The Marriage Hearse (11 page)

Wesley smiled. He knew just how she felt.

Stuart Richter travelled light. One suitcase for all his possessions. It was the only way. He opened the door of his brother’s
bedsit above a restaurant in the middle of Tradmouth with the old credit card he kept for such eventualities. Gordon was away
on an oil rig in the North Sea. He wouldn’t mind if he lay low here for a few days. Just till the police got tired of looking.

He flung the suitcase on the bed before searching the cupboard. He didn’t fancy taking the risk of going shopping for provisions
in Tradmouth. Someone might see him. And it was too near the police station for comfort.

Stuart began to walk up and down, pacing the small room like a caged animal. He was stupid to have employed those private
detectives to keep an eye on Kirsten for him while he was working. That nosy old woman and her creepy son knew too much. They
could give him away. Then the comforting thought flitted through his mind that they had no idea where to find him. As long
as he lay low, he’d be safe.

He took a tin of beans from the cupboard. It was either that or corned beef. He was hungry so perhaps he’d have both. But
tomorrow the cupboard would be bare so he’d have to risk the supermarket or starve.

There were times when he wished he’d never set eyes on Kirsten Harbourn. Even in death she tormented him.

Neil Watson had uncovered most of the bones by the time Colin Bowman arrived at Cudleigh Farm. He had worked carefully and
methodically, scraping away the rich red earth with his trowel, until the skeleton lay exposed.

In the plastic tray by his side lay three shards of pottery. The largest of which bore the caricature of a bearded face. Neil’s
experienced eye recognised this at once as the image of Cardinal Bellarmine, a prelate who scowled out from many a late-seventeenth-century
jug. The jugs, common throughout Europe, had been made to ridicule the cardinal and some had been found as far afield as the
New World. As this highly dateable pottery had been found in the soil above the skeleton, Neil was starting to feel a lot
more confident that the bones weren’t modern. But he still wanted to be sure before he broke the good news to Wesley.

It was Colin who first noticed the foreign body lodged between the ribs. If Big Eddie had been there with his metal detector,
he would have found the thing at once but, without the aid of modern technology, it was only too easy to mistake it for a
lump of soil or a stone. Neil began to ease it out with a small leaf trowel, only to find that the object was suspended from
a chain that had slithered down between the bones. Neil pulled it out very carefully and placed it beside the pottery in his
tray.

‘What is it?’ Colin Bowman asked.

Neil took the object from the tray and began to scrape the soil off very gently with his fingers. Underneath the layer of
earth he could just make out the sheen of gold, a tiny thread at first, which grew larger as he rubbed. He fought the temptation
to carry on until the whole object was exposed. It would have to be cleaned carefully before he could examine it properly.

But he reckoned he knew what it was. The gold, the chain clogged with soil. This was a necklace, a pendant of some kind. And
he was certain it hadn’t been bought in a local jeweller’s a dozen or so years ago. This had the feel, the smell of something
very old.

He replaced the object in the plastic tray and prepared to lift the bones from the soil with the help of the forensics team.

As soon as the skeleton was lying, neatly packed, ready to be transported to the mortuary, Neil took his mobile phone from
his pocket. It was time to put Wesley out of his misery.

Simon Jephson was afraid. He knew that the police would come looking for him soon. But they wouldn’t find him. This time he
wouldn’t fall for the lies they used to trap the unwary.

He hadn’t turned up at work and, as they were bound to have his address by now, he had made sure he was nowhere near the rented
maisonette he reluctantly called home because he couldn’t afford anything better on what Carla Sawyer paid him.

Carla would be angry that he hadn’t rung in to tell her he wouldn’t be there. But then anger seemed to be Carla’s natural
state. He supposed that he should be grateful to her for giving him work when his ‘little bit of trouble’ as an old colleague
had delicately put it, prevented anybody else from considering him for any sort of employment that might bring him into contact
with vulnerable young women. And some of the girls at the language college – young, inexperienced and away from home for the
first time – were very vulnerable indeed.

