The Bone Garden (23 page)

‘Contrary to popular rumour, he wasn’t one of my collars … before my time. Hey, that’s a good picture,’ he said as a well-defined
colour photograph appeared on the screen. ‘What does it say underneath?’

Wesley stared at the picture; a graduation photograph, complete with cap, gown and diploma, the subject beaming proudly at
the camera. Heffernan leaned over Wesley’s shoulder to read the text underneath. Michael Patrick Thoresby, aged twenty-four.
He read on: address; occupation; last seen; height; blood group.

‘It’s not him,’ Wesley stated softly. On closer inspection the
image looked nothing like John Jones. And Colin Bowman’s report had said that the dead man was two inches taller; and he was
blood group O whereas Thoresby was group A. Wesley sighed. Back to square one.

‘Any other likely missing persons?’ asked Heffernan in quiet desperation.

Wesley shook his head. ‘Nobody who matches the description. But our mystery man’s picture has been sent out to all forces,
so we’re bound to get some feedback sooner or later. He can’t have just landed here from Mars; someone must know him. As John
Donne said, no man is an island.’

‘Who?’

‘John Donne, the poet.’

The chief inspector chuckled. ‘I thought you were talking about John Dun, who I put away for five years for armed robbery
… hardly one to come over all poetic. And talking of poetry, I was thinking that it might be worth having a word with that
Jacintha woman, the poet in residence. She seems to float around Earlsacre, and it’s always possible she’s picked up some
interesting snippets of information on her travels. And I reckon she was the long-haired woman Willerby was talking to before
the cricket match.’

‘It’s possible. She seems to get everywhere. And I suspect that everyone thinks she’s a bit batty so they might be off their
guard when she’s around.’

‘And is she batty?’

‘I really couldn’t say. But apart from the poetry – which Neil tells me is pretty dire – it seems that her favourite hobby
is chasing the male of the species. Charles Pitaway was trying to avoid her at the cricket match. And she seems to have Jake
in her clutches.’

‘What a woman. Why don’t I meet anyone like that?’

‘It looks like she goes for younger men,’ said Wesley with a grin.

‘Can’t win ’em all. Fancy a trip into Tradmouth?’

‘What for?’

‘Remember I saw Brian Willerby going into that house opposite the church when I was on my way back from choir practice on
Friday night?’

Wesley nodded.

‘I think it might be worth paying whoever lives there a visit, don’t you?’

Wesley couldn’t argue with that. In fact the thought had been at the
back of his own mind, but he had been too preoccupied to do anything about it.

It took them twenty minutes to drive down the narrow winding lanes that led to the main road into Tradmouth. The ancient port
hadn’t been developed with the car in mind, so Wesley parked in the police station carpark and they walked past the memorial
park, through the shop-lined streets and up a steep, cobbled alleyway to the medieval church of St Margaret. The exercise,
Wesley thought, would do them both good.

When they reached Church View, Gerry Heffernan didn’t hesitate. He marched up to the glossy black front door of number seven,
raised the polished brass lion’s-head in the centre of the door and brought it down with a crash three times. ‘That should
wake ’em,’ he mumbled.

They could hear shuffling from within, then bolts being drawn back. Whoever lived at number seven had either been reading
the constabulary’s home security leaflets or had something to keep from the outside world.

For some reason Wesley had been expecting the door to be opened by a nervous old-age pensioner, so he and Heffernan were quite
unprepared for the reality. A beautiful young woman of slightly oriental appearance stood before them in a red silk kimono,
her slender arms holding the edges of the embroidered garment together for decency’s sake.

She was the lucky owner of creamy skin and hair like black spun satin. Somehow her exotic loveliness seemed out of place in
Church View, Tradmouth. The two policemen stood on the pavement for a few seconds gawping. Until Wesley realised that it was
up to him to do the talking: he produced his warrant card and took a deep breath.

‘Sorry to bother you, madam, but I wonder if you know a Brian Willerby. He is … was a solicitor with an office in the High
Street. He was seen calling at this address last Friday evening.’

The young woman looked them up and down for a few seconds, then gave Wesley a shy smile. ‘You’d better come inside,’ she said
with a soft, accentless voice, stepping aside to let them in. ‘Wait in there, please,’ she said, indicating a door to the
left. ‘I’ll get Carlotta.’

