The Plague Maiden (2 page)

‘Did this Chris Hobson have a history of violence?’ she asked, just out of curiosity.

Heffernan shrugged. ‘Can’t remember. Probably. Even if he didn’t, there’s always a first time. Anything else to report?’

‘Inspector Peterson and Steve have brought Lee Tepple in for those thefts from boats in the marina.’

Heffernan grinned. ‘Lee Tepple? That figures. Has he been charged?’

‘Yes. And apparently he’s asked for thirty similar cases to be taken into consideration.’

‘Our Lee was never afraid of hard work.’

Rachel smiled and left the boss to his paperwork, picking up Mrs J. Powell’s letter on the way out. She had just sat down
at her desk when a young man strolled into the CID office, walking between the desks with his hands thrust into his trouser
pockets, a faraway look in his intelligent brown eyes. Detective Inspector Wesley Peterson stopped by the window and stared
out at the view over the river, as though deep in thought.

‘I believe congratulations are in order, sir.’

Wesley looked round, puzzled.

‘Lee Tepple. Should do our clear-up rate no end of good.’

‘I told him confession was good for the soul and he seemed to take my word for it. Anything new?’

‘Nothing much. Except this.’ Rachel picked the letter up off her neatly ordered desk. ‘I’ve just shown it to the boss. It
arrived this morning.’

Wesley took the letter from her and read it carefully.

‘What’s it all about?’ he asked as he returned it to her.

‘Back in the early nineties Belsham vicarage was burgled and the vicar was murdered. The thief got away with some valuables
and they turned up at Chris Hobson’s flat. He denied it, of course, but he was seen near the murder scene. Open-and-shut case.
He got life.’

‘So who’s this DCI Norbert the letter’s addressed to?’

‘He was before my time. I presume he was in charge of the case.’

‘And this Mrs J. Powell wants him to reopen it after all this time? Strange.’

‘The boss thinks it’s a crank.’

Wesley smiled. That was Gerry Heffernan’s verdict on anyone who threatened to disturb his status quo. ‘And what do you think?’

‘Why would you want the opinion of a humble detective sergeant?’

Their eyes met. ‘You know I always value your opinion. What do you think?’

Rachel considered for a moment. ‘If I was in charge I’d follow it up, just to cover myself. These miscarriage-of-justice cases
can get nasty for the police if we don’t watch our backs. If there does turn out to be new evidence and we just ignored it
… ’

Wesley nodded. Rachel was right. ‘I’ll have a word with the boss, then I’m taking an early lunch.’

‘Going anywhere nice?’

‘It’s Pam’s antenatal class and I promised I’d look after Michael, that’s all.’

Rachel looked away. ‘Good job we’re not busy.’

Wesley sensed the reproach in her voice. ‘I couldn’t do it if we were,’ he said, wondering why he felt so defensive. He had
just cleared up the marina thefts. He deserved an hour off for lunch.

Rachel stared down at her hands, regretting her sharpness. But the thought of Pam, Wesley’s wife, always seemed to have that
effect on her. It was something she hadn’t yet managed to control. And she prided herself on being a controlled person.

‘I’ll have a word with the boss about that letter if you like.’ He held out his hand and she gave him the letter.

‘Thanks.’ Her lips twitched upwards into a brief smile. She was glad that the responsibility had been taken out of her hands.
As Wesley walked away DC Steve Carstairs swaggered into the office, caught her eye and winked. She ignored him. As far as
she was concerned Steve could piss off. Young and good looking though he was, he was a sexist, racist pain in the arse.

Wesley pushed open the half-glazed door to Gerry Heffernan’s lair. The older man looked up and grinned.
‘Wes, come in. Nice work getting Lee Tepple for those thefts. Has his place been searched yet?’

‘Oh yes. His garage was like Aladdin’s cave. The stuff’s being brought in now.’

‘Well, if you find my CD player … It was nicked from the
Rosie May
six weeks ago. I went through the motions of reporting it but I didn’t hold out much hope of getting it back.’ The chief
inspector looked quite indignant that any thief had had the audacity to trespass on board his precious boat.

‘When the stuff’s brought in you can come down and see if it’s there. Rachel showed me the letter … about that vicar’s murder.’