As Simon began to caress his companion’s naked back she shifted a little and emitted a small groan of pleasure. She too had
taken the day off from the advertising agency where she did what passed for work – although, in Simon’s book it could hardly
compare with the hard and tedious slog of coaxing the English language into unreceptive minds.

‘Julia,’ he whispered.

Julia Creston turned over to face him. ‘What?’

‘I’ve got to get some fresh air. I think I’ll go for a walk.’

‘Suit yourself.’ She didn’t sound pleased. She reached over to touch his hair. ‘But I can think of better ways to get a bit
of exercise,’ she said suggestively, edging her body closer to his. ‘I didn’t take the day off to …’

‘Please, Julia,’ he snapped. ‘I need to get out for a while. I won’t be long.’

She watched his face. ‘What exactly was your relationship with my dear late sister-in-law-to-be? You’ve never said much about
her. But you used to call at the cottage, didn’t you?’

‘We worked together. That’s all. We were friends.’

‘Have you spoken to the police yet?’

Simon got out of bed and pulled on his boxer shorts, keeping his back to Julia so that she couldn’t see his face. ‘I was nowhere
near the cottage that day. I can’t tell them anything.’

‘Now why don’t I believe you?’ Julia said, a hint of mischief in her voice. ‘Why did you insist on putting your car in my
garage?’

‘I told you. If it rains water seeps in through the passenger door.’

‘And why were you so keen to stay here for a few days? I think you’re avoiding someone.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ he replied automatically. ‘The boiler’s on the blink and I’m a man who needs his hot water.’ He smiled, turning
on the charm. ‘And of course I couldn’t pass up the chance of spending some time with the most beautiful woman in …’

‘Cut the bullshit. You don’t want to be at home ‘cause you’re afraid the police might turn up asking questions. And you didn’t
go into work for the same reason. You’re scared.’

‘Why should I be scared?’ he said, suddenly uncomfortable. Perhaps he had underestimated Julia Creston.

He didn’t wait for a reply. He needed to get out, to feel the fresh air on his face.

He needed to think.

Ferdy Galpin sat in the cluttered office behind the reception desk at the Loch Henry Lodge Guesthouse reading a two-day-old
copy of the
Sun
, his feet up on a tea-stained filing cabinet. Ferdy believed in making himself comfortable.

As he scratched his tattooed arm, his mind turned to the girl who had been asking for the foreign-looking man in room seven.
Françoise Decaux was the stuff of his fantasies and he felt a stab of bitter envy that she should be giving her slender and
desirable body to the stocky, swarthy man upstairs who looked to be at least ten years her senior, if not more. If she found
such an unprepossessing specimen irresistible, maybe there was hope for Ferdy yet. Maybe he should have tried a bit harder.
Or perhaps she was being paid hard cash for her services. After careful consideration, Ferdy concluded that this was a more
likely scenario and began to wonder how much she charged.

He had noticed that the key to room seven hadn’t yet been returned. Perhaps she was still up there. Ferdy imagined the two
of them together and felt a tingle of arousal. Perhaps he should
go up there, catch them together. It was a boring afternoon and he had nothing else to do. Why not?’

He crept up the staircase, almost tripping on a loose, thread-bare section of carpet with the passing thought that he should
really get it seen to before someone had a nasty accident. But his mind was on matters other than health and safety. As he
tiptoed towards room seven, he listened, aware of the traffic noise outside and of a toilet being flushed in one of the rooms
above.

When he arrived at the door he put his ear against it and listened. No moans, no creaking of bed springs. Perhaps they were
taking a rest, he thought, rubbing his groin. He took his pass key from the pocket of his jeans. He would make some excuse.
There was a leak in the bathroom above and he’d come to check that no water had come through the ceiling. He would claim that
he thought the room was empty, that Mr Jones had gone out.

Ferdy smiled to himself as he turned the key in the lock, awaiting the sound of panicked voices and the swift covering up
of naked flesh.

But as he thrust the door open he saw that the room was still. Still as a grave.

And that the man lying on the bed was not only fully clothed. But dead.

