The Merchant's House (12 page)

‘Where are they now?’ Carl looked around.

‘How should I know? They’re a bloody law unto themselves. They knocked off at lunch-time. The police didn’t see you, did they?’

‘Shouldn’t think so.’

‘Only I don’t want them here. I don’t want them asking all their questions. It’s bad enough …’

‘Okay, John, okay.’ Carl opened a can of lager from the stock on the sideboard and handed it to his companion. ‘I understand, believe me, I understand …’

Desk Sergeant Bob Naseby recognised the woman who had just shuffled in, swathed in woollen scarves, grey and brown, like a giant moth seeking the light of the reception desk. He sighed and drew himself up to his full height. He wished they wouldn’t let them out – they only caused trouble.

‘I’ve seen him again.’ She looked Naseby straight in the eyes with the absolute conviction of the deranged. ‘Where’s that Inspector Jenkins? I want to talk to him.’

‘Now then, my luvver. Who did you see and where?’

‘I want to see Inspector Jenkins.’ She bit her lip petulantly. ‘I want the mechanic, not the oily rag.’

‘All right, all right. No need to be like that. I’ll just ring through for you.’

She stared at him, a stare of intense hatred. Bob picked up the receiver. He was a patient man. There was no answer.

‘There’s nobody there right now. Take a seat over there. I’ll try again in a minute.’

She leaned forward. For a moment he thought she was going to spit at him.

‘I’ll not go away in a corner and shut up. You’re trying to stop me seeing him. You tell him I’ve seen the boy. You tell him I know where Jonathon Berrisford is.’

Bob Naseby dialled again.

Last night I did have my pleasure of Elizabeth who doth give me her assurance she is once more well. But I sinned in my thoughts for I did in my imaginings have my will of Jennet. I would the mind were controlled with as much facility as the body. It may be that I should send Jennet from the house.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,
15 May 1623

‘If she asks to see me again, Bob, tell her I’ve gone on a round-the-world voyage … retired … anything.’ Inspector Jenkins watched the swing door shut on his departing visitor.

‘I used to have that problem thirty years back, women chasing after me.’

Stan Jenkins swung round and saw Gerry Heffernan grinning.

‘It’s that woman again, Gerry, the nutcase. The one who says she’s seen the kid. It’s getting so she won’t leave me alone.’

‘Fancy a pint? She won’t find you down the Tradmouth Arms.’

Jenkins looked sheepish. ‘Beer’s out, I’m afraid. The diet.’

‘Slimline tonic, then. Come on. You look as though you need it.’

Jenkins hesitated for a moment, then followed Heffernan out through the swing doors. Bob Naseby smiled to himself as he watched them go, wondering how long Jenkins would
take to crack, given the proximity of the Tradmouth Arms’ best bitter.

One taste of slimline tonic was enough. Jenkins went to the bar and ordered himself a pint. The pub was pleasantly full but not overcrowded. Locals on their lunch hour, relieved that the tourist season was over and they could get a seat, tucked into the landlord’s much-acclaimed crab sandwiches. Heffernan and Jenkins did likewise.

They sat in amiable silence, jaws munching. Stan Jenkins spoke first. ‘How’s your new sergeant? Still shaping up okay?’

‘Fine.’ Heffernan took a sip of his beer. ‘He’s a good bloke. Did you know he’s got a degree in archaeology?’

Stan shook his head. ‘How’s he getting on with the others?’

‘Very well on the whole. But I’ve heard through the old station grapevine that our DC Carstairs has been making a few racist remarks to his buddies in the canteen – you know the sort of thing. At least Wesley outranks him so he can’t say much to his face. I’ll have a strong word if things don’t settle down once the novelty wears off.’ He sighed. ‘I put it down to bad influences.’ He sat back and drank deeply. ‘So what did your girlfriend have to say?’

‘My girlfriend? What do you mean?’

Jenkins looked quite put out. If Heffernan didn’t know better he would have said he’d touched on a guilty nerve. ‘The woman who keeps following you about.’

