The Plague Maiden (24 page)

Loveday sprang up suddenly, with a cry of distress, like a wounded animal. She flew at Wesley and he was unprepared for her
strength as she sent him toppling to the floor, clawing at his face like a cat. He tried to push her off, to grab her hands,
but she was too quick for him. She was screaming something that sounded like ‘you bastard’ and scratching at his face when
suddenly her shouts turned into a piercing scream as Heffernan yanked her off by the pigtails.

As soon as she twisted round to turn her attentions to the chief inspector Wesley managed to scramble to his feet and retrieve
the handcuffs from his back pocket. When he grabbed Loveday from behind and snapped them on her narrow wrists, Heffernan was
able to break free, breathless and winded.

‘You could make a fortune in the ring, love. Ever thought of challenging Mike Tyson?’

Loveday, now at bay, stared at Heffernan as though she were about to spit in his face, but Wesley pushed her gently back down
onto the bed before she had a chance. They’d be prepared from now on.

Heffernan drew the curtain back farther and stepped inside the excuse for a kitchen. ‘Now what is it you don’t want us to
see, love? I think I can guess but I hope I’m wrong.’

He opened the fridge and bent to look inside. After donning a pair of plastic gloves, he took something out and put it on
the worktop. Then he opened the cupboard. ‘There’re six jars of Huntings own-brand marmalade here. On special offer, was it?
And by the way, what’s this I found in your fridge?’

He carried a small, flat glass dish covered with a glass plate over to Wesley very carefully and thrust it under his nose.
‘If I remember rightly from my school chemistry lessons it’s a Petri dish. And I think our lab might be interested in what’s
in it.’

The two men looked at Loveday, who was slumped on the sofa with a sullen, defiant expression on her face, her
lips moving as though in quiet prayer. Heffernan whispered something to Wesley, who began to search the room, opening drawers
and rooting through the large wardrobe standing near the door. After a few minutes he found what he was looking for: several
copies of the local paper with letters cut out, paper, glue and envelopes. They had found the source of the botulism and the
source of the anonymous letters to Huntings.

Wesley held up the plastic bag containing the newspapers for the girl to see. ‘A woman has died and another two people are
in Intensive Care … one of them’s a kid. They’ve never harmed you. Why did you do it?’ He knew that his question probably wouldn’t
be answered … even with the help of prison psychiatrists they often failed to get to the bottom of why people did wicked things.
But there was no harm in asking.

Loveday pressed her lips together and said nothing.

‘As far as I can see you’ve never worked for Huntings, apart from this contract cleaning, so what have you got against them?’

Even when she was taken to the police station and the forensic team were searching her flat, Loveday still said nothing.

As soon as Loveday had been seen by a doctor she was put in a cell and the custody sergeant was given instructions to keep
a close eye on her. The last thing they wanted was any slip-up, any accusations of neglect or heavy-handedness. They would
allow her to rest and question her later, something Wesley wasn’t looking forward to.

When he and Heffernan returned to the CID office they found Rachel and Paul Johnson waiting for them, looking rather pleased
with themselves. They’d got Philip Norbert’s address from his mother and wondered whether the DCI wanted them to go to Exeter
and follow it up. Wesley was surprised when Heffernan said that he wanted to see Norbert himself, and he noted the momentary
flash of
disappointment on Rachel’s face. She had been looking forward to a few hours out of the office.

Wesley followed the boss to his lair. ‘So we’re going to see this Philip Norbert?’

‘I thought it might be best … after all, his dad was one of us.’

‘Rachel and Paul could have handled it.’

‘I’m sure they could but I’d like to see him for myself … see his reaction when we ask him about the Reverend Shipborne.’

‘You think he might be our man?’

‘Hobson’s appeal’s likely to go ahead, and if he didn’t kill him, someone did. And if Hobson’s story about seeing Norbert
outside the vicarage is true …’

‘It might explain why DCI Norbert chose to ignore that line of enquiry. If he knew that his son was involved and he was trying
to protect him …’

‘My thoughts exactly.’

‘If the whole inquiry was tainted by corruption it’s not going to look good for us if it all comes out at Hobson’s appeal.’

‘We weren’t involved, Wes. You were still in your school blazer playing with your Lego and I was a lowly sergeant at Morbay.
Nothing to do with us.’