She disappeared, and Wesley opened the door. The room was small but sumptuous with a profusion of red velvet and gold sofas,
like quicksand, and a scarlet-draped divan in the corner, tented with rich fabrics like something out of a sultan’s harem.

‘Pam would say this looks like a tart’s boudoir,’ said Wesley, looking round, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

‘Then she’d be remarkably accurate, Wes, because that’s exactly what it is.’ Heffernan paused to watch Wesley’s reaction.
‘I haven’t come across old Carlotta for a few years,’ he continued. ‘And she’s kept very quiet about this place. Talk about
discreet – even our lot haven’t had wind of it. I reckon this must be an upmarket offshoot of her place in Morbay.’

‘You mean she’s a madam and that girl’s one of her …’

‘That’s right, Wes. The oldest profession. Don’t look so surprised. Sex isn’t confined to Greater London, you know.’

‘I never thought it was.’ Wesley grinned. ‘So Brian Willerby paid for his pleasures?’

‘Paid through the nose, I should think. Girls like that one don’t come cheap … so I’ve heard.’

The door opened and a tall, elegant woman entered. Wesley guessed that she must be nearing sixty. She had an immaculate blue-rinsed
coiffure and wore a businesslike blue suit of the type worn by Margaret Thatcher in her days of power. She would have looked
comfortable serving on the committee of any Conservative club in the land. Respectability oozed from every pore. Wesley wondered
what she was doing in such an establishment. Selling raffle tickets for party funds perhaps?

‘Hello, Carlotta. Still up to your old tricks?’

‘Gerry Heffernan. Long time no see. How are you keeping? And who’s your friend?’ she asked, looking at Wesley speculatively.

‘This is Acting Inspector Peterson. I’m taking him on a tour of the local attractions, so I thought I’d call in here and show
him the sights. Nice place you’ve got here.’

‘For the more discerning client. I’ll give you one of our cards, Gerry. Never know when it might come in useful.’ She gave
Wesley a most un-Thatcherlike wink.

‘I couldn’t afford it, love. Not on a policeman’s salary. We’ve come about one of your, er … clients. At least, I presume
he was a client: I saw him coming in here last Friday evening. Name of Brian Willerby.’

‘I never discuss clients. Confidentiality is most important in my business.’

‘It’s always possible that one or all of your establishments might be closed down if there were complaints from …’

‘Oh, come on, Gerry. What’s wrong with allowing some respectable young ladies to meet gentleman friends in a house which I
happen to own? The police didn’t even know about this place, so that’s how much of an outrage to public decency it is. Besides,
I number some very important local figures among our, er … gentleman friends here. I think your Chief Superintendent would
be rather upset to know that you’ve been harassing me.’

Heffernan refused to be intimidated. ‘I’ll tell him you refused to co-operate in a murder inquiry, then, shall I?’ He looked
her directly in the eye, challenging.

It was Carlotta who backed down. ‘All right. Brian Willerby was a client of ours. He visited us around once a week in general.’

‘Did he, er, visit any young lady in particular? Or wasn’t he particular?’ Heffernan asked cheekily.

Wesley stared, still stunned by the reference to the Chief Super.

‘He rather liked Lilly; that’s the girl who opened the door. He liked young, dark, pretty girls rather than the more, er …
obvious type.’

‘Can we have a word with the lovely Lilly, then?’

Carlotta gave him a cool look. ‘I’ll get her.’

She left the room and Wesley tapped Heffernan on the arm. ‘Do you think the Chief Super actually …’

‘Who can tell? It’ll have to be one of life’s little mysteries.’

Carlotta returned with Lilly, who sat down in a red plush armchair opposite and pulled her kimono across her body again in
a gesture of modesty.

‘What can you tell us about Brian Willerby?’ Wesley began.

Lilly glanced nervously at Carlotta before answering.

‘He visited me around once a week. Usually on a Friday night. He wasn’t much trouble.’ She shrugged as if Brian Willerby was
of no interest to her.

‘You know he’s dead? Possibly murdered?’ said Heffernan, looking her in the eye.

‘I don’t know anything about that.’ She looked down and fidgeted with the cheap silver ring she wore on the middle finger
of her left hand.