THE FAIR WIFE OF PADUA

D
RAMATIS
P
ERSONAE

Duke of Padua

Juliana, his Duchess

Paolo Sylvius Antonio

his sons

Roderigo, Steward to the Duke

Clara, wife to Paolo

Claudio, her father. A poor gentleman

Bassano, manservant to Claudio

Maria, maidservant to Clara

Priest

Maidservant to Juliana

THE ACTION TAKES PLACE AT THE PALACE OF THE DUKE OF

PADUA

As Wesley put the phone down he felt relieved. Neil had given his tentative verdict. A piece of seventeenth-century pottery
– part of a Bellarmine jug – had been found in the soil above the skeleton which meant that the remains probably predated
it. Of course there was always a possibility that the soil containing the shard of pottery had been brought in from somewhere
else more recently but Brian Light-foot denied this. But then if he’d killed the young woman, he would deny it, wouldn’t he?
Wesley, however, decided to give him the benefit of the doubt for the moment. He had other things on his mind.

He looked up at the large notice board that covered the far wall
of the incident room. Kirsten Harbourn smiled down on him, her eyes meeting his. He stared at her image, the question ‘who
killed you and why?’ forming in his mind. At the side of the photographs of Kirsten, alive and dead, were pictures of the
crime scene and, beside them, was Gerry Heffernan’s scrawled list of the
dramatis personae
of this particular tragedy. Peter Creston and his family; his parents, his brother, James and sister, Julia. Kirsten’s mother,
Theresa; her estranged father, Richard and his new wife, Petula. Marion Blunning, the faithful friend. Kirsten’s colleagues
at the Morbay Language College. The Quigleys, mother and son, hired by Stuart Richter to spy on the dead woman. And of course
their two chief suspects, Stuart Richter himself and Simon Jephson, Kirsten’s colleague with the conviction for sex offences,
now inconveniently missing.

Two new names had been added to the list: Georgina, the clairvoyant visited by the murdered woman in the weeks before her
death; and Mike Dellingpole, the frisky builder. Two more people to trace, interview and eliminate. Or to add to the list
of suspects.

‘All the wedding guests have been contacted. Nothing doing, I’m afraid.’

Wesley had been so deep in thought that Rachel Tracey’s voice made him jump. He turned to face her. ‘Sorry?’

‘Nobody on the guest list has been able to tell us anything we didn’t already know. A couple of people mentioned Stuart Richter
making a nuisance of himself. Apart from that …’ Rachel gave a dramatic shrug. ‘Back to square one. No sign of Stuart Richter
yet, I suppose? Or that other one … that sleazeball teacher?’

‘They’ll turn up,’ Wesley said with a confidence he didn’t feel. He stood up. He wanted to compare notes with Gerry Heffernan.

‘Anything new on the Lightfoots’ skeleton?’ Rachel asked as he was making for the door.

Wesley stopped and turned round. ‘Neil thinks it’s old. Not our problem. Keep your fingers crossed that he’s right, eh.’

He made for Gerry Heffernan’s office and found the chief inspector gazing into a small mirror. As soon as Wesley opened the
door, the mirror was shoved hurriedly into the top drawer of the desk. Wesley resisted the temptation to smile. Gerry Heffernan
becoming vain about his appearance might signal the end of civilisation as he knew it.

‘How are the troops?’

Wesley sat down, making himself comfortable. ‘In good spirits considering our two prime suspects have gone AWOL. No sign of
either of them yet, I’m afraid.’

‘I think we can take it for granted that Richter’s lying low. The other one I’m not so sure about. Maybe this Simon Jephson
has other fish to fry – one of the lasses from the language college maybe. All them nubile young foreign birds must be a great
temptation for a man like Jephson – like letting a fox loose in the chicken run.’

‘You could be right, Gerry. But I can’t help feeling Jephson’s got something to do with whatever Kirsten Harbourn was worried
about at work.’

‘You think she was worried about something Jephson was involved in?’

‘Perhaps she knew he was abusing one or more of the students. Perhaps she threatened to expose him.’

Heffernan scratched his head. ‘It’s as good a theory as any.’

‘I’ve got some names to go with the car numbers taken by the Quigleys. Mainly what you’d expect. Peter Creston; the victim’s
parents; Marion Blunning; Dellingpole the builder; a plumber called Smith.’

