The Plague Maiden (10 page)

Fred Sommerby was at home. He answered the door in cardigan and carpet slippers, towering above both policemen as he stood
holding the front door as though ready to slam it in their faces.

Heffernan showed his warrant card and announced himself. Wesley did likewise and let the boss do the talking.

‘We’d like a quick word, Mr Sommerby. Nothing to worry about.’ Heffernan stepped forward and Fred Sommerby had no choice but
to move aside. ‘Thanks. Sorry to hear about your wife, by the way,’ Heffernan said, barging his way into a lounge full of
clashing patterns – red swirly carpet, green floral wallpaper and a large sofa covered with a faded flowery cloth: the result
was slightly nauseating and the low ceiling made it seem oppressive, like a cell either decorated by a jailer with appalling
taste or carefully calculated to drive its inmate to the point of insanity. Sommerby bent and switched on the gas fire. Tea
wasn’t offered.

Heffernan sat down without being invited. ‘They reckon your wife died of botulism poisoning.’

Wesley watched the old man’s face but his expression gave nothing away.

‘Do they?’ He didn’t sound particularly interested.

‘The public health people’ll want to know what she’s been eating and where she got it from, you do realise that, don’t you?
If she’s bought something contaminated, they’ll want to know if anyone else has bought any … prevent an outbreak, like.’ Heffernan
sat forward eagerly, waiting for some response. He didn’t get one.

‘Can you tell us what your wife ate before she was taken ill?’ Wesley asked, earning himself a hostile look.

‘She ate the same as me.’

‘How can you know that? She might have eaten something when she was out of the house. Where did she go that day?’

‘Nowhere. She doesn’t … didn’t go anywhere without me.’

‘Did she go shopping?’

‘She wasn’t out for long … only went across the road. She didn’t have time to eat anything. I’d have known.’

Wesley had an uneasy feeling this was true, that Edith Sommerby had lived like some sort of slave, controlled by this overbearing
man. But maybe she had her small rebellions. He had to find out.

‘According to the sister at the hospital there were a number of unexplained injuries on your wife’s body. Can you cast any
light on that … sir?’ He added the ‘sir’ as an afterthought, an attempt to hide his contempt for the man.

‘Mind your own bloody business,’ was the reply.

Gerry Heffernan stood up. ‘We’d like to have a quick look at your kitchen.’

Sommerby looked as though he was about to object.

‘Just a quick look. If it’s not us it’ll be the public health people and they’ll be a lot more thorough … wouldn’t surprise
me if they half demolished the place taking their little samples with their test tubes and what have you. If we find what
we’re looking for it’ll save you all that and we promise we’ll leave everything as we found it, won’t we, Inspector Peterson?’
He grinned wickedly. Wesley thought
he might be pushing things a bit far but he knew better than to utter the magic words ‘search warrant’.

Sommerby said nothing and, taking silence as consent, Heffernan marched straight to the kitchen, Wesley following. Sommerby
stood at the door and glowered as they both pulled on plastic gloves and went through the motions of searching the cupboards
and fridge.

The letters had mentioned jam. That meant they were looking for a fairly new jar, bought at Huntings recently. After searching
the cupboards they turned their attentions to the fridge. There was milk, butter, eggs and a packet of cooked ham. When Sommerby
was asked whether there was anything his wife had eaten that he hadn’t, he had said there was nothing. They’d eaten the same
things. And the way he said it suggested that Edith had had little choice in the matter.

Wesley looked around the kitchen in despair. Back to square one. Perhaps Edith had eaten something from some café or food
stall … a small act of defiance against her tyrannical husband. Perhaps it was all a coincidence and her death had nothing
to do with Huntings after all.

Heffernan had just drawn a curtain aside to reveal a small alcove. Inside the alcove stood an ironing board, a Hoover, a mop
and bucket and a small tartan shopping trolley, well used with worn tyres that would have been illegal if they’d been on a
motor vehicle. The trolley had had a lot of use, presumably backwards and forwards to Huntings most days. Wesley, standing
beside his boss, imagined that Edith Sommerby would make the most of these little journeys: they were probably the only times
when she could escape her husband’s watchful eyes. Perhaps she had used the time to venture farther afield. But she wouldn’t
have been able to go far, as he guessed that Fred would probably have timed her outings. As he looked down on the trolley
he felt a wave of sympathy for Edith, who had been as much a prisoner in her way as anyone enjoying Her Majesty’s hospitality
in one of the nation’s jails. And Edith had committed no crime.

