The Merchant's House (5 page)

‘Never mind. Anything else?’

‘No sign of the murder weapon. But if it was chucked over the cliff, the tide would have carried it away.’

‘Could have been caught in all that vegetation on the way down. Ever do any climbing at that university of yours?’

‘Can’t stand heights, sir.’

‘There’s a DC over at Neston who climbs. Can’t remember his name but Rachel might know. See if you can sort something out. Any luck with that reconstruction expert at the university?’

‘He’s away on a lecture tour in the States. I could contact some other places if you want.’

‘No. Leave it for now. We’ll see if anything turns up first.’

The door opened.

‘Come in, Rach.’ Heffernan looked her up and down. ‘It doesn’t look any different.’

‘What doesn’t?’

‘Your hair. I thought you were getting it done.’

‘Not at those prices I wasn’t. Looks as though our murder victim didn’t get hers done there either. They said she hadn’t been there. I even saw the Artistic Director, as they call him – Mr Carl.’

Heffernan snorted. ‘Mr Carl? You mean Charlie Grubbing? We did him for drink-driving about eighteen months back. Did you try anywhere else?’

‘Every hairdresser in Tradmouth, sir. Nothing. I could try Neston next.’

‘Good idea.’

‘There was one thing, sir. That Mr Carl … Charlie Grubbing; he seemed nervous about something.’

‘Did he, now? Let’s hope he hasn’t been driving that BMW of his while he’s still banned. If only the good ladies of Tradmouth knew that their hair was in such reckless hands. Anything from forensic, Rach?’

‘I’ll get on to them again.’

‘Ta. And have a look through her clothes; see if they give you any ideas. Where she shopped, that sort of thing. Apply a bit of feminine intuition.’

‘Now, sir, we agreed. No sexist remarks.’

‘That wasn’t sexist, Rach, that was a compliment.’ He turned to Wesley. ‘Talking of sexism, have you got shut of those magazines yet?’

‘I’d forgotten all about them.’

‘Well, don’t let Steve Carstairs get a sniff of them or it’ll give him ideas, and we wouldn’t want that; he’s got enough as it is. Chuck ‘em out, Wes, before your wife decides to visit you at work and thinks you’ve taken up a new hobby. How’s she settling in, by the way?’

‘Fine. She’s looking for a job supply teaching – help her get to know the area before she applies for something permanent.’

Heffernan looked up. ‘My Kathy used to work for one of those nursing agencies. Similar thing – got sent to different hospitals.’ He smiled at this memory of the past, then his face clouded, almost imperceptibly.

As Wesley followed Rachel out of the office, he looked back. The inspector had got something out of his drawer and was staring at it blankly. Wesley thought it was a photograph.

The small town of Neston, eight miles downriver from Tradmouth, attracted followers of alternative philosophies as a flower attracts bees. New Age bookshops, healing centres and occult emporia stood alongside the butcher’s, baker’s and gift shops of the steeply sloping high street. Jangling metal hung from the pierced ears and noses of the young incomers, while the old ladies of the town looked on with tolerant amusement.

But the sprawling site just outside the ancient town walls, where the travellers parked their ancient buses and fifth-hand caravans, was not so well tolerated by the locals.

In one of the caravans, a rusting box of 1960s vintage, Julie Day wriggled into her denim jeans while her companion watched appreciatively from the grey-sheeted bed. He patted the vacant pillow.

‘Come back to bed, Jules.’ He reached out and touched her naked midriff. She moved away.

‘Sludge said the flea market’s worth a visit. We’ve got to get there before it shuts.’

Dave lay down again, defeated. He could hear Sludge’s gentle snoring from the other end of the caravan.

The tattered curtain that separated their bedroom from the living area parted and a kohl-eyed face, bejewelled with a jangling nose-ring, appeared.

‘Jules, are you coming or what?’

‘Yeah, right, Donna. I’ll be out in a minute.’

