The Merchant's House (17 page)

The man stood back and held the door open. As his anger diminished, he seemed to deflate like a burst football and turn into a pathetic-looking man in a grey cardigan. ‘You’d better come in. I’m sorry about… but we get so many people knocking on the door: double glazing; burglar alarms; those lads with big bags who say they’re unemployed and try and sell you things. I thought you were Jehovah’s witnesses. Er, I hope …’

‘That’s quite all right, sir,’ said Wesley politely. After the embarrassing start, this one would be only too eager to oblige. ‘We’re making enquiries about a lady who lives at this address, a Sharon Carteret.’

The man shook his head. ‘There’s nobody of that name here. There’s a Mrs Hughes lives on the other two floors. It’s her house. She just rents out the bottom floor as a self-contained flat. She’s a widow, lives on her own. But there’s no one called Sharon.’

‘How long have you lived here, Mr, er …’

‘Jackson, Dennis Jackson. I moved in at the end of August. Me and the wife, we, er, split up. She got the house, the lot. You know how it is.’

Wesley nodded sympathetically. ‘Yes, sir. So you can’t help us?’

‘Sorry. No. Your best bet is to ask Mrs Hughes. I think it was a young woman lived here before me. I don’t really know. Mrs Hughes’ll be able to tell you.’

Wesley thanked Jackson, who looked relieved when they went back to the front door and rang the bell for the other flat.

Mrs Hughes was a tall woman: a woman possessed of a natural elegance. Her clothes were expensive; Jaeger probably, thought Rachel. Her steel-grey hair was cut in an immaculate bob. She looked at Wesley enquiringly, fingering the Hermès scarf at her throat. Wesley introduced himself and they were invited in.

The living room on the first floor matched its owner. It was simply decorated, the wall dotted with muted water-colours. They were asked to sit down on the soft leather chesterfield but they were not offered tea. Rachel produced Denise Wellthorne’s sketch and watched Mrs Hughes’s face as she studied it.

‘Yes, this does look a little like Sharon – the girl who lived downstairs.’ She handed the sketch back to Rachel. ‘Since my husband died, this place has been too big for me and my son’s married and lives up north, so I had the bottom floor made into a self-contained flat.’

Wesley spoke. ‘Could you tell us about this Sharon, Mrs Hughes? Did she live alone? How long did she live here?’

‘She moved in around three and a half years ago. She seemed a very nice girl, very respectable. She worked as a secretary in a bank or building society, not sure which – came with the best references from her employers. She seemed such a quiet girl. I like my tenants to be quiet, Sergeant. When they’re living in such close proximity, that sort of thing’s important.’ Wesley nodded. ‘As for living alone, well…’ Mrs Hughes’s lips tightened. ‘She did at first, then this boyfriend of hers virtually moved in – a real ne’r-do-well. If he worked I don’t know what he did, and I heard he was in debt – gambling, I believe.’

‘Did he actually move in? Live here?’

‘I shouldn’t have allowed that. He lived somewhere in
Morbay, I believe. No doubt paid for by the state,’ she added bitterly. ‘But he spent a lot of time here. I felt most uncomfortable about it but the place wasn’t let furnished so there wasn’t much I could do.’

‘Did Sharon have a baby, Mrs Hughes?’ Rachel asked casually.

The woman looked indignant. ‘No. No, of course not. It’s a strict rule in the lease – no children.’

‘And why did she move out?’

‘She didn’t confide her reasons to me and I didn’t ask.’

‘This boyfriend, was he on the scene all the time? Till she moved out?’

‘As far as I know. I didn’t enquire into her private life. He came and went.’

‘Did they have any rows?’ asked Wesley. ‘Any shouting, threats?’

‘I can’t say I heard anything if they did.’

Wesley leaned forward. ‘Do you know the boyfriend’s name? Can you describe him?’

‘I think his name was Chris. Don’t know his surname, of course, as we were never formally introduced. Dark hair, average height… and he wore an earring,’ she added with distaste.