Heffernan was about to draw the curtain across again when Wesley stepped forward and took hold of the trolley’s handle.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Just seeing if there’s anything inside.’

Heffernan shrugged. He assumed Edith would have used the trolley for transportation rather than storage, but he said nothing
as Wesley knelt down and delved into its depths.

Wesley felt around for a few seconds and pulled something out. A jar of jam … Huntings’ own brand. It had already been opened
but was still almost full. Wesley wondered why Edith hadn’t put it away in the cupboard. As he turned he saw that Fred Sommerby
was watching him, glowering with anger.

‘Can you explain why this jam is in the trolley, Mr Sommerby?’ Wesley asked reasonably.

‘No. I don’t like jam so she never bought it. She didn’t go wasting money on things that wouldn’t get eaten. It’s not easy
on a pension. We had to watch the pennies.’

‘So your wife didn’t like jam? She wouldn’t have eaten it?’

The question was answered with silence. Wesley put it another way. ‘Neither you nor your wife ever ate jam? Neither of you
liked it? You can’t explain what this jar is doing here?’

Silence again. Then Sommerby growled, ‘I didn’t like it. Don’t know about her.’

‘And she wouldn’t have bought anything just for herself?’ Wesley was beginning to see the way Sommerby’s mind worked.

‘We couldn’t afford to go spending money on fripperies. We had to live on a pension,’ he repeated, looking at Wesley with
distaste.

‘So if she did buy something that she fancied, that only she liked, she might have kept it hidden from you?’

There was no answer.

‘Well? Is it possible that she was so afraid of you that
she wouldn’t tell you she’d bought a jar of jam?’ Wesley asked, aware that he was raising his voice.

Fred Sommerby shrugged, the ghost of a smirk on his face, as though he was pleased at the thought that, like the axe-happy
tyrants of history, his whims had aroused such fear in another.

Wesley packed the jar into a plastic evidence bag. He needed something, some activity to keep his hands occupied and away
from Fred Sommerby. From the moment he had met the man he had seen him for what he was, a self-centred bully. But now he knew
that he had gone so far as to deny his wife anything that he didn’t personally approve of, even something so trivial as a
jar of jam, he felt anger overwhelming him like a tide. He had to get out of there before he said or did something that he
would regret.

He delved into the depths of the trolley again, just to make sure that there was nothing he’d missed. There was a scrap of
paper in the bottom, a till receipt. He pulled it out and handed it to Heffernan. It listed the jam and it was dated the day
the first letter was received. The two men looked at each other before Heffernan said, ‘We’ll have to take this jar with us,
Mr Sommerby. Okay?’

Sommerby scowled. ‘Have I got any choice?’

‘No.’

‘Do what you bloody like, then.’ Sommerby concluded by muttering something about a police state and wandering out into the
hall.

Heffernan followed him out, Wesley trailing behind.

‘Tell me, Mr Sommerby, what did you do before you retired?’ Wesley asked.

Sommerby looked round at him, surprised. ‘I was a warehouseman at Huntings. Why?’

‘No reason,’ was the casual reply.

Wesley was only too pleased to get out of the oppressive little bungalow. He found the cells beneath Tradmouth police station
more inviting. ‘What did you think of Sommerby?’ he asked once they were safely on the street
side of the rusty wrought-iron front gate.

The chief inspector made a noise of disgust. ‘The bugger’s got “bully” written all the way through him like a stick of Blackpool
rock. He must have led his missus a dog’s life.’

‘He worked at Huntings.’

‘Mmm. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

Wesley looked at him and grinned. ‘I reckon I am.’

Matt was feeling harassed. He was unused to being in charge, preferring to be cast in the role of trusty lieutenant. The contractor
who had been engaged to build Huntings’ latest branch had just paid him a visit, making vague and threatening hints about
time limits and legal penalties. Matt had seen Neil deal with such people and send them away blinded with science and feeling
bad about raping the nation’s archaeological heritage. But as he had been unsure of his ground, Matt had listened politely
and said little. He was all right with the archaeology but commerce and politics were a mystery to him. He only hoped that
Neil’s absence wouldn’t be a long one.

At least the drizzle had cleared up and the sun was making fleeting appearances, hiding behind the scurrying clouds like a
coy fan dancer, tantalising yet unattainable. Neil had planned to open up a new trench nearer the trees, about fifty feet
away from the main excavation, to find out how far the burials extended. Work on it had just begun and Matt watched as the
small mechanical digger gently removed the top layer of earth. He held up his hand to stop it when he had judged it had gone
deep enough.