Donna withdrew with her habitual expression of boredom. Julie had seen nothing like Donna, with her black-beaded hair and clothes to match, in her native Wongatoa. But then that was why she was travelling: to see the world; to broaden the mind. Everything at the travellers’ camp was new to her: the beautiful unkempt children running wild; the scruffy mongrels on leads made of string. She was glad they had met up with Sludge and Donna. It was one more experience for their album.

‘Sludge is still asleep,’ pronounced Donna flatly. ‘It’s time we went.’

Dave reached across lazily and hit the button of a battered radio. It was the news.

‘Switch that off, Dave.’

But Dave was listening. He held his hand up. ‘Shhh.’

Julie sat down on the end of the bed. Donna, bored, retreated behind the curtain.

‘You heard what it said, Jules. Police want to interview a young couple seen …’

‘So?’

‘So! That’s us. We were there. That old woman with the dog saw us. They’re looking for us.’

They studied each other. ‘You had it last, Jules. Where did you put that bag?’

There was no privacy in the caravan. Sludge had been awakened by their conversation and had drifted through from his bedroom, bleary-eyed.

Julie scrabbled under the bed and pulled out a small black
leather bag; quilted; expensive. ‘I’ll get rid of it. Chuck it away.’

‘We can’t do that. It might be important evidence.’ Dave, the good citizen.

‘So?’ Sludge opened the can of cider he was holding and took a swig.

‘What are the police going to think if we come forward now, Dave? And what about the money? Sludge is right.’ Julie looked at Donna for support, but Donna lit the strangely thick cigarette she had just rolled and said nothing. ‘How can we walk into a police station? Just think, Dave. We could land up in trouble, and that’s the last thing we need.’

Dave stared at the bag. Julie had a point. They had planned to move on in a couple of days, and he had no more wish to get involved than Julie had. The radio news had said they could be important witnesses. The bag could be important, could help to trap a killer. He put his head in his hands and tried to come up with an answer.

‘Just forget about it.’ Donna’s voice was slurred in a haze of smoke.

Dave looked up. ‘We’ll put it back.’

Julie rolled her eyes. ‘Get real, Dave. I’m not going back there.’

Sludge looked up from studying the label on his can of cider. ‘So what’s with this bag anyway? What’s in it?’

It was Julie who answered. ‘Purse with thirty quid in it, make-up, key, few photos down the lining. We used the money … ran a bit short.’

‘You’ve got to get rid of it. Think of the hassle.’ Sludge shook the can. It was empty; he chucked it aside with contempt.

‘It said on the radio that the police haven’t identified this body yet. We’ve got to take it back.’

Julie looked at Dave. She’d always known he had a stubborn streak. ‘Okay, Dave. You win. We’ll take it back there and hide it under some bush. They’ll think they’ve missed it.’

Sludge smirked unpleasantly. ‘Yeah, put it under some bush and if they find it some pig’ll get a right bollocking for not seeing it earlier. I like it.’

‘Okay,’ said Dave, relieved. ‘We’ll go this afternoon. It’s the best thing, believe me. Then we can get out … move on.’

Sludge and Julie grunted reluctant approval. Donna, eyes closed in oblivion, had no opinion whatsoever.

The kettle was boiling. Pamela Peterson watched the steam rise and frost half of the kitchen window. She was starting work the next day, covering for someone’s maternity leave. This would be her last chance for a while to drink tea at leisure in the afternoon. But she needed to get back to work … to take her mind off things.

They had promised to phone today. She looked at the telephone on the wall and picked up the receiver, just to make sure it was still working: it always was.

Pam carried the tray through to the living room and put it down on the coffee table. She looked at her guest; her new neighbour who had called to introduce herself. A baby, tucked discreetly inside its mother’s sweatshirt, made little snuffling noises as it sucked.

The neighbour, a young woman about Pam’s age, looked up and saw that Pam was staring.

‘I’m sorry. Er, you don’t mind? He was hungry and I didn’t want him to bawl the place down,’ she said, hoping she hadn’t caused offence.

‘No, no. Of course not.’

