The Merchant's House (6 page)

Johnson stationed himself behind a tall bush and sighed with relief as his bladder lost its heavy burden. He was glad it wasn’t the height of the tourist season: discreet urination
would be difficult with lines of walkers trudging by, however high the bushes.

But there
was
someone. He could hear the crack of undergrowth and the murmur of voices. He decided to stay where he was. The sight of a policeman emerging from the bushes might alarm some innocent walker; besides, he could see everything from his hidden vantage point.

He watched as the young couple stopped and opened the carrier bag. They turned it over, careful not to touch its contents. Something fell to the ground at the foot of a high hawthorn hedge and they kicked it under the foliage so whatever it was was well hidden. PC Johnson switched on his radio and called the station.

It was ten o’clock that night when Donna and Sludge returned to their caravan. They had waited for Julie and Dave but there had been no sign of them. Sludge showed no curiosity about their whereabouts. They just hadn’t bothered turning up; had found something more exciting to do. People move on.

But Donna, unconvinced by Sludge’s explanation, felt uneasy. Something had happened to Dave and Julie. She opened a can of cider and tried not to think about it.

Elizabeth’s sickness doth not abate. In the church on Sunday she felt much discomfort and kept to her bed for the remainder of the day.

In church I prayed the Lord to forgive my weakness. There is a small hole in the wall in the empty chamber at the top of the house next to where Jennet sleeps. I am drawn there to watch her in secret. When she doth undress she fires my lust and I cannot help myself. I go to the spying hole like one that hath no will of his own. To see her naked is my only desire and to know that she doth not suspect inflames the lust within me.

Oh Lord, forgive me. It must cease forthwith.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,
20 March 1623

On Wednesday morning Wesley set off for work early: a murder investigation generates work as a nuclear explosion generates heat.

He was surprised to see Neil at his post so early, although there was no sign of Jane and Matt. He crossed over the road and called his greetings through the wire fence.

‘Come in, man. Don’t stand there like a spectator at a zoo.’

Wesley pushed the wire gate open and entered the site.

‘Coming for a drink tonight? Same time, same place.
I’ve been doing a bit of research … thought you might be interested.’

Wesley was, but a glance at his watch told him Neil’s information would have to wait for another time.

‘The place was built in 1585, three years before ships sailed from here to fight the Armada.’ Neil’s eyes shone. History, the sense of great events experienced by a location, had always set his imagination alight. That was why he was a good archaeologist. Wesley looked at his watch again. Once Neil got going there was no stopping him. ‘Built by a Thomas Banized. In the family for two centuries – merchants involved in the Newfoundland trade.’

‘Rich?’ Wesley began to be infected by Neil’s enthusiasm. Just for that moment the Banized family loomed more real than the dead woman at Little Tradmouth.

‘Very comfortably off, I’d say.’ Neil looked about him. ‘Nice place this in its day. There are some Victorian photographs I’ve seen, and Matt’s drawing up a proper plan. You’ll have to have a look when it’s done. We might even get as far as a computer simulation of the place, if we’re lucky. I’m having a look in the church registers tomorrow, see what I can find out about the Banizeds. Look, Wes, I can see you’re in a rush… see you tonight, maybe? And see if you can get Pam to come.’

‘I’ll try.’

They parted with a wave. It might do Pam good to get out, to see Neil again. She seemed a bit better since the phone call telling her about the appointment at the clinic, but still jumpy, nervous. He’d play things by ear.

‘Just tell him what you told me.’

‘But it’s embarrassing.’ Wesley shook his head, beginning to regret confiding in Rachel… anyone. It was a personal matter. He also felt a twinge of conscience. Was he being disloyal discussing his wife’s problems with an attractive young woman?

‘You’ll have to tell him something. You’ll need the time off for the appointments.’

Wesley looked through the glass partition at Heffernan
in his office. He saw the inspector put the phone down. He was smiling; in a good mood. Now would be the time.

Heffernan emerged from his office, the grin still illuminating his chubby face.

‘They’ve found it – the handbag. And two suspects to go with it. They were brought in after you’d gone home yesterday. They fit Dorothy Truscot’s description perfectly, and they were caught trying to dump the handbag back on the murder scene.’

‘Could I have a quick word, sir?’

‘Go on, then, I’m listening.’

‘I need to take Friday afternoon off, sir. I know it’s a bad time, but…’

‘What for?’

‘An appointment…’

‘What kind of appointment? With your hairdresser? Dentist? What’s the latest these days? Personal fitness coach?’

‘A medical appointment, sir.’

‘What’s the big secret? Not got the clap, have you? Nothing to be shy about. I saw a lot of it in the navy.’

Wesley didn’t know whether or not to take Heffernan seriously. He swallowed hard. He might as well get it over with.

‘It’s my wife who’s got the appointment and I’ve got to go with her. We’ve been trying to start a family for a while and…’

Wesley braced himself for another joke at his expense, but he saw Heffernan’s expression soften.

‘Look, I know it’s an awkward time and we’re …’

‘No problem. I’m sure the criminals of Tradmouth and district won’t go on overtime just ‘cause you’ve got a few hours off.’

Wesley thanked him and turned to go.

‘Wesley.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Best of luck.’

The phone rang and Heffernan answered it.

‘Right, Wes. They’re down in the interview room. Come on. This could be interesting.’

* * *

Julie sat on the plastic chair, biting her nails. She had seen police interview rooms in countless television programmes, but she found the reality of the spartan surroundings – the beige-painted brick walls decorated only by an institutional clock – unnerving. This was it, reality; this was trouble.

Why were they keeping her so long? She could hear the blood pumping in her ears. Where was Dave?