‘Oh, her,’ Jenkins said with some relief. ‘She just keeps saying she’s seen Jonathon Berrisford, that’s all. She believes it and all, poor cow.’

‘Maybe she has.’

‘What?’

‘Maybe she has seen him.’

‘Come on, Gerry. She just passes a kid of about the right age in the street and comes straight to us. Ten years ago she would have been locked up. I mean, I feel sorry for her, but it’s wasting our time.’

‘So is it always the same kid or what?’

‘How should I know? By the time we get there the kid, whoever he is, is long gone. I put a couple of uniforms to
keep watch on the area but they come up with nothing. There’s nothing to come up with. She’s a nutter.’

‘Same story today?’

‘She’s branching out. She reckons she saw the kid go into a house with a man. We’ll follow it up. No choice. It’s a million-to-one shot but it’s all we’ve got. I won’t tell the Berrisfords, though. I don’t want to get their hopes up.’

‘What are they like, the family?’

‘Hard to say under the circumstances. Seem like a decent couple. Middle-class, father a wine merchant or something like that. He’s the stoical type, doesn’t show his feelings much.’

Heffernan downed the last of his pint. ‘Any chance they’re involved?’

‘No way. I’d stake my pension on it. He’s their only kid, after years of trying apparently.’

‘She wouldn’t be the first adoring mother who couldn’t cope; something just snaps and …’

‘No, Gerry, you’re on the wrong track there. The poor woman’s desperate, rings every day.’

‘Can’t be easy.’

‘It isn’t, Gerry. It gets to me, I can tell you.’

Heffernan looked at his watch. ‘Come on, Stan. Drink up. Work calls.’

Stan Jenkins drained his glass but showed no signs of moving. He looked up at Heffernan. ‘Do you know, Gerry, I’ve actually started praying that we’ll find this kid alive. I’m getting past it, getting too involved.’

Heffernan gave his fellow inspector a comforting slap on the shoulder and made his way through the assembled drinkers towards the door. Stan Jenkins rose to follow him, his face troubled.

Cedric Mutch didn’t trust officialdom. Taxmen, VAT men (and women – they were usually worse than the men), snoopers from the Social Security … and police: police were the worst of the lot; police meant trouble.

When he got back to the office, his colleagues had greeted him with all the enthusiasm that medieval peasants must have reserved for one who brought the Black Death to their
village. The police were waiting for him. And police were about as welcome in the shabbily appointed offices of Cab-u-like as plague rats.

Rachel’s eyes stung with the fog of smoke as she invited Cedric Mutch to sit down. Mutch, a weasel-like man with thinning hair and an insignificant moustache, did so, and lit a cigarette with a cheap disposable lighter. Remembering the desirability of buttering up the law (and his manners) he offered the packet to Rachel, who politely refused, and Steve, who resisted temptation.

‘Now, Mr Mutch,’ Rachel began. ‘You took a fare to Peasgoode Avenue earlier today. Could you give me a description of the man and tell us where you took him next?’

Mutch couldn’t get the information out fast enough, relieved that he himself wasn’t the focus of the investigation.

Rachel could almost hear the sighs of relief as they left the premises and climbed into their car.

The address Mutch had given them was just outside the village of Whitstone, about four miles from Tradmouth. They drove out of the town past the whitewashed council estate, banished to Tradmouth’s farthest end. They passed the holiday park, uninviting in the autumnal drizzle, with its insubstantial chalets. Rachel’s hand tightened on her seat belt as Steve turned left off the main road and tore down the narrow, hedge-walled lanes. She wished she had insisted on driving herself.

The cottage was easy to find. It had started small but had sprouted a couple of single-storey extensions over the years. It had the unfinished look of a house undergoing major renovation, an impression confirmed by the half-filled skip in the driveway and the piles of building materials in what had once been a well-kept front garden. There was no sign of life.

Rachel noticed that something had caught Steve’s attention. He wandered around the garden examining bricks, guttering and bags of cement, consulting his notebook as he picked his way round the obstacle course. Rachel watched with curiosity; she had rarely seen Steve so conscientious.