‘Did she now?’ Heffernan began to rearrange the pile of neglected papers on his desk.

‘I presume this Chief Inspector Norbert was in charge of the case. Do you know him?’

Gerry Heffernan frowned, trying to recall times past. ‘I didn’t know him well. He was DCI here before he retired about seven
years ago. I presume he must have dealt with the Shipborne case.’

‘Shipborne?’

‘The Reverend John Shipborne. Blameless and well-liked vicar of St Alphage’s, Belsham, before he ended up as a crime statistic.’
He muttered something disapproving that Wesley couldn’t quite make out. ‘Murdered for an old silver cup. If Hobson had asked
nicely the Reverend Shipborne would probably have given him the bloody thing.’

‘Was Hobson regarded as dangerous at the time?’

‘I can’t remember him being one of our most wanted, let’s just put it like that. But I wasn’t involved in the case so I can’t
remember the details.’

‘Perhaps we should have a word with ex-DCI Norbert, then.’

‘That’d be difficult unless you’re thinking of holding a seance. He’s dead. Keeled over two weeks after he retired, poor sod.’

Wesley’s mouth formed an ‘o’ and he stood there for a few seconds, lost for words. Then he looked Heffernan in the eye. ‘I’m
willing to have a look at the case file, just to make sure everything was done by the book.’

‘I don’t think we’re giving you enough to do if you can find time for cases that were dead and buried years ago.’

‘It’s got me curious, that’s all.’

Heffernan scratched his head. Wesley Peterson, archaeology graduate and son of two doctors from Trinidad, possessed an intellectual
curiosity that Heffernan found incomprehensible. The Heffernan family motto – so Gerry always claimed – was ‘Why make work
for yourself?’

‘Stan Jenkins used to be Norbert’s sergeant around that time. He’ll tell you all about it if you’re really that interested.’

‘I know Stan’s retired now but do you think he’d mind if I had a word with him?’

‘Mind? I should think he’ll be delighted. Last time I saw him was in the supermarket. He was pushing the trolley,’ he added
significantly. ‘You never met Mrs Jenkins, did you?’

‘No. Why? What’s she like?’

‘If Stan Jenkins’s missus was put in charge of the prison system crime’d be wiped out in a year and we’d all be out of a job.
I don’t know why you’re so keen to follow this up. These nutters crawl out of the woodwork from time to time.’

Wesley knew that only too well but there was something about the letter. It was literate. Controlled. As if the sender was
an educated person who’d thought about the implications of what they were saying. ‘Perhaps we should pay Mrs J. Powell a visit
sooner rather than later.’

Heffernan shrugged his shoulders as though he were shrugging off all responsibility. ‘Go ahead if it keeps you happy, Wes.
But remember it’s probably not our problem.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Shouldn’t you be off?’

There was a sudden panic in Wesley’s eyes. Stan Jenkins wouldn’t be the only one in the doghouse if he wasn’t home in fifteen
minutes.

He hurried out of Tradmouth police station and half walked, half ran up the steep narrow streets towards his home. Proving
the guilt or otherwise of Chris Hobson would have to wait for a while.

Neil Watson watched as the small mechanical digger took the top layer of turf and soil off his carefully marked-out trench.
The digger’s arm did the job surprisingly gently, scraping up the earth delicately and depositing it on the spoil heap to
the side. When Neil judged that the machine could go no deeper without disturbing what was below, he raised his hand and the
driver cut the engine.

The geophysics team had already been over the field with their impressive array of bleeping machines. Neil knew that these
expensive playthings for the technically minded were often useful but today they had found nothing conclusive. No outline
of a building; nothing that might resemble a leper hospital, however small. But as usual the guardians of the strange instruments
had hedged their bets and talked about interesting anomalies that were worth investigating. And as Huntings were footing the
bill, Neil thought he might as well give them their money’s worth. He strolled over to the human diggers, who were watching
patiently, leaning on their spades, and told them it was time to start work.

Neil began to dig, thrusting his spade into the rich Devon earth and watching the ground closely in case anything interesting
turned up in the upper layers of reddish soil. But he was so engrossed in what he was doing, so busy anticipating what he
might discover, that he failed to notice a dark, hooded figure half hidden behind the thick trunk of one of the trees that
edged the undulating field. The watcher observed the diggers intently for a full half-hour before slipping away silently into
the churchyard near by.