‘Only some people are a bit … you know.’

The baby disengaged itself and gave a satisfied sigh.

‘I was really pleased when you moved in next door.’ The neighbour had the rare knack of talking intelligibly while munching a chocolate digestive. ‘It’s about time we had someone young on the road. It’s been full of geriatrics for years. Good for baby-sitters, though – all those frustrated grannies.’

Pam smiled weakly.

The neighbour glanced at her slyly, cradling the relaxed and sated baby in her arms. ‘I saw your husband going out this morning.’ She raised her eyebrows, a comment or a question left unsaid. ‘What does he do?’

‘He’s a policeman … CID.’

‘Oh,’ mouthed the neighbour, obviously surprised. ‘You’ve no kids, then?’

Pam shook her head and looked away.

‘I suppose you’ll wait till you’ve settled in. It must be a big upheaval moving from London.’ She looked at the baby, now asleep. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I must get back. My sister’s calling round in half an hour. Thanks for the tea. It was really nice to meet you.’ She stood up. ‘Can you hold him a minute while I get my things together? I’ve left his bag in the hall.’

She passed the sleeping bundle to Pam, who took it gingerly. Left alone, she gazed down at the tiny bald creature in her arms and ran her finger fleetingly across the soft, flawless cheek. She could smell him: that vanilla smell that babies possess to enslave their mothers and other members of their court. She felt him move softly against her breast, and the tears started to roll down her face.

Then the phone shattered the silence. Pam tore a tissue from the box on the windowsill and wiped her eyes.

Julie, Donna, Dave and Sludge sat at the back of the single-decker bus, filled with pensioners making full use of their cheap bus passes and a smattering of harassed mothers with noisy, dripping-nosed children. The other passengers carefully avoided staring at the chains dripping from Donna’s nose, apart from one dirty-faced toddler who studied them earnestly throughout the journey. The English public transport user prefers to ignore the existence of anything out of the ordinary.

When the bus stopped at the harbour, they were the last to get off. The driver watched the four disappear into the distance, shook his head and mumbled something to himself about National Service.

They strolled along the harbour embankment, too preoccupied to enjoy the watery September sun. The busy craft plied like scuttling insects up and down the shimmering river. There was more activity on the water than on the out-of-season riverfront. The cobbled embankment was quiet.

‘Is it far?’ Sludge spoke for the first time since they had set out from Neston.

‘Fair walk … past the castle and along the cliff path,’ replied Dave, matter-of-fact.

Sludge pulled a face. ‘We’ll stay here in the town, eh, Donn?’

Donna nodded in agreement. She hadn’t realised that the expedition might involve a long walk; somehow she had imagined the spot to be on a bus route, the idea of walking for pleasure being incomprehensible to her. The two couples parted, agreeing to meet later at the bus stop.

Dave and Julie strode through Tradmouth’s narrow streets, having decided to forgo the wave-tossed excitement of the little castle ferry owing to lack of funds. The day was pleasant, and Dave began to enjoy himself as they passed the castle walls and headed for open country. Then the sight of the carrier bag Julie was carrying reminded him of why they were there. It would all be over soon; out of their hands; not their responsibility. They had wiped the bag carefully; removed all possible fingerprints. There would be nothing to connect them with it. They would dump it near where they had found it and get away from the place as fast as they could. They wouldn’t want to hang about anyway – not after what had happened there.

The police tapes were still hanging there, marking the spot. Dave looked at Julie, who responded with a nervous smile. There was nobody about.

The six pints PC Johnson had had in the Red Bull with his mates the night before were still having an unfortunate effect on his bladder, as was the flask of tea thoughtfully brought to him by Mrs Hutchins from the farm that lunch-time. He was glad of the abundance of bushes.

He was bored. He had counted the boats on the sea, tried to become an avid birdwatcher, even told himself that he was lucky to be enjoying a beautiful bit of Britain’s coastline and getting paid for it. But the inspector knew best, he supposed: if he wanted the site watching, it had to be watched.