The Bone Garden (30 page)

Wesley and Heffernan, summoned from Earlsacre, sat down opposite the elderly man in the interview room.

‘I’ve been looking up your record on one of our newfangled computers, Syd,’ said Gerry Heffernan, as though he were discussing
a job applicant’s CV. ‘I see you’ve done time for this sort of thing before: 1984 in the Great Yarmouth area, 1989 in Brighton.
Oh, you branched out a bit in 1991; impersonating a vicar in Blackpool, where you claimed to be collecting on behalf of the
street children of Calcutta. Then you moved south in more ways than one: in 1995 you were miraculously transformed into a
Catholic priest based in south
London, desperate for money to set up a hospital in Africa. Then there was the little incident in Manchester in 1997 when
you were collecting for that Romanian orphanage. All good causes, Syd. Pity they never saw any of it.’

‘The public can be very generous,’ said Syd righteously.

‘Soapy Syd Parsons, eh? You’re a bit of a legend among the police forces of Great Britain. Who would have thought you’d end
up on our patch?’

‘A man has to live, Chief Inspector Heffernan, and when I got out of Strangeways I fancied a change of scene. I’d always heard
that Devon was a lovely part of the world.’

‘You’re right there, Syd.’ Heffernan leaned forward. ‘Now I hear you recognised the face on our poster in reception. It’s
something that’s been puzzling us for some time. A man was found dead in a caravan over the river from here. He was half naked
and he had no ID. He’d booked into the caravan site under the name of John Jones, but that might not be his real name. We’ve
made inquiries but nobody seems to know anything about him and he’s not on any missing persons lists. If you can help us,
Syd, we’d be very grateful.’

‘How grateful?’

‘Word in your favour to the judge grateful. He co-operated fully with the police, that sort of thing. How about it?’

Wesley, who thought it best to remain silent while the boss did his bit, sat forward, awaiting Soapy Syd’s answer.

‘I’ll tell you what I know. But it’s not much.’

‘Go on,’ encouraged Wesley.

‘I was in Bloxham and I saw this young man, the man on the poster. I started my usual act and he came up to me and asked if
I was okay. Then I went into my patter … how I’d lost my wallet, et cetera, et cetera. Anyway, he gives me ten quid for something
to eat, says that’s all he can spare ’cause he’s a bit short himself. I went through the usual spiel about taking his address
but he said he didn’t have one. He told me he’d been living abroad for a couple of years and that he’d only come back because
he had to see someone; something about some property. He said there was a solicitor he had to see in Tradmouth who could tell
him what was going on. He seemed a bit worried about whatever it was, but he was quite chatty. He said he’d just arrived off
the ferry. He’d got the bus from Plymouth and he was looking for somewhere to stay. He told me he wanted to rent a
caravan or something while he got things sorted out. He seemed a nice lad.’

‘Did he tell you his name?’

Syd wrinkled his brow in an effort of concentration. ‘He gave me the tenner and told me not to worry about it. I must have
asked his name but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was. They all blend into one after a while, you see.’

‘Of course,’ said Wesley with what sounded like sympathy. ‘If it comes back to you, you will let us know, won’t you?’

‘You can rely on me,’ came the reply, offered with touching sincerity.

‘If only that were true,’ muttered Gerry Heffernan as they left Soapy Syd Parsons alone to contemplate his wrongdoings.

At Gerry Heffernan’s suggestion, Wesley returned home at a reasonable time. They had had a word with Les Cumbernold, who had
decided to come clean about the theft of the statues and had asked for several other similar offences to be taken into consideration.
He still denied any involvement in Willerby’s death, and this time Gerry Heffernan was inclined to believe him.

Heffernan decreed that the team would meet up at Earlsacre first thing the next day for a review of the case. He and Wesley
hardly allowed themselves to hope that Soapy Syd would remember anything more about the dead man within the next few hours.
And even if he did remember, there was no guarantee that it would help them very much.