As the digger manoeuvred away, Jane and three archaeology students who had been waiting patiently near by descended on the
embryonic trench and began to work away at the earth, scraping with their trowels. Matt was quite content to be an onlooker
until Jane ordered him to lend a hand. They had been going out together for several years and Matt obeyed her instantly out
of habit.

After half an hour’s intensive scraping they had very little to show for their efforts apart from what looked like a medallion
of some sort on a thin chain, buried about two feet down. Jane gave it a cursory examination, and as she scraped the soil
away she recognised the image of the man carrying a child on his shoulder … St Christopher, patron saint of travellers. It
might have been silver but it was certainly modern. Someone had lost it … and that someone hadn’t lived in the Middle Ages
so it wasn’t of much interest to her. She threw it into the plastic box by her side with a grunt of disapproval.

They carried on until one of the students announced that he had found what appeared to be a skull. He worked away for a couple
of minutes, and when he announced that the skull still had hair attached and it didn’t really look like all the others they
had found, his fellow diggers crowded round to see. The student looked at Matt, who told him to carry on but work slowly and
carefully. It would be good practice.

But when the teeth began to emerge from the dark earth, complete with what appeared to be several dark metallic fillings,
Matt thought he’d better finish the job himself.

According to Barnaby Poulson, some people used to think the plague was caused by ‘the pungent fumes of man’s lust’. I mentioned
this to William Verlan when I saw him in the village and it raised a smile. Rat fleas are far less colourful and we all need
a little colour in our lives from time to time
.

My conversation with Verlan brought to mind Barnaby’s thesis. I read another section last night and found myself unable to
sleep. When Verlan asked me to help Barnaby in his research, he can’t have known how disturbing the subject matter is to me
… how it conjures demons from my own past
.

I don’t expect the one who brought the plague to Belsham all those years ago thought about what he was doing any more than
I ever did. Do we ever consider the consequences of our actions when we are young?

From a diary found among the Reverend John Shipborne’s personal effects

Detective Constable Steve Carstairs parked his black shiny Ford Probe outside the small terraced house and sat for a few moments
looking at it. Standing in a road that had run parallel to Neston’s main shopping street since the late nineteenth century,
this two up, two down with its rotting
window frames and flaking door was about as close to the inner city as it was possible to get in the quaint – and self-consciously
New Age – town of Neston.

Its neighbours, in contrast, bore the telltale signs of creeping gentrification with bamboo blinds hanging neatly behind sparkling
windows and colourful pansies sprouting in tubs beside their glossy front doors. Number forty-three, however, the home of
Edward Baring, sacked warehouseman previously employed by Huntings supermarkets, stood defiantly among these desirable bijou
residences like a stubborn weed in a well-tended flower bed.

Steve and DC Paul Johnson, a tall, lanky young man whose face still bore the signs of adolescent acne, got out of the car.
Steve made sure it was locked while Paul went ahead of him and pressed a plastic bell-push that had been mended with a sticking
plaster. The two men heard the bell ring within and the excited barking of what sounded ominously like a large and vicious
dog. After a few moments the door flew open with such violence that Steve and Paul took a step back.

‘Yeah?’ The man who stood on the threshold glowering down at them was big in every sense of the word. He was at least six
feet five inches tall, and although his wild mop of long hair was turning grey, his equally wild beard remained a rich shade
of chestnut. His checked shirt and worn denim jeans gave him the appearance of some monstrous lumberjack. The only thing missing,
much to Steve’s relief, was an axe.

The dog continued to bark somewhere in the back of the house until the big man shouted over his shoulder at it to shut up.
There was instant silence. The beast was clearly well trained.

‘Mr Edward Baring?’

The man grunted in the affirmative and looked mildly alarmed when Steve and Paul introduced themselves and flashed their warrant
cards.

The big man stood aside to let them into the narrow
hallway. It was quite a squeeze, and Paul Johnson could smell Baring’s sweat. When they were shown into a shabby front parlour
Paul looked around, thinking that the furniture, carpet and curtains had probably been purchased some time back in the early
1980s and hadn’t been cleaned since. The two officers sat down gingerly on the edge of the brown Dralon settee. In one corner
of the room stood a huge wide-screen television, as shiny and vulgar in its dull brown surroundings as a showgirl in a nunnery.
Next to it stood a strange upright instrument like a skeletal vacuum cleaner: Paul recognised it as a metal detector … a good
one, state of the art.

Steve was sitting silently, his eyes fixed on Baring, who stood in front of them, shifting from foot to foot. Paul guessed
that his colleague had decided to play the mean, moody cop today so it would be up to him to ask the questions. Steve, he
thought fleetingly, watched far too many cop shows on the TV.