William Verlan tells me that there used to be a leper hospital somewhere in the village, possibly near the school. But I was
more concerned about the plague pit Barnaby mentioned. Pest Field near the church appears as Pestilence Field on some old
tithe maps and he suspects there could be a connection
.

I saw Verlan in the village and he said Barnaby’s research seems to be progressing well. I sense Verlan has no liking for
me and I sometimes wonder if he knows the truth … but of course that’s not possible
.

Barnaby hasn’t visited for a few days. He rang last night to say that he’s made some exciting discoveries. But what is exciting
to Barnaby might not be exciting to the rest of us
.

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

Gerry Heffernan noticed as soon as Wesley walked in that he didn’t seem his usual calm self. He had the harassed look of a
father who had just been called upon to baby-sit a lively toddler for an hour or so. Who said motherhood was an easy job?

‘Pam okay?’

‘She’s had a few twinges. The baby’s not due for another
six weeks but she’s seen the doctor, just to be on the safe side. Rachel’s just told me there’s been a call about a threat
to a supermarket.’ He tilted his head to one side, awaiting more details.

‘That’s right. The manager of Huntings supermarket on the outskirts of Morbay had an anonymous letter this morning saying
there’s something nasty on his shelves. He wasn’t at all happy when a couple of uniformed constables turned up in answer to
his 999 call under the impression they were going to arrest a shoplifter – he got on his high horse and demanded the services
of CID. In the meantime he’s searching his stock for anything suspicious.’

‘What kind of thing? A bomb or …’

‘The letter just said there was something on the shelves that would make Huntings sit up and take notice.’

‘Is that all?’

‘It said when someone died, Huntings’ll be put out of business, or words to that effect.’

‘That bad, eh?’ Wesley supposed that for a threat to be effective, it had to be fairly dramatic.

Heffernan nodded. ‘The manager’s a Mr Sturgeon – no jokes about the fish counter. And he’s not a happy man.’

‘Did the sender make any demands?’

‘No. That’s what’s strange.’

‘Could be a disgruntled member of staff trying to put the wind up the manager.’

‘Very probably. Shall we nip along to Huntings and see for ourselves?’

Wesley looked at his watch. ‘It’s probably nothing but I suppose we’d better show our faces.’

They drove out of the police station carpark, Wesley at the wheel as usual – Heffernan saved his navigational skills for the
water. The car ferry was the most direct route and, as the tourist season was well and truly over, there was no queue of vehicles
waiting to be taken over the river. They were soon on the chugging ferry, sandwiched between a post office van and a BMW,
unable to smell the fresh river air for the diesel
fumes wafting from the engine of the strange vessel. The river was as grey as the small navy patrol boat speeding across their
bows, its crew standing neatly to attention like toy sailors. The huge naval college on the hill used the River Trad to instruct
its young recruits in the arts of seamanship; arts that were a complete mystery to Wesley but familiar territory to Gerry
Heffernan, who had served as first officer in the merchant navy before swallowing the anchor, as they say in seafaring circles,
having been lured ashore by the charms of his late wife, Kathy.

The ferry docked to the noise of clanking chains and revving engines. Once on dry land, Wesley steered the car through the
narrow streets of Queenswear and then out into the stretch of open country that divided Queenswear from the ever-expanding
conurbation of Morbay. Morbay was creeping outwards stealthily and the empty fields that stood next to each new piece of development
had taken on a scrubby, no-man’s-land look, as if they were aware that they were next and were just waiting for their hour
of execution to come.

Huntings was easy to find, a fake Roman villa that shared a massive carpark with a monolithic grey DIY warehouse. A petrol
station guarded the entrance: Huntings Petrol, undercutting all the small garages in the area, many of which were now boarded
up and abandoned. The small food shops, of course, had gone years ago.

‘Do you and Pam shop at these places?’ Heffernan asked as Wesley parked the car in the only available space, far away from
the supermarket entrance.

‘You don’t have much choice these days.’