‘Did Sharon leave a forwarding address?’

‘No. She left no address. I presume she’s moved in somewhere with her, er, boyfriend.’

Mrs Hughes’s curiosity overcame her composure. ‘Can you tell me what this is about?’

‘We think Sharon may have been murdered, Mrs Hughes.’

Wesley watched her face. Her expression gave nothing away.

‘We’d like to trace this boyfriend of hers urgently. Do you think you could help to build a picture of him?’

‘Oh no, I’m sure I couldn’t. I never actually saw him close to. I could only give the most general description. I’m afraid I’m not very observant…’

‘You noticed the earring,’ said Rachel sharply.

‘Well, you couldn’t really miss that sort of thing, could you? All I can say is that he had dark hair, medium length; average height. I really can’t tell you any more. I’m sorry.’

It was clear that no more information was forthcoming so Wesley and Rachel took their leave politely, but with hints that they might to talk to Mrs Hughes again.

As they walked off down the street, she stood at the living-room window, face impassive, watching them go. When they had disappeard from view she turned, heart pounding, and poured herself a whisky from the cut-glass decanter on the sideboard. She needed to steady her nerves.

I did vow never more to have dealings with Jennet. I did resolve to send her from the house but I cannot now help myself. Last night I did go to her chamber and as she watched me enter she did take off her nightgown and she stood naked before me. Then in her arms I did know such sweet pleasure and she did give me all that I desired. It was past midnight when I did take my leave of her and returned to my wife’s bed. Elizabeth was asleep and suspected nothing.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,
7 June 1623

The jeweller recognised Darren. He was one of that little gang who hung around the Embankment with their metal detectors when the tide was out.

As the boy left – without the ring; that was being kept for ‘valuation’ – the jeweller looked through the pile of cards and papers by the side of the till. Where was the number that young policeman had given him?

But before he picked up the phone he studied the ring again. It was a nice piece; very old, possibly even Elizabethan or Jacobean. He looked at the stones, admiring their undamaged settings. But it was the inscription that intrigued him most: ‘To Jennet with all my thanks. JB.’ It was quite clear; not worn.

He dialled the number of the police station while Darren,
hands in pockets, strolled down the street towards the Embankment, kicking an empty Coke can in front of him.

Gerry Heffernan sat back in his executive swivel chair. Things were moving. The identification was positive.

In common with practice in many offices, the employees of Tradmouth Models each had their own mug for use at tea breaks. Sharon hadn’t bothered to take hers with her when she left and nobody else had used it. The fingerprints on the mug matched those of the dead girl. Her prints were on the photos of Karen too, and they had found her dentist, a man over at Queenswear: the dental records matched. Heffernan cursed himself for wasting so much time chasing after Karen Giordino. But, he thought philosophically, these things happen. They were on the right track now.

At least Mrs Giordino had gone back to Manchester happy. Karen had relented and grudgingly met her mother, whose tears of joy at their reunion had seemed pathetic in view of the daughter’s attitude. John Fielding had also been treated with contempt. She mocked him for fussing; for going to pieces; for being so stupid when he knew perfectly well that she was in France with Maurice. He’d done it all on purpose; he was jealous. John had hung his head and said nothing. That was a relationship, Heffernan thought, that might not weather the twin storms of boredom and Maurice.

Heffernan had seen no point in detaining Karen and John further: he could charge them with nothing as wasting police time is an offence only if the culprit does it deliberately. They had returned to their flat in Morbay.

The inspector looked up as Wesley walked into the office.

‘We’ve been in touch with Sharon Carteret’s bank, sir. They’re faxing her account details through. Her salary was paid directly into her bank account so the agency had the details.’

‘Good. Modern technology has some uses, then. Go on. Anything else?’

‘I’ve got Steve and Rachel trying to trace her new address and making enquiries about this Chris. If he’s unemployed he must sign on. We’ve tried all the Carterets in the phone
book – all two of them – and nobody’s heard of a Sharon. And I’m arranging statements from the staff at the agency to see if we can get anything on her family and friends.’