‘I believe you used to work for Huntings, Mr Baring. Is that right?’ He kept his voice neutral with just a hint of sympathy.
Steve would have gone for the aggressive approach.

Baring lit a cigarette. His hand was shaking slightly. ‘Yeah. Why?’

‘And why did you leave Huntings?’ Paul asked, aware that he was sounding like a clerk at the jobcentre.

Baring took a long drag on his cigarette then looked down at his large feet. His body language told Paul that he was experiencing
some embarrassment. ‘I was stupid … I ran out of fags and I took a couple of packets from the warehouse. I was going to pay
for them but …’

‘But what?’

‘The warehouse manager caught me taking them, didn’t he? Wouldn’t listen to my side of the story. He reported me and I got
the sack. I was just told to get out and they’d send my P45 on. Said I was lucky they hadn’t brought in your lot.’

‘So what did you do?’

Baring assumed an expression of injured innocence. ‘What could I do? I’d taken them and nobody believed me that I was going
to pay for them. I even saw Sturgeon, the store manager, but he wouldn’t listen … just said that he trusted the judgement
of Tanner … the warehouse manager.’

Paul leaned forward. ‘So you think Huntings treated you unfairly?’

Baring stared at him as though he suspected it was a trick question. ‘Suppose so,’ he mumbled in reply.

Paul and Steve looked at each other. Paul opened his mouth but Steve spoke first. ‘Have you sent Huntings any letters?’

Baring let a caterpillar of ash fall to the floor. ‘Letters? How do you mean?’

‘It’s a simple question,’ snapped Steve. ‘Have you sent Huntings any letters?’

The big man looked uncomfortable. ‘Why?’

‘Just answer the question.’

Baring bit his lip. ‘No. Why should I?’

‘So you don’t know anything about the threatening letters that have been sent to the manager recently?’

Baring’s mouth fell open. ‘No. It’s got nothing to do with me. I never wrote no threatening letters. What do you mean by threatening?
What was in’em?’

There was no mistaking the fact that he looked anxious. But then, thought Paul, it was natural to be worried when someone
was accusing you of something you hadn’t done and you had no means of proving your innocence.

But Steve, less imaginative, took his panic as a sign of guilt. ‘Mind if we have a look around?’ There was a thinly veiled
threat behind the question.

‘You got a search warrant?’ The words came out as a squeak.

‘We can get one,’ Steve growled as the loud barking started up again. A deep, gruff sound … an Alsatian at the
very least. Steve had been about to say that if Baring had nothing to hide he wouldn’t mind them taking a quick look around,
but he thought better of it. ‘When was the last time you went to Huntings supermarket in Morbay?’

Baring glowered down at him and Steve did his best to glower back. ‘Not been back there since I got me marching orders. I’ve
not set foot in the place since then … that’s God’s honest truth.’ The barking seemed to have increased in volume.

Steve stood up but it was Paul who spoke first. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Baring. We might want to speak to you again.’
He made for the door and Steve followed, annoyed that Paul was letting the man get away with it. But as he was halfway out
of the front door, Paul turned to Baring, who was hovering there, anxious to see them gone.

‘Have you ever worked in a hospital or a laboratory, anything of that kind?’

Baring looked at him suspiciously. ‘I was a hospital porter once … not for long. Why?’

‘Know anything about botulism?’

‘What?’ The man’s face was expressionless.

‘Botulism. A particularly nasty type of food poisoning.’

‘No. Why should I?’ Baring said quickly before shutting the front door on the two men and hurrying into the back kitchen.

As the neatly clipped poodle greeted him, leaping up with a barrage of loud barking and a busy wet tongue, he bent down to
make a fuss of the animal, burying his face in its coat. You could trust animals. They understood you … not like people.

Matt’s worried call came straight through to Wesley in the CID office. When Wesley heard his voice he expected some routine
report of more medieval bodies, or perhaps some snippet of information about Neil’s mishap.

He was totally unprepared for Matt’s news and his heart began to beat a little faster when he was told that another
skeleton had been discovered on the site all right … but this one was different: this one wasn’t buried with the others and
had what looked like modern dental work. It appeared, Matt said breathlessly, to be relatively recent. Matt had sealed off
the trench where it was found and informed the coroner. As he recited the story to Wesley his voice shook slightly, unsteady
with shock. Neil, Wesley thought, would have taken it in his stride, even enjoyed the drama of the situation. Matt was probably
a more sensitive soul.