‘I can’t stand them. You nip in for a bottle of milk and you’re wandering round like a lost soul for hours. Waste of ruddy
time,’ Heffernan concluded as they marched towards the entrance, a modern version of the old revolving door, which shuddered
to a halt when a woman inadvertently touched it with her laden trolley. After a few long seconds the contraption began to
move again and they shuffled on, sandwiched between huge glass doors.

When they were eventually disgorged they found themselves next to customer services. They flashed their warrant cards at the
plump middle-aged woman behind the counter whose thinly pencilled-in eyebrows shot up in surprise as she assured them that
they hadn’t reported any shoplifters to the police that morning. When Wesley told her they wanted a word with Mr Sturgeon,
she made a great show of telephoning through to the manager’s office to announce their arrival. From her unworried manner,
Wesley guessed that if something unsavoury had been hidden in the wide and well-stocked aisles of Huntings supermarket, the
staff weren’t aware of it yet.

Keith Sturgeon greeted the two officers with a brisk, worried handshake and led them to his office where he invited them to
sit down. Without offering tea or observing any other social niceties, he handed Heffernan a sheet of paper encased in a plastic
folder. He knew all about fingerprints from the television.

Heffernan cleared his throat and read aloud. ‘“Dear Manager, Huntings is ruining the environment and ruining lives, spreading
like an infected sore over the countryside. It has to be stopped.”’

‘Whoever wrote that has an imaginative turn of phrase,’ Wesley observed.

Heffernan carried on. ‘“Just to make sure you sit up and take notice, I’ve added a new product of my own to your shelves but
you’ll never find it. You won’t even know what it is until someone dies. Just think of it as biological warfare against the
system. Happy hunting, Huntings.”’ He looked up. ‘That’s all.’

Wesley looked at Keith Sturgeon, who was sitting behind his desk, twisting his tie around his fingers. He looked nervous.
More than nervous … terrified. ‘You’ve had no phone calls? No blackmail demands?’

Sturgeon shook his head.

‘And you’ve searched all the shelves for anything out of place, any tops that have been removed or replaced?’

‘Most stuff’s security-sealed nowadays to prevent tampering and there’s no obvious sign that anything’s been interfered with.
Sunita and I went down ourselves to check and the departmental supervisors helped too. We went through everything. I didn’t
want the rest of the staff alerted in case word got out and it spread panic.’

‘Don’t you think you should tell all your staff? Someone might have noticed something unusual. And who’s Sunita?’

‘My assistant manager.’

‘What’s she like?’ Wesley asked. He had detected a slight change in Sturgeon’s expression, a hint of unease, when her name
had been mentioned and wondered what had caused it.

‘Very good at her job. Extremely efficient.’

Wesley mentally filled in the gaps: ambitious; waiting for the boss to get egg all over his face so she could step coolly
into his executive swivel chair. Perhaps if he mishandled this situation … But Wesley stopped himself: he’d not even met the
woman yet and he was letting his imagination run away with him.

‘Have you sacked anyone recently?’

Sturgeon looked embarrassed. ‘Two people. One of the warehouse staff was found stealing cigarettes and dismissed.’ He hesitated.

‘And the other?’

‘A young woman. She, er … didn’t really fit in and …’

‘What do you mean, didn’t fit in?’

‘She had the wrong attitude. I couldn’t keep her on.’

‘If we could have their names and addresses …’

Wesley saw a brief flash of panic in Sturgeon’s eyes. ‘Of course. I’ll ask Sunita to dig them out for you. I suppose Mr Hunting
will have to be informed?’

‘Mr Hunting?’

‘Aaron Hunting. The owner. I mean, I would rather it was kept from him but …’

‘I think he’d want to know, don’t you?’

The manager didn’t answer. Wesley knew little about
Aaron Hunting apart from the fact that he lived in Tradmouth in a large white house on the banks of the River Trad and kept
himself to himself. His place had its own boathouse and private moorings and he was almost a neighbour of Gerry Heffernan,
who owned a cottage on the nearby quayside – a near-neighbour but a social world away. There had been pieces about Hunting
in the paper, of course, but he wasn’t a man who courted publicity. He was a businessman who owned a chain of successful supermarkets
all over the South-west, so perhaps he didn’t feel the need to wash his clean – or dirty – linen in public. Why should he?