Heffernan’s eyes lit up. ‘He did some work for me once. He’s very good. But he’s sixty if he’s a day and hardly the murdering
type. Anyone else?’

‘An electrician called Den Liston … probably subcontracted by Dellingpole. The list also mentions that a young man in running
gear dropped in every so often – no car, hence no number and no name. Wonder who that could be? And last but not least Simon
Jephson called on her … three times.’

‘Interesting.’

‘And there’s another thing. While I was at Honey Cottage, someone in a blue Vauxhall was watching the house. Quigley the private
detective’s got a blue Vauxhall.’

‘It might not have been him. Could have been anyone.’

Wesley scratched his head. ‘You might be right. Unfortunately, Dearden didn’t get the registration number.’

‘Can’t get the staff these days,’ quipped the chief inspector before rising from his seat and began to walk around his office,
to and fro with his hands behind his back like a ship’s captain pacing the deck. ‘Let’s go over what we’ve got.’ He said,
looking at his watch. ‘Almost home time. Fancy a pint at the Tradmouth Arms to oil the cogs?’ He grinned wickedly.

‘Why not?’ Wesley replied. It would probably be easier to think in the pub without the threat of interruption. And it could
mean getting home earlier than usual, which would appease Pam until the next time the local criminals decided to keep unsocial
hours.

After telling anyone who cared to listen that if Chief Superintendent Nutter wanted him, he was out pursuing urgent investigations,
Gerry Heffernan swept out of the office with Wesley in his wake.

Five minutes later, having dodged their way past bands of static tourists gazing at gift shop window displays and restaurant
menus, they arrived at the Tradmouth Arms to find that most of its patrons were outside, occupying the benches scattered along
Baynards Quay. A pair of giggling girls with blond ponytails and bare midriffs had perched themselves on the low wall in front
of Gerry Heffernan’s cottage. Wesley expected his boss to chastise them with some sarcastic remark but he watched them consume
their bacardi breezers in silence, a benevolent smile on his chubby face.

It was quieter inside the pub and they had their choice of seats:
al fresco
drinking was for the tourists.

‘Did I tell you that Neil thinks that skeleton over at Upper Cudleigh is old?’ Wesley asked when they were settled with their
drinks in front of them.

Heffernan’s grin widened as he put his pint to his lips. He drank deeply and smacked his lips in appreciation. ‘Good. At least
we won’t have to worry our heads about it. Good pint that.’

‘So what have we got so far on the Kirsten Harbourn case?’

‘She was strangled between half eleven and half twelve and not with the lamp flex. Possibly with a scarf and from behind which
means she trusted her killer.’

‘Or didn’t hear her killer come in because of the noise of the CD she was playing. Pretty rousing stuff all that wedding music.’

‘Women wear scarves,’ Heffernan said meaningfully.

‘And Colin said a fit woman could have done it. Especially if the victim was unprepared. And arranging the victim to look
as though the murder was sexual …’

‘Would mean that we wouldn’t suspect a woman. Good thinking, Wes.’ He took a long drink, savouring the golden liquid, rolling
it around his mouth before swallowing it. ‘What do you think of Carla Sawyer as a suspect?’

‘Motive?’

‘There’s something unsavoury going on at that language place and Kirsten threatened to blow the whistle. Prostitution racket?
All them beautiful foreign girls.’

‘It’s a possibility. I’ll contact the vice squad. See if they’ve got anything on the place.’

‘I’m not just a pretty face.’

‘You’re in a remarkably good mood considering we’re in the middle of a murder enquiry.’ Wesley watched his companion, hoping
for a revelation.

‘Am I?’ The older man beamed, as though he was in possession of a delicious secret.

‘Any particular reason?’

Heffernan hesitated, his cheeks turning red. ‘No … er … I’m just glad to have Rosie home, that’s all.’

Wesley had spent too long working in CID to believe him but he didn’t probe further. No doubt he’d learn the truth in time.
‘So you think her murder’s connected with her work? You think Stuart Richter might be innocent?’