‘Hey, Rach, this stuff. I reckon it could be some of the gear nicked from those building sites. Same makes.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Well, I can’t be sure, but …’

‘Well spotted.’ Rachel thought a bit of encouragement wouldn’t go amiss. ‘You can look into it when we’ve dealt with the other business. Come on.’

He knocked at the door; a glass door of 1960s vintage. The flaking paint had encroached on the frosted glass; Rachel hoped that the renovations would include a replacement front door. A dark figure approached down the hallway. The door opened.

‘Hello, Charlie.’ It was Steve who spoke, macho, swaggering, like he’d seen it done on the telly. ‘Mind if we come in?’

Rachel showed her warrant card; at least one of them should be doing things by the book – she’d have a word with Steve later. ‘Detective Constable Tracey, Tradmouth CID. I presume you know DC Carstairs?’

‘He was at school with my brother,’ Steve chipped in helpfully.

Mr Carl stood aside to let them in and led them sullenly into the living room, seemingly the only room untouched by the hands of the absent builders.

‘This your house, sir?’ Rachel looked around.

‘My sister’s. She’s away in Canada for a few weeks visiting her husband’s brother.’ Carl shuffled uncomfortably.

‘Anyone else in the house, sir?’

A floorboard creaked above their heads. Rachel looked at Steve. Carl swallowed hard and shook his head.

‘What were you doing in Peasgoode Avenue at around ten this morning, sir?’

‘Er, I was on my way to visit a friend. I realised I’d forgotten something. I asked the taxi to bring me back here.’

‘Bit expensive, taking taxis and changing your mind,’ Steve said meaningfully. He stood blocking the door, arms folded. Rachel wished he wouldn’t try quite so hard to play the macho copper. He’d clearly been watching too much television.

Carl shot him a dirty look. ‘If you lot hadn’t taken my licence off me I wouldn’t have to rely on taxis, would I?’

Rachel tried charm. ‘Who were you going to see?’

‘A girl.’

‘Could I have her name, please, sir? It might help to clear this up.’

‘Look, I’ve not committed any crime, right?’

Rachel smiled politely. ‘We can always discuss this down at the station if you prefer, sir.’ The old ones were always the best. She saw the fight go out of Carl’s eyes.

The door opened, almost knocking Steve sideways.

‘It’s okay, Carl. Thanks. I’d rather get this over with.’

Standing in the doorway was a man: average height; average build; mid-thirties; dark hair beginning to recede slightly. He wore jeans and a grey T-shirt. The type of man you’d pass in the street without a second glance.

Rachel spoke. ‘Hello, John.’

Steve Carstairs watched open-mouthed as their quarry strolled into the room and sat down on the battered green Dralon sofa, a look of resignation on his face.

He spoke quietly. ‘Look, I’m sorry for causing so much trouble. I panicked when I heard she was dead. I needed time on my own. I loved that girl. I did … I loved that girl.’

The remnants of his composure disappeared. Near to tears, John wiped his arm across his moistened nose and eyes. Rachel watched him carefully. As far as she could tell the grief seemed genuine. But you never could tell.

‘I think we should get down to the station, sort things out,’ she said gently.

John followed her meekly to the waiting car.

In the recently screened-off section of the site Dr Bowman smiled as he bent over the exposed skeleton.

‘Well, I can just about say with certainty that she’s dead.’

‘She?’

‘Oh yes, it’s a she. And there’s still some fragments of hair and clothing. Look. Quite well preserved. Doesn’t look modern, I can tell you that much. Not much else, though, at the moment.’ He looked at Neil. ‘You’re sure this wasn’t a burial ground of some kind?’

‘You’re standing in what was the cellar of a late-sixteenth-century merchant’s house. The shop would have been at the front over there with a parlour behind, then the courtyard,
then the kitchens and warehouse at the back. Look, you can see the remains of the well in what would have been the courtyard.’ The doctor nodded. ‘I found this near the hand; it might have been buried with her.’ Neil held out a coin, not yet cleaned up. ‘We’ve photographed it
in situ
but I thought I’d have a look at it. Might help with the date.’