The Blood Pit (8 page)

As Steve arrived outside Burton’s Butties he could see his father through the plate-glass window, standing in front of the
empty shelves, talking to one of the young female assistants. His body language signalled that the conversation wasn’t
only concerned with business matters and Steve watched him for a while, his heart numb. Then he knocked on the window and
his father looked round guiltily, as though he’d been caught committing some crime. But the guilt only lasted a split second.
A casual smile was swiftly plastered on his face as he raised his hand in greeting.

‘Hello, son,’ said Robbie Carstairs as he opened the shop door. ‘Good to see you. Come in, come in.’

Steve stepped inside, his heart thumping. He didn’t know why he felt nervous. It wasn’t like him at all.

Robbie nodded towards the young woman. She was around Steve’s own age or maybe a little younger; a natural blonde – or at least
that’s how it looked – with delicate features and bright blue eyes. Her hair was scraped back into a ponytail, giving her
a startled look.

‘This is Joanne,’ Robbie said, giving the young woman an appreciative glance. ‘She started working for us a couple of weeks
back, didn’t you, my love? This is my lad, Steve, I was telling you about.’

Steve smiled at her and she smiled back. ‘Your dad says you’re a policeman.’

Steve shuffled his feet nervously. There was no way he was going to admit to his suspension in front of a desirable female.
He had his image to think of and she was good looking – just his type. He straightened his shoulders. ‘That’s right, love.
I’ve not seen you round Tradmouth before … I would have remembered.’

She looked him in the eye as though she knew a clumsy chat-up line when she heard it. ‘I only moved down here from Bristol
a few weeks ago. And I don’t make a habit of getting arrested so you won’t have met me at work.’

Steve liked her style. And the challenge in her eyes. He glanced at his father who was looking on approvingly. Maybe he hadn’t
been interested after all. ‘You been to Morbay yet? If you’re not doing anything on Saturday night …’

Joanne picked up her handbag which was lying on the counter. ‘Okay. You’re on. Give us a ring. Your dad’s got my number.’ She
turned to Robbie. ‘Got to go. See you tomorrow.’

As she let herself out of the shop, Steve watched her with approval. Maybe things weren’t all bad.

After Robbie had checked all was as it should be, he set the burglar alarm and locked up the shop. And as Steve walked with
his new-found father to the Tradmouth Arms for a swift after-work pint, he decided not to mention the trouble he was in at
work just yet. Why spoil things?

Wesley Peterson looked at his watch. Six o’clock.

The strange letter Neil had received was lying there on his desk beside a pile of witness statements and as he picked it up
and read it through again, the mention of bleeding reminded him once more of Charles Marrick’s murder. Surely there couldn’t
be a connection. And yet the remote possibility provided him with an excuse not to dismiss it out of hand. He bagged it up
to be sent to the lab … just in case.

Carl Pinney’s knife was also on its way to the lab. It was a long shot but it was stained with something that could be blood
and Pinney had claimed that he’d found it a short time before his abortive attempt to rob Steve Carstairs. There was a possibility
that he was telling the truth. Or that he was trying to disclaim ownership for some reason … maybe because he knew exactly
how the blood had got there. The knife fitted Colin Bowman’s description of the weapon that had killed Charles Marrick, but
Wesley found it hard to believe that Marrick wouldn’t put up one hell of a fight if the likes of Pinney came at him with a
knife.

They were still awaiting the statements from Fabrice Colbert’s staff but the chef had seemed confident that they’d back up
his story. Wesley had a vague feeling that Colbert, who had a good reason to hate Charles Marrick, and had access to all those
sharp knives, was hiding something. But
it was only a feeling. A gut instinct. And he’d been in the job long enough to know that you shouldn’t ignore such things.

Wesley stood up and reached for his jacket. His sister, Maritia, and her husband of almost a year, Mark, were eating with
them that evening and Pam would be wondering what was keeping him. He thought of the hotel booking he’d made for their wedding
anniversary on Saturday night and smiled to himself before looking through the list he had made of tomorrow’s tasks. But as
he made for the door, he knew there was something he was missing … if only he had time to think what it was.