She crumpled the empty plastic cup in front of her and the noise reverberated around the room. The policewoman by the door looked at her disapprovingly.

The young black man who entered the room greeted the policewoman with a nod and sat down opposite Julie. He gave her a quick sympathetic smile. A solicitor. He could be the duty solicitor they’d mentioned. She closed her eyes in silent thanks.

‘Have you made a statement?’ His voice was soft and well educated.

‘Yeah … she’s got it.’ The policewoman produced the handwritten forms and gave them to the newcomer, who put them on the table in front of him. Julie sat in silence while he read them through. When he had finished he looked up at her and smiled again. She felt almost relaxed.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Peterson and I’d just like to go over your statement with you, if I may.’

Julie gave the plastic cup another crunch. No rescuer, no one to extricate her from the situation – just another policeman.

Wesley let Julie go through her story without interruption, only prompting her where necessary to clarify the odd point. By and large his instinct told him that she was telling the truth. But she was hiding something, and he suspected that he knew what it was.

Rachel found Dave only too anxious to talk. She had to ask him to slow down at times so that she could get the sequence of events clear in her mind. He was keen to get it all off his chest. Of course, it hadn’t been his idea to take the bag. He had wanted to leave it where it was. And he had insisted that they return it as soon as he heard about the murder.
Yes, they had taken the money. He was sorry: it wasn’t his idea.

‘What money?’ asked Rachel pointedly.

‘How are our two guests?’ Heffernan sat back in his swivel chair which tilted dangerously under his weight.

‘Talkative, sir. I couldn’t shut him up.’ Rachel grinned. She had rather enjoyed her encounter with the suntanned young Australian.

‘On the whole I think she’s telling the truth,’ Wesley added. ‘But I get the feeling she might be leaving something out.’

The inspector read the two statements in silence.

“They’re the same but for one thing.’

“The money, sir?’ Rachel had read the statements through already and had noticed the anomaly.

‘Right. They nicked it when they found the bag, heard about the murder then panicked.’

‘So why didn’t they just get rid of it, chuck it away anywhere? Get out of the area?’ asked Wesley.

Heffernan grinned. ‘First of all we had their description and they thought they could be identified, but I also detect a small-town Sunday school upbringing here. They’re out of their depth. It’s one thing to give in to temptation and walk off with a bag that’s just lying there unclaimed, but it’s another to bugger up a murder inquiry by destroying vital evidence. One of them’s got a conscience. Like they say in their statements – they realised it was important but didn’t want to get involved.’

‘So who’s the one with the conscience?’

‘Him, I reckon. You go and have a word, Wesley. See what else you can find out. And get us a coffee from the machine, will you, Rach. I’m spitting feathers here.’

Rachel’s lips tightened. She hadn’t joined the CID to run around getting coffee for men; but as the junior officer present, she supposed she didn’t have much choice. She left the office slowly and resentfully.

‘What have I said, Wes?’ Heffernan asked as he watched her go.

‘No idea.’ If his boss didn’t know, he wasn’t going to enlighten him.

‘She’s a good copper but she doesn’t half get some moods on her.’ He looked at the handbag in front of them on the desk encased in a plastic bag. ‘We’ll wait till she comes back to go through it, eh?’ He began to stare at the bag as if he were willing it to give up its secrets.

Wesley interrupted his thoughts. ‘Heard anything new about Jonathon Berrisford … that missing kid, sir?’

Heffernan sighed and looked up. ‘I was talking to the super earlier. Some woman reckons she’s seen him with a bloke in Morbay. She’s convinced it’s him … keeps ringing in.’

‘Have there been many sightings?’

‘The usual… from John O’Groats to Land’s End; usual crop abroad and all. Lord Lucan eat your heart out.’

‘So why’s this woman so convinced?’

‘Stan Jenkins is interviewing her later, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up. I’ve been around too long to believe in fairytale endings, if you know what I mean.’

Rachel entered bearing a plastic cup filled with a nondescript steaming liquid which she deposited rather too firmly on the inspector’s desk, so that some of it spilt onto the papers beneath. Heffernan mopped up the spilled coffee with a grey crumpled handkerchief. The phone rang and he picked up the receiver with his free hand.

‘Another one for Steve Carstairs,’ he said as he rang off. ‘Building materials nicked again, from those new houses they’re building up by the marina at Saltway this time; they’re getting around. Tell Steve to get over there right away, will you, Rach, and tell him to take a couple of uniformed bods with him. He’ll need to do the rounds of the builders’ yards… see if any of this stuff is turning up in the system yet. Okay?’

Rachel bit her lip and left in silence.

The bag sat there on the table; fat; bloated with potential information. When Rachel returned, Heffernan stood up and looked at it with the air of a Lord Mayor about to cut a ribbon and declare something open.

He drew the contents out carefully: a make-up bag stuffed
with lipsticks, foundations and eyeshadows; a leather purse, empty; tissues; a solitary house key. Nothing with a name on; no cheque book, diary or driving licence. Heffernan looked to Rachel for inspiration.

‘Where’s her diary, her address book …?’

Rachel studied the bag. It was small, neat and looked expensive. ‘There wouldn’t be room in it for a lot of stuff. It’s the type I’d keep for best.’

‘So she was out to make an impression …’ There was a small tear in the bag’s lining. He put his hand in it and heard the fabric rip as the size of the hole increased. He felt inside the tear and produced a strip of passport-sized photographs, a little bent around the edges. He passed them to Wesley.

‘I reckon this is her. The hair’s the right colour.’

Wesley stared at the pictures, Rachel peering over his arm. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen her before somewhere, but I can’t think …’

Heffernan and Rachel stared at him, awaiting the revelation which, after a few seconds of agonised thought, did not arrive.