‘Of course, it’s probably all a hoax,’ said Gerry Heffernan cheerfully. ‘Someone’s idea of a joke … maybe someone you’ve fired
or some environmentalist who doesn’t like Huntings for some reason and wants to see you running around like blue-arsed flies.’

‘So what do I do?’ Sturgeon spread his hands out in a gesture of despair. Wesley noticed that they were surprisingly small
hands, almost like a woman’s.

Heffernan and Wesley looked at each other. ‘We’ll have a discreet word with your sacked employees,’ said Wesley. ‘And I’d
advise you to tell your staff to search your shelves again for anything unusual. There’s nothing else we can do until the
letter writer gets in touch again … unless you want to close the store while you make sure …’

Sturgeon shook his head. ‘No. That’s out of the question.’

‘Then all I can advise is that you tell your staff to be vigilant and if anything unusual happens, however trivial, let us
know.’

Wesley stood up and shook Sturgeon’s hand in a businesslike manner. The manager buzzed through on his intercom and a young
Asian woman entered the room. Wesley assumed this was the efficient Sunita, and he was soon proved right on both counts. She
produced the details of the sacked employees with effortless ease and answered
the few questions posed to her in a calm, practical manner, replying mainly in the negative: she knew nothing. Wesley found
himself believing her but wondered why. Perhaps she was just a convincing actress.

‘What do you make of all that?’ Wesley asked as they drove back towards the car ferry.

Heffernan wrinkled his nose. ‘Probably someone’s idea of a joke. It’ll be the same sort of idiot who calls out fire engines
to false alarms – spreading a bit of panic gives them a thrill. And if they’ve got some grudge against Huntings they’ll get
a kick out of having them in their power just by writing a few words on a piece of paper.’

Wesley didn’t reply. Gerry was probably right. It was another of his cranks.

At least, he hoped it was.

In the dead centre of Pest Field the diggers worked away under Neil Watson’s supervision, scraping at the earth until the
heap of soil to the side grew larger as the trench grew deeper. It had rained overnight and the soil was heavy with water,
so they worked with cold, reddening hands as the weak October sun tried its best to peep through the mass of thick grey clouds.
The trench was now around three feet deep and if there was a medieval leper hospital down there, surely they would find it
soon.

Neil climbed out of the trench and examined the contents of the finds tray. The team had been given the use of the church
hall to record and clean whatever they brought to the surface, and Neil wished that he was in there now, out of the stiff
east wind that was blowing dead brown leaves from the surrounding trees across the field. He did up the top button of his
combat jacket and shivered. There was one remedy, of course. Hard work. He picked up a spade and climbed carefully back into
the trench. Supervision was a cold business.

‘Neil, are we expecting burials?’

Neil turned round. His colleague, Matt, looked worried,
frowning as he twisted his ponytail with mud-caked fingers.

‘If it’s a leper hospital there’ll probably have been some sort of chapel with a graveyard. Why? What have you found?’

‘A large bone. Looks human.’

Neil picked his way through the mud to where Matt was standing protectively over his discovery. The two men stood together
and looked down at the pale brown object standing out against the darkness of the soil. It was a bone, all right. But human?
He squatted down and took his trowel from his jacket pocket. Two worked quicker than one.

As they scraped away at the damp soil Neil heard excited voices drifting across from the other end of the trench. A female
voice called his name and he turned round.

One of the younger diggers, a large, dark-haired young woman fresh from university, had stood up and was waving at him excitedly.
From her expression Neil guessed that she had found something more interesting than another piece of medieval pottery.

‘I think we’ve got at least one complete skeleton down here … maybe more.’

‘I’d better take a look,’ Neil said calmly, smiling as he thought of the delay this could mean to the construction of Huntings’
new store. A spanner – or rather a bone – in the works.

There was no word from Huntings that afternoon, which meant there had been no further threats and no demands for money. As
Gerry Heffernan had said, the letter had probably been sent by some poor inadequate with a grudge, trying for his fifteen
minutes of anonymous fame; hoping to see the panic he had caused reported on the local news … or even on the national bulletins
if he struck lucky and it was a slow news day. The letter had gone to Forensic to be checked out for fingerprints but, other
than that, there was little else they could do until there were more developments.