Neil Watson was working late. The amateur diggers had knocked off at five, some keen to go, some reluctant, and now he was
left with a couple of colleagues to clear up and make a quick assessment of that day’s finds. Neil sat in the cow shed cum
site office, surrounded by black plastic buckets, trowels, mattocks and kneeling mats, staring at the stack of trays containing
finds to be processed and washed.

There had been one particularly interesting artefact – a small, thin piece of corroded metal, not much larger than a pen,
encased in rust and earth. Neil had sent it off to be x-rayed, hoping that it might confirm his suspicions about the use of
the site. A picture of Stow Barton’s past was starting to form in his mind, hazy and incomplete. But perhaps the letter was
sending his thoughts in the wrong direction completely. He had to keep an open mind and follow the available evidence.

The papers in front of him were smeared with mud – it was hard to keep the stuff out – and Neil searched through them, looking
for the list of diggers. When he eventually found it, he stared at the names, wondering if one of them could be his mysterious
letter writer.

There were two professional archaeologists apart from
himself – Diane Lowe and Barbara Smith. Then there were ten students working on the site, all of whom seemed to fit the profile
of the species – more interested in drink, food and sex than tormenting the project supervisor with tales of monks and blood.
There were two retired people – Muriel and Norman – who were taking part out of genuine interest and somehow didn’t seem the
anonymous letter type. Muriel was a retired nurse and Norman had been a history teacher at some public school near Littlebury
on the coast beyond Millicombe – nice professional people. Then there was a middle-aged housewife who was intending to study
archaeology as a mature student. And there was Lenny.

Lenny was what Neil’s mother would have described as a free spirit. He’d been everywhere. Done everything. Travelled in South
America, joined a New Age commune in Neston, worked in a variety of jobs and had even had a book published. In Neil’s opinion,
Lenny thought he knew it all and came out with some absolute crap with the certainty of holy writ. According to Lenny, Neil
had got the site all wrong. It was on a ley line and the fact the building they were excavating was on a raised mound meant
that it was a burial mound – an ancient ritual site, possibly linked with druid sacrifice.

As the man was paying for the privilege of taking part in the dig, Neil had used all the tact he could muster to point out
that the raised ground was a geological feature rather than a burial mound. But, in the face of the man’s determination, he
didn’t bother to correct him a second time. Lenny also hadn’t liked the idea of the site being monastic – his preference being
a hefty dose of pre-Christian mysticism.

His thoughts were interrupted by a rustling sound, the movement of someone wearing a cagoule against the unpredictable Devon
summer. ‘Neil. Can I have a word?’

He looked up and saw his second-in-command on the
project, Diane Lowe, looking at him expectantly. She was small with curly dark hair and Neil had noticed that she was pretty.

He pushed his list to one side and stood up. ‘Yeah, of course. What is it?’

‘Barbara’s gone home. She’s not feeling well.’

Barbara was the other qualified archaeologist on the team, a quiet woman, introspective and intense, who didn’t talk much
to the paying volunteers. He was afraid he’d made a mistake taking her on without an interview but he was new to this game.
Dealing with the public was an unknown country … to be explored carefully and full of pitfalls and snares for the unwary.

‘Right,’ Neil said. ‘Everything cleared up out there?’

‘Yes.’ Diane hesitated for a moment. Neil could tell by the look on her face that she had something out of the ordinary to
report. ‘Could you have a look at something in trench three? I’d like your opinion.’

Neil followed her out into the open air. It was starting to drizzle, a fine, soft mist, but he didn’t bother about going back
for something waterproof. Trench three was on the edge of the site. The sort of place a midden would be found filled with discarded
rubbish. Archaeologists can discover an awful lot through examining the rubbish of previous generations and Neil had located
the trench carefully. So far it had yielded a good harvest in the form of animal bones, oyster shells and broken medieval
pottery. Today it had been extended and Diane led him to this new area.

‘What do you make of that?’ She pointed to a circle of rough stones, about two feet across. ‘I thought it was some sort of
well at first but the deposits inside seem all wrong.’ The earth inside the circle was a deep reddish brown, almost black,
contrasting with the rich pink earth in the rest of the trench.