‘I don’t know, Wes. It’s early days. But I reckon we’ve not even scratched the surface yet. I bet that Kirsten had more skeletons
in her cupboard than your mate Neil, and I think we should keep on at her friends and family – and the people at that language
place – until we find out what they are. Someone, somewhere, knows who killed her. It wasn’t a random sex attacker.’

‘What about the fiancé?’

‘He’s got an alibi. He was with his family.’

‘Or they’re closing ranks to protect him.’

Wesley took a drink. What the chief inspector was suggesting was quite feasible. Families, close families, cover up for one
another. Love is sometimes stronger than death. ‘What about her family? There was no love lost between Kirsten and her stepmother,
Petula. Kirsten called her the witch. If a woman’s responsible …’

‘Perhaps we’d better have a word with her. Put her on the list.’

‘And who’s this runner who called on her? Then there’s this clairvoyant. Georgina. Kirsten might have confided in her. And
the frisky builder, Mike Dellingpole. He made a pass at Kirsten.’

‘They’ll keep till tomorrow. I want this Stuart Richter. And the lecherous lecturer … Jephson.’

‘They’ll turn up.’

‘And I want a word with this Quigley who’s been watching the cottage. He might have something more to tell us, you never know.’

Wesley’s mobile phone began to ring, a tinny version of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue. He pressed the button to answer it just
as Heffernan started tapping his feet to the rhythm.

When the call was finished he turned to the chief inspector. The serious expression on his face told Heffernan the news was
bad.

‘You know we were looking forward to that early night?’

‘Richter’s turned up. They’ve got him in the cells.’

‘Afraid not. A man’s body’s been found at a hotel in Morbay. Possibly suspicious.’

Gerry Heffernan wasn’t usually given to swearing. But in this case he made an exception.

Neil Watson had driven back to Tradington Hall with the dirt-caked pendant on the passenger seat beside him. The soil would
mark the seat but Neil rarely concerned himself with that sort of thing. His only thought was to get the thing cleaned up
so he could see exactly what he was dealing with.

The room in the old stables that had been provided by the hall for use as his site headquarters had a supply of running water,
hot and cold, to wash the finds – positive luxury compared to some of the sites he’d worked on. And he could hardly wait to
see what lay beneath the thick coating of Devon earth.

He parked his yellow Mini in Tradington Hall’s large car park and made for the dig. Once he had checked on progress and was
satisfied that there were no problems his fellow archaeologists couldn’t deal with, he made his way to the stables. One of
the students was already there, washing finds. Neil smiled at her encouragingly and watched her for a minute or so as she
gently scraped the dirt off a piece of blue and white Georgian pottery with a toothbrush. Then, when she had finished and
had placed her treasure on a sheet of newspaper to dry, he told her to take a break and watched impatiently as she took off
her rubber gloves.

As soon as she left the room, he began work. The object was metal, he was sure of that, but he knew he must proceed carefully,
just in case there was any corrosion that would disintegrate with the wrong sort of handling. He began to coax the soil off
with a wooden cocktail stick and soon it was falling off in chunks, revealing the dull gleam of gold beneath. Neil’s heart
beat faster and he decided to brush the object gently with a toothbrush. This was no crumbling piece of base metal. This was
gold and gradually it emerged from its shroud of dirt like the moon emerging from thick cloud. An oval locket, about the size
of a small egg. It was engraved with a floral pattern and set with five precious stones that looked like rubies.

Neil held it up to the light triumphantly, wondering if he should have a go at opening it up. But he decided against it. He’d
leave that to an expert. If it was indeed as old as he thought it was, the mechanism might not stand the strain and the last
thing he wanted to do was to damage it.

He looked out of the window. He was there again, the fair-haired runner. Panting past the trenches in his vest and shorts.
It was a warm day and Neil – never much of a one for any exercise other than digging – thought he must be deranged. Maybe
one day he’d speak to him, find out what he was up to. Perhaps he was training for some sort of marathon. Each to his own.

He put the locket in a small-finds box, resolving to take it home with him rather than leave it unguarded at the dig. He would
show it to the conservator at Tradmouth Museum the next day before he visited the mortuary to learn Colin Bowman’s verdict
on the bones.