However, they now knew a little more about John Jones. He had been working abroad for the past two years but hadn’t specified
where. Wesley remembered the foreign writing that had been seen on Jones’ T-shirt: had this held a clue to where he had been?
And who he was? Syd had said that Jones returned to England because he had something to sort out. Was it something to do with
the newspaper cutting found under his mattress? Something to do with Earlsacre? The solicitor he wanted to see was surely
Brian Willerby. And the Earlsacre file had been stolen from Willerby’s office. Had Willerby wanted to discuss whatever it
was with Wesley? Is that why he had arranged to speak to him? Had Willerby himself been involved in some sort of fraud or
wrongdoing, and had he killed Jones in the caravan to silence him? The possibilities whirled around Wesley’s brain as he walked
back up the steep streets to his house at the top of the town.

By the time he placed his key in his front-door lock, he had forgotten all about the imminent domestic crises that awaited
him. But as soon as Pam greeted him, he knew that he wasn’t in for a tranquil evening. He fought a fleeting temptation to
use a fictitious surge in criminal activity as an excuse to return to the office for some peace.

‘They’ll be here in an hour and I’m shattered already,’ Pam said weakly as he stepped into the hall. ‘I’m going to need an
early night if I’m going to be in any fit state for work tomorrow. I’ve been preparing lessons all day and I’ve got one hell
of a headache.’

Wesley shut the front door behind him and took his wife in his arms. ‘Come and sit down. I’m going to ring your mother and
tell her you’re not feeling up to it.’

‘She’s going into Plymouth this afternoon. She said they’re coming straight here. There’s no way of getting in touch.’

‘Well, school probably won’t be too bad tomorrow,’ he assured her – like an executioner assuring a condemned man that he would
only be a little bit dead.

Pam nodded, unconvinced. ‘I’ve given Michael his tea already. I’ll get him off to bed in half an hour. Why has my mother got
to be such a selfish, thoughtless cow?’ she asked rhetorically before storming up the stairs, leaving Wesley in the hallway
staring after her helplessly.

As Pam reached the landing the telephone began to ring. Wesley picked up the receiver hoping it was Della, and that he could
tell her not to come in no uncertain terms. But he heard his own mother’s warm Caribbean accent on the other end of the line.
He took a deep breath and sat down on the bottom stair, preparing for a lengthy conversation.

‘I’ve just called to wish Pamela good luck for tomorrow,’ Dr Peterson began cheerfully. ‘I hope you’re helping. It won’t be
easy for her, you know.’

Wesley, feeling a little guilty, was anxious to assure his mother that he was being the model husband. ‘I’m doing my best.
How are you, anyway? How’s Dad?’

She gave a tinkling laugh and Wesley wondered, not for the first time, how she managed to stay so bubbly after a day tending
the sick. ‘Working hard as usual – there are some strange viruses about at the moment, sore throats and headaches, so the
waiting room’s been full. You know how it is, son – no rest for the wicked. Your father’s got a conference next week in Switzerland.
All right for these consultants,
isn’t it, not like us humble GPs. How are you anyway, Wesley? How’s life as acting inspector?’

‘So far so good. Did I tell you I played in a cricket match at the weekend?’

‘That’s great. Your Great-Uncle Garfield would have been so pleased. Remember that time he took you to the Queen’s Park Oval
when you were small?’

Wesley knew he had to interrupt before the conversation became dominated by his mother’s favourite sport. ‘Mum, how much do
you know about your family? About the Lantrists?’

There were a few moments of silence while she thought. ‘I can go back to your great-grandparents on my mother’s side – your
great grandmother was from Surinam and your great-grandfather from Venezuela. I don’t really know much about my father’s family
except that I’m sure my grandfather came from Barbados. I remember my Grandmother Lantrist telling me about it but I guess
I was far too young to be interested in family history at the time. Why do you ask?’

‘It’s just that I’ve come across someone called Lantrist who was transported to the West Indies in 1685, possibly Barbados.
Probably no relation,’ he added hopefully.

‘That’s interesting,’ said his mother, innocent of the facts. ‘I wish I could remember what my grandmother said about the
Barbados connection. She certainly said something, but I don’t suppose I was paying much attention. I was a young girl then
with other things on my mind.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Wesley heard Pam’s footsteps on the stairs. ‘Here’s Pam now. I’ll let you speak to her.’

Pam took the telephone and sat herself down on the stair Wesley had just vacated. She looked a little better now and was soon
chatting volubly to her mother-in-law, visibly more relaxed. ‘Why can’t my mother be more like yours?’ she muttered bitterly
as she put the phone down.