Neil squatted down and studied it for a few moments.
‘Haven’t a clue. Too small for a filled in well and it doesn’t really look like burning or a post hole, does it?’

‘It’s on the edge of the site near the midden. Could it be some kind of pit they used to dispose of waste from some industrial
process or …’ Diane suggested nervously, as though she wasn’t sure of herself.

‘Got a trowel?’

Diane produced one from the pocket of her cagoule. It was a large, kangaroo-style pocket which held a multitude of items.
Neil took the trowel and traced around the edge of the circle. Then he started to scrape away the soil very carefully. But
after a while he stopped. ‘It seems to go down a fair way. I think you should record it first thing and then you and Barbara
can dig further down tomorrow. Get Muriel and Norman to help.’

‘Lenny was working in this trench.’

‘Not Lenny,’ Neil said quickly. ‘Put him in trench one.’

Diane raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re the boss.’

Neil didn’t feel like making explanations – he wasn’t really sure why he’d made the decision to exclude Lenny from this new
find himself. Until now he’d hardly dared to acknowledge his suspicion that Lenny might be the author of his strange letter.
It was just his style. Dramatic. Self-important.

And if the pit was what Neil suspected it was, he didn’t want Lenny anywhere near it.

Without further discussion he helped Diane cover the open trenches with plastic sheeting to keep the rain out before climbing
into his Mini and heading back home.

Wesley woke up early. Five thirty. It wasn’t often he surfaced before the children but today the sound of the milkman clattering
the bottles by the front door disturbed him and he lay there thinking, his mind too active to return to sleep.

The previous evening, Maritia and Mark had called round
for a meal – a lasagne Pam had made during the school holidays and stored in the freezer for just such an occasion. But Wesley
hadn’t been able to give the family reunion his undivided attention. He had the murder of Charles Marrick on his mind, waking
and sleeping. He’d even dreamed about it – seeing the dead man grinning at him, blood gushing like a fountain from his throat.

At six thirty Wesley climbed out of bed and went downstairs to make a pot of tea and some toast. By the time he was creeping
upstairs with the tray, the children had started to wake, Michael emerging from his bedroom in his Bob the Builder pyjamas
wiping the sleep from his eyes.

All peace gone, they had breakfast as best they could and Wesley left the house just before eight, kissing Pam, who was still
half asleep. He’d promised Gerry Heffernan he’d call in on the way to work to go through what they had so far away from the
pressure of the incident room. It would help to retrace their steps. To see whether there was anything they were missing.

It was raining so he zipped up the Berghaus coat he wore over his suit. The sky was steel grey and the rain looked set in for
the day, but here on the coast you could never really tell for sure. Weather here changed like the expressions on a child’s
face. From sadness to joy. From rain to bright sunshine.

The wet pavements glistened as he made his way downhill to the centre of the town. He could see the river ahead of him. Some
intrepid sailors were already out on the water and the ferries were scuttling to and fro from one bank to the other. Queenswear
rose up on the opposite bank, a town of pastel-painted toy houses clinging to the steep hill. The sight of it and the view
over Tradmouth’s crazy scrum of rooftops lifted his spirits. But he knew that even here there was evil. Evil that could pierce
a man’s throat and leave him to bleed to death, helpless and alone.

He took the short cut to Gerry’s house on Baynard’s Quay, down narrow flights of steps between the huddled shops and houses.
As he passed the Tradmouth Arms an impudent sea gull landed near his feet. He ignored the creature and made straight for Gerry’s
front door, the salty scent of seaweed in his nostrils. The quay was quiet at this time of day. If the weather cleared up
later on, it would be filled with tourists drinking
al fresco
outside the Tradmouth Arms from plastic glasses.

The door of Number One Baynard’s Quay, a cottage that leaned against its more impressive neighbours like a sleepy child, was
opened by Sam Heffernan who greeted him with a wide grin.

‘Wes. Good to see you. How are you doing?’ The young man, having spent the last few years at Liverpool University, had acquired
a faint Liverpool accent like his father’s. He was tall with dark hair, newly shorn for his entry into the world of full-time
employment. He stood aside to let Wesley in.