve kept in touch over the years
and …’

‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. Mr Dean was found dead yesterday morning. I’m very sorry.’ Wesley bowed his head – he
thought it was appropriate – while Gerry Heffernan looked on, solemn as an undertaker.

Brother Francis made the sign of the cross and mumbled a prayer. When he’d finished he looked up. ‘How did he die? Was it a
heart attack? A stroke?’

Wesley glanced at his boss and knew that it was up to him to do the talking. ‘At first we thought he might have taken his
own life …’

Brother Francis looked horrified. ‘I can’t believe that. Mortimer had no reason to kill himself.’

‘But now we think there’s a possibility he might have been murdered.’ Wesley watched the monk’s face. There was a flicker of
horror there, swiftly suppressed.

‘Nobody would want to kill Mortimer. He had no enemies. He was a retired schoolmaster who ran a bookshop – an inoffensive man.
Well liked.’

‘You don’t know how he died yet,’ Heffernan observed, neglecting to add that they didn’t either. All they had was guesswork
until Colin Bowman received the toxicology report he was waiting for. ‘For all you know he could have just been in the wrong
place at the wrong time – a stranger could have killed him in the course of a robbery – nothing to do with his personality
at all.’

Brother Francis swallowed hard. ‘How did he die then?’

‘We think he was poisoned.’

Brother Francis looked stunned. ‘I can’t believe it. He must have taken something by accident. Nobody would want to harm Mortimer,’
he reiterated. But he looked a little less sure of himself now.

‘He mentioned someone in his e-mail – our friend. Who was he talking about?’

The monk turned pale and his eyes widened in alarm. ‘I … I …’

Wesley could almost see his brain working, trying to get out of answering the question without actually committing the sin
of lying. ‘Well?’ he prompted.

‘It was just someone Mortimer helped once a long time ago, that’s all. It can’t possibly have anything to do with his death.’
He pressed his lips together. That was all he was prepared to say on the subject.

Wesley tried a fresh approach. ‘Did you know Charles Marrick?’

The monk looked wary. ‘Yes. We were at Belsinger together.’

‘What about Simon Tench and Christopher Grisham?’

‘Likewise. We were all in Tavistock House.’

‘You’ll know they’re all dead. Murdered by the same person. The papers are calling the killer the Spider.’

‘I had heard, yes.’ He shook his head, a look of genuine sadness on his face. ‘Terrible.’

‘The only thing the victims seemed to have in common was Belsinger School … and Tavistock House in particular. Unless you
can think of anything else …’ Wesley looked at him expectantly but the only reply was a shake of the head.

‘Can you think of anyone who’d want these men dead?’ Heffernan asked bluntly. ‘Anyone who had a grudge against them? Anything
they’d done during their time at school or after they left?’

‘I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, Chief Inspector … or pass judgement on my fellow man, but Charles Marrick wasn’t
– how shall I put it – a good influence.’

Wesley picked up on the carefully phrased reply. ‘But he was an influence? He was the sort of boy others followed?’

‘Ever read
Lord of the Flies
, Inspector?’

Wesley nodded. He’d read William Golding’s novel about the primitive nature of boys left to their own devices pretty early
on in his school career.

‘It’s often the strongest who become the natural leaders, not the most virtuous. The Devil works very efficiently in the hearts
of men, Inspector. Boys admired Marrick. They looked up to him.’

‘And you?’

‘I discovered the nature of the beast pretty early on. In spite of my calling, I’ve rarely encounter real evil. But there
were times I thought I saw it in Marrick.’

‘So you can understand why someone would want to kill him?’

‘He must have hurt a lot of people in the course of his life. Perhaps he pushed someone too far. But we have to understand
what made him like that. His parents divorced when he was young and he was rejected by …’

Gerry Heffernan rolled his eyes. He was a churchgoer himself but sometimes he found conspicuous virtue rather irritating.
‘Oh please. Don’t make excuses for him. What about the other two – Tench and Grisham? What were they like?’

‘Just ordinary boys … like myself I suppose.’

‘So who’d want them dead?’

Brother Francis said nothing for a few moments. Then he shook his head. But something in his eyes told Wesley that he knew
more than he was admitting. A gaggle of scruffily dressed men had just entered the hall and were making their way towards
the soup like lions approaching a water hole.

‘I’m sorry, gentlemen. I’ve told you all I can,’ Brother Francis said as he stirred the blood-red tomato soup, ready to ladle
it into the bowls that stood stacked at his side.

Wesley and Heffernan knew they weren’t going to learn any more so they thanked him and left. At least they knew where to find
him.

As they walked to the car, Wesley had the feeling that something Brother Francis had told them was very relevant to the case.
Maybe it was just something small he’d said, a passing comment. When Gerry Heffernan asked him what was on his mind, he didn’t
answer. He was trying to think.

Neil Watson had never been able to sleep during the day. And even if he’d had that happy ability, he rarely had the opportunity.
So after he and Diane had made love, he lay awake, watching her sleep, listening to the soft sound of her breathing and wondering
what had brought about his sudden rush of good fortune.

He didn’t really know much about Diane, apart from the fact she had studied archaeology at Reading University. But it was
early days. They had all the time in the world. If they felt so inclined.

As he lay there restless, perhaps even a little bored, he began to think of all the things he should be catching up with on
a Saturday: shopping for the bare essentials; tidying up his flat so that it was fit for human habitation. He remembered the
remains of last night’s takeaway were still lying strewn on his coffee table but he supposed they could stay there another
day.

Careful not to disturb Diane, he slid out of bed and crept across the bedroom on tiptoe, towards the chair where his clothes
lay in an untidy heap. As he dressed, it struck him for the first time that perhaps his afternoon liaison had been a little
unwise. He and Diane were colleagues – they were contracted to work together on the training dig all summer and if it didn’t
work out between them, things might be embarrassing at best and distinctly unpleasant at worst. He had always thought it a
mistake to mix business with pleasure but
there had been a few occasions when he’d broken his own rules – usually with disastrous consequences.

He let himself out of the room. He needed coffee – something to clear his head – and once he’d put the kettle on, he flopped
down on the sofa and picked up that day’s newspaper. He didn’t often have a chance to catch up with the news so he settled
down to indulge himself until Diane woke up and joined him.

He glanced at the door, a sudden feeling of panic rising in his stomach. What if Diane expected more from the relationship
than he was willing to give? But he tried to put the thought from his mind and flicked through the paper, his mind only half
on what he read.

After a while, bored with the news, he stood up and wandered over to the tall bookcase in the corner of the room. You can tell
a lot about people from the books they keep, he thought. He’d said that to Pam Peterson – or Stannard as she’d been back then
– when they’d first met. But, being a student of English, Pam’s selection of reading matter had been spot on. It was just
a pity he’d been too lazy at the time to pursue the relationship and allowed his housemate, Wesley, to get there first. There
had been times when Neil lay awake in the small hours, wondering how things would have worked out if he’d been more assertive.
But then living with an archaeologist was probably as bad as living with a policeman as far as dedication to work was concerned,
so Pam wouldn’t necessarily have been any better off.