A loud ring on the doorbell saved Wesley from having to think up a tactful answer. Della swept in like a pink-clad tidal wave,
followed by Jamie, who was bearing a paper carrier bag which Wesley recognised as being from the Golden Dragon. In the other
hand he carried a bottle of champagne – Bollinger. Wesley and Pam exchanged glances and he noticed that Pam looked tired again.

‘We’re celebrating,’ gushed Della as she sat down on the sofa.

‘How much do we owe you for the takeaway?’ asked Wesley, wanting to call the tune in his own home.

‘We wouldn’t hear of it,’ said Jamie smoothly. ‘As Della said, we’re celebrating – or rather she is.’ He lowered his eyes
modestly. ‘The shares I advised her to buy last week have trebled in value.’

‘You’re so clever.’ Della reached out her hand and pulled Jamie down beside her.

‘Not really clever, darling. It is my job. One builds up expertise over the years, you know.’ He turned to Wesley. ‘I did
my time in the Stock Exchange before I set up on my own in Leeds.’

‘And luck doesn’t come into it?’ Wesley asked.

‘Luck comes into every job – even yours, I should think. Only we become luckier with practice, don’t we?’

Wesley nodded. He had a strong urge to say something clever or witty that would wipe the smug smile off Jamie’s face. But
his mind was blank after a day of mental exertion, so he stayed silent.

Pam called through wearily from the kitchen. The plates were out and they were to come through and help themselves. As Jamie
popped open the champagne, Wesley went through to the kitchen, feeling he ought to lend a hand.

As he sat down at the table, he felt a sudden wave of tiredness engulf him. He looked across at Jamie, who was raising his
glass in a toast to his successful investment. It seemed that Della’s new man was on the level after all.

Wesley picked up his glass and drank. He had misjudged the man. Perhaps he was losing his touch … or his luck.

Neil Watson knew that the light would soon begin to fade. He stood up and looked about him, surveying the excavations. The
archaeological work would soon be finished. The trenches in the walled garden would be back-filled and the garden experts
would move in to recreate the paths and parterres. Then they would fill the beds with a riot of flowers, carefully researched
and in keeping with the age of the garden.

The shell grotto would be impossible to rebuild in time for the opening, so the garden experts were going for a summerhouse
set against the wall instead. The plinth would be replaced in the centre of the garden and a new sundial was being made by
local craftsmen to form the centrepiece of the whole thing. The garden would be, as far
as was possible, a replica of the one Richard Lantrist would have known – without the bones.

Neil’s task was almost done. He and his colleagues had discovered what lay beneath the overgrown remnants of the Renaissance
gardens of Earlsacre. It only remained to process the finds, and then it would be Jake’s responsibility to record the lot
for future reference. The more exciting finds would be used in the exhibition planned for the restored main house. This would
tell the story of Earlsacre Hall, skeletons and all.

Neil started to head for the stable block where he knew Claire was still working. Her job of discovering all she could about
the family that created the house and gardens would last a good deal longer than his own, and her knowledge would be needed
to create the exhibition.

He was surprised to see her running towards him, her dark hair falling about her bare shoulders. Neil hastily ran his fingers
through his hair in a feeble effort to tidy himself up.

She waved and called to him. ‘Neil. Come and look at this. See if you agree with me. Come on.’ She turned and ran back into
the building like a ghost.

He had no option but to follow her into the gloom of the stables. He walked into the office, where she was already sitting,
hunched over a pile of old documents, and stood behind her, bending to kiss her hair, which smelled of herbs and wood smoke.
She didn’t look round but placed an ancient letter and an equally ancient notebook neatly on the desk in front of her. ‘Tell
me what you see,’ she ordered, obviously excited.

‘An old letter – one of the ones Richard Lantrist wrote to his dad – and the notebook he used to record what he was doing
in the garden. Why?’

‘Have a closer look. Go on.’

Claire’s excitement was infectious. Neil bent over the documents. He didn’t see it at first but then the truth dawned. ‘Bloody
hell,’ was all he could say.

Claire looked up and grinned, her eyes shining with the excitement of the chase. ‘Just wait till I tell Martin.’ She skidded
her typing chair over to her waiting computer. She hit a button and the flashing screensaver disappeared.