Wesley made soothing noises and said he’d be over as soon as possible. Then he called Colin Bowman, only to be told that he
was in the middle of a post-mortem but that he would meet them at Belsham as soon as he could.

If Matt was right about the date of these latest bones – and Matt was an experienced archaeologist who had seen plenty of
bones in his time – then it was possible that they would soon have a murder inquiry on their hands. Wesley sat back in his
chair and sighed, earning himself an enquiring look from Rachel Tracey, who had just glanced up from her computer screen.
She gave him a shy smile and got back to work. She had been quiet for the last couple of days … since she had learned of Dave’s
impending return. But Wesley thought it was best to say nothing. He was no agony aunt.

He knew the thing to do now would be to break the news to Gerry Heffernan. He could see the chief inspector through the large
glass windows of his office. Gerry had often complained that he felt like a zoo exhibit in there, his every movement so visible
to his underlings. He had once threatened to put up net curtains but the threat had never been carried out, probably through
sheer sloth rather than a change of heart.

As Wesley walked up to the office door he could see Heffernan inside, pretending to read a file. When he looked up and saw
Wesley, his eyes lit up. Company. It was lonely in the splendid isolation of his glass cage.

Wesley shut the door behind him and sat down.

‘I’ve just been making some phone calls,’ Heffernan said unenthusiastically. ‘Tomorrow we’re being sent directly to jail –
do not pass go, do not collect two hundred pounds.’

Wesley looked at him questioningly.

‘Jail. We’re paying Chris Hobson a visit. See what he’s got to say for himself. I’ve rung Stan Jenkins but he wasn’t in. He’s
been sent out to do the shopping, poor sod. I’ll ring again later … ask if he can come out to play.’ He grinned mischievously.
‘They said in church on Sunday that you should always try to help your fellow man.’

‘Actually, Gerry, I’ve just had a call from …’

But Heffernan wasn’t listening. ‘I’ve been reading through the Hobson files and it still looks like an open-and-shut case
to me. If we can prove this Janet Powell’s lying … Perhaps there’s something we don’t know about her. Stan might be able to
throw some light …’

‘Gerry. A body’s been found. Looks suspicious.’

The chief inspector looked up, alarmed. ‘Where?’

‘Neil’s dig.’

Heffernan’s shoulders sagged with relief. ‘Another one?’

Wesley took a deep breath. ‘This one’s got fillings.’

‘Fillings?’

‘Modern dental work. The coroner’s been informed and Colin Bowman’s going over there as soon as he can get away … he’s in
the middle of a post-mortem.’

Gerry Heffernan picked up a pen from his chaotic desk and began to twirl it around in his fingers.

‘We should get over there. See what they’ve found. If we set off now we’ll probably meet up with Colin. I’ve told Matt to
seal off the site.’

‘It is a skeleton, I take it?’ Heffernan asked. He sounded weary.

‘Yes, but …’

‘Then it’s not going to get up and go anywhere. It’s not top priority … not like the Hobson case. Or the Huntings threats.’

‘If it’s murder …’

‘Look, Wes, we’ve got some madman poisoning people because he doesn’t like the supermarket they shop in and we’ve got a potentially
embarrassing miscarriage of justice case that could make the officers of Tradmouth CID stars of the silver screen for all
the wrong reasons. The Chief Super’s taken to transcendental meditation … when I walked into his office just before I found
him in the lotus position. And don’t stand there looking so ruddy calm. Why aren’t you panicking like any normal person?’

‘I’ll go over to Belsham on my own, then, shall I?’

Heffernan ignored Wesley’s question. ‘Have the lab results on that jar of jam from Edith Sommerby’s trolley come back yet?’

‘I was told it might take a few days. I think it has to be incubated and …’

‘I don’t want to know the details. I just want to know whether that jam was planted by the nutcase who wrote those letters.’

‘I’ll keep chasing them up and let you know as soon as I hear,’ Wesley replied, doing his best to keep his voice at a soothing
pitch.

‘And don’t forget our little outing tomorrow.’

Wesley didn’t answer. He had seen the boss in this mood before and he knew to leave well alone until he had calmed down. He
was tempted to say that perhaps following the Chief Super’s example and indulging in a spot of meditation wouldn’t be a bad
idea … but he thought better of it and let himself out of the office quietly.

He looked around. Paul Johnson and Steve Carstairs were out talking to Huntings’ former employees and Trish Walton was finding
out all she could about Fred Sommerby. He knew that Rachel Tracey was examining the details of the Hobson case and was due
to have another word with Janet Powell later on. Wesley walked across to her desk and she looked up, smiling.