‘What were you doing on Saturday afternoon?’

She looked up at Heffernan as though he were stupid. ‘Working, of course. Weekends are my busiest time.’

‘Do you live here?’ asked Wesley.

‘I’ve got a flat in Morbay. I’m at university there but I work here
at weekends and whenever I’m free.’ She looked across at Wesley and saw he was staring at her. ‘Well, I’ve got to live somehow,’
she pronounced defensively. ‘What with tuition fees and student debts I can’t manage otherwise. I don’t have rich parents
who can bale me out and I’d rather do this than slave away in some bar every night.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell us about Willerby? Anything at all?’ Wesley asked more gently.

Lilly shook her head, her expression hidden behind a fine curtain of silken hair. ‘No. Nothing.’

Heffernan gave Wesley a nudge and they both stood up.

‘Thanks, love. If you remember anything else, give us a call, will you?’

Wesley handed Lilly one of his cards. ‘Sorry to have bothered you,’ he said softly, his eyes meeting hers. She gave a weak
smile.

‘ ’Bye, then, Carlotta,’ shouted Heffernan as they left. ‘I’ll give your love to the Chief Super, shall I?’

‘Do as you please, Gerry. I don’t suppose I’ll see you again … not professionally at least,’ she added with a knowing smirk.

‘How long have you known Carlotta?’ asked Wesley, burning with curiosity, as they walked back to the station.

‘We go back years. I booked her for soliciting when I was a young and innocent constable. She’s come up in the world since
then, as you can see.’

‘And that Lilly …’

‘Student, eh? That’s market forces for you: if you’ve got it, sell it … and she’s got it all right.’ He shook his head. ‘These
student fees are a bugger. Costs me a ruddy fortune to keep my two at university, I can tell you. When she was talking I kept
thinking about how I’d feel if it was my Rosie doing something like that … satisfying the lusts of the Brian Willerbys of
this world.’ Wesley saw him shudder. ‘Not a nice thought.’

‘No. It’s not,’ Wesley said with some feeling.

Neil Watson scraped away at the foundations of the shell grotto with his trowel. Shells. They were everywhere, no doubt tumbled
from the grotto when it had been demolished in the nineteenth century. He placed each one in the large plastic box at his
side and scraped on, hoping for something more interesting.

At first he thought it was just another shell lying there, white and chalky against the soil. But as he dug, he realised that
it was bigger
than a shell, much bigger, and longer. Torn between excitement and dread, he dug faster. If it was what he feared, it would
mean more delays, more fuss.

He called Jane over, trying his best to sound calm. ‘Is that what I think it is?’ he asked as she bent over for a better look.

She said nothing but began to use her trowel to loosen the earth around the top of the object. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, sitting
back on her heels. ‘That’s a bone all right. Looks human. Right cemetery this is turning out to be. If Wesley’s around, I’d
call him over if I were you.’

Neil nodded, resigned. Another human burial. Just what he needed.

12 June 1685

My dear brother

I write this from the Red Lion in the town of Taunton where I wait upon events. I can say naught of what is expected because
the King has spies in all places and I have no wish for you to be known as a friend of rebels – our family’s fortunes are
perilous enough. You still have a place to keep in society, whereas I, as a younger son, may follow my heart and my conscience
.

You may be gratified to know that I am joined in this enterprise by Joseph Marling, son of our gardener at Earlsacre. I fear
my talk of the rebellion and the wrongdoings of this government did persuade him to our cause. Pray that he and I come through
this safe and that we return to Earlsacre, having ensured the freedom of our faith
.

Be assured that you and our father are ever in my prayers
.

Your loving brother Richard Lantrist

Wesley stood at the edge of the trench, looking down at the bones, now almost completely uncovered. He still hadn’t shaken
off the memory of the first skeleton – the young girl who had struggled against the choking soil. He hoped this one had met
a kinder end.

‘Well, there’s no chance that these are recent if they’re beneath the foundations of an early eighteenth-century building,’
he said, turning his thoughts to practical matters. ‘Is there any chance they could have been buried here once the grotto
had been demolished?’

Neil shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. The bones were buried then the grotto was built on top of them, isn’t that right?’
He looked to his
colleagues for confirmation and Jane, Matt and Jake nodded earnestly in agreement.