‘Good. Shouldn’t take too long to turn something up.’

‘No man is an island, sir.’

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself, Wes.’ He looked up at his sergeant, serious. ‘I’ve not forgotten your appointment tomorrow morning. Take as long as you like. Hope it goes well.’

‘Thanks, sir. I’m hoping it won’t take that long.’ He gathered his thoughts. ‘I was just thinking that Sharon moved out of her flat around the same time as she gave up her job. Why? What had happened? Did she intend to move out of the area?’

‘Good point, Wesley.’ Heffernan stood up. ‘I’ll think about it over my dinner.’

Wesley forsook the station canteen for a lonely sandwich. His desk was piled high with paperwork; reports to be gone through; statements to be looked at, filtered for tiny nuggets of information. There would be no lunch–time trip to the dig. He would have to wait to find out how Neil had fared at the museum.

In the corner of the room a discreet electronic bleep heralded the arrival of the fax from the bank, strangely enough the same branch as Karen Giordino had used. Copies of statements crept off the machine. Wesley gathered them up and took them to his desk. There was a new address; an address in Morbay. He wrote it down.

Wesley was no accountant but even to his untrained eye there was something odd about the statements; something that didn’t fit with what he knew about Sharon Carteret. Her salary was there and a regular sum out each month – presumably her rent. But in addition to the salary another sum of two hundred pounds was paid in regularly every month, the words ‘cash or cheque’ written by the entry. Wesley wondered about the source of this extra income. A second job, perhaps? Some sort of investment? There were also statements for a deposit account – a very healthy deposit account. Wesley felt a stab of envy. The Peterson
family fortune had been depleted by the move from London and Pam’s enforced unemployment, not to mention the medical bills they would have to face from the Morbay Clinic. Yet here was a young woman, a poorly paid secretary, with a substantial five–figure sum in her bank account. It might well be an inheritance or a win on the pools, but it was worth investigating.

The bank had sent statements only for the past year. He would pay them a visit and delve further into their records. He rang the bank and made an appointment to see the manager at three; next he made a call to Rachel to give her the address on the statement. Then he looked at the pile of paperwork on his desk and despaired.

Stan Jenkins was still wrestling bravely with salads. Heffernan had to admire the man; he would have given up after the first day.

‘How’s the sailing, Gerry?’ asked Stan as they sat down at a coveted corner table. ‘Must say I can’t understand you nautical types; prefer golf myself.’

‘If you think I’m odd, Stan, you should see my sergeant: he goes around digging things up. A mate of his has just unearthed two skeletons. As if we didn’t have enough on our plates …’

‘Speak for yourself,’ said Stan, staring at his lettuce. ‘Maybe the murder rate’s not high enough for him here. He’ll be used to London. You don’t want to go encouraging him, Gerry, or we’ll be rushed off our feet.’

‘How’s it going? Any developments?’

‘No sign of Jonathon, if that’s what you mean.’

‘So your lady friend didn’t come up with the goods?’

‘Oh, her. She’s left me alone for a couple of days, thank God.’

‘Did you follow up that sighting?’

‘We had to. Turned out to be a flat rented by a young couple. They had a little boy about that age. My lady friend, as you call her, saw him with his dad. Mind you, that’s exactly what I was expecting.’

‘Did you see the kid?’

‘No. They’d moved away. But the next–door neighbours filled us in. They said the kid was the image of his father.’

‘Oh well, keep on trying.’

‘Mrs Berrisford, the mother, is coming down here tomorrow. I can’t see any point but what can I say?’

Heffernan looked at his colleague sympathetically. The man was clearly troubled. He again offered a silent word of thanks that it wasn’t his case.

Wesley Peterson prided himself on being methodical; on keeping on top of his paperwork. But today the paperwork was keeping on top of him – and the appointment at the clinic tomorrow wouldn’t help. He resolved to take some work home with him and get it finished that evening. Neil’s research would have to wait.