‘But what about Stan Jenkins?’

‘Not his fault either, Wes. He was only obeying orders.’

‘Now where have I heard that one before?’

There was a tentative knock on the office door before Steve Carstairs burst in, as though he was about to impart some exciting
news. ‘Sir, I’ve just had a report from Forensic. That St Christopher they found near Helen Wilmer’s body … it’s silver and
it has an American maker’s mark on it … and they found faint lettering scratched on the back: they think it says “to Billy
love from Louise”.’

Heffernan scratched his head. ‘Do a check on the whereabouts of any Billys living in Belsham at the time of
Helen’s disappearance.’ Steve stared at him. ‘Go on, what are you waiting for? Christmas?’

As Steve scurried back to his desk Wesley looked at his watch and made for the door. If they were going to drive up to Exeter
they’d better not waste any more time. ‘Should we ring Norbert to tell him we’re coming?’

‘No way. I want the advantage of surprise.’ Heffernan grinned wickedly and followed Wesley out of the office.

An hour later they arrived at the address Mrs Norbert had given … a new waterside apartment, all brick, round windows and wrought-iron
balconies. Wesley brought the car to a halt in a space marked ‘Visitors’ and surveyed the scene. Things had moved on since
he was a student in the city. The quaysides had moved upmarket and now boasted twee bridges, loft living and the obligatory
crop of restaurants and trendy wine bars. The cars parked there were shiny and new and a high proportion wore the distinctive
BMW badge on their radiator grilles. Phil Norbert had done well for himself.

Norbert’s apartment had a telephone entry system which might have robbed them of the element of surprise if Heffernan hadn’t
thought quickly. He cleared his throat, announced that he had a delivery for Norbert and asked whether he should bring it
up. Wesley stood back a little, dissociating himself from the deception.

As soon as the door opened automatically the chief inspector barged his way into the building and began to climb the stairs.
Wesley followed, overtaking him on the landing to be first at Norbert’s door in case tact and diplomacy were needed. He knocked
and the door was opened almost at once.

‘Yes?’ Philip Norbert stood there, looking confused. He sniffed loudly. ‘Where is it, then?’

Wesley held up his warrant card and introduced himself. ‘May we come in, sir?’ He looked at the man framed in the doorway.
He had longish dark hair and an expensive-looking black leather jacket not dissimilar to the one Steve
Carstairs habitually wore. He had a wide mouth and a long nose which he kept touching from time to time, perhaps an unconscious
nervous reaction. Wesley thought he could see fear in the man’s eyes … but it might have been his imagination.

Norbert looked as though he was thinking on his feet. ‘I’m expecting something … a delivery … it’s not convenient.’

‘We’ve come all the way from Tradmouth to see you, Mr Norbert. We won’t get in the way if your delivery comes.’ Heffernan
gave him an innocent smile as he stepped over the threshold. ‘Cup of tea’d be nice. I’m spitting feathers.’

‘I haven’t got any tea.’ Norbert began to follow Heffernan into the flat. ‘Look, what do you want?’

Wesley watched him. Twitchy was the best word he could think of to describe the way he was behaving. Twitchy and frightened.
And when they reached the main room he found out why. Lying on a sleek beech coffee table in the centre of the room was a
small mirror. On the mirror was a line of white powder and beside it was a crisp twenty-pound note.

‘Expensive habit,’ Wesley said, strolling around the room. They had Norbert at a disadvantage now, and somehow this made him
feel more comfortable about the corners they had cut. He stopped by the huge window and looked out on the scene below … water
and bars. Like cocaine, chic didn’t come cheap. ‘What do you do for a living, Mr Norbert? It must pay well, whatever it is.
Or do you earn a bit extra by dealing in that stuff you’re shoving up your nose?’

There was no answer.

Heffernan sat down heavily on a black leather sofa. ‘I think you’d have been a big disappointment to your dad if he’d lived.
See much of your mum, do you?’

Norbert sniffed. ‘Not much.’

‘Remember that time you broke into the vicarage in Belsham and pinched some silver? Your dad covered up for
you, didn’t he, and someone else got put away for murder. You might be interested to hear that the man your dad put away was
innocent … his case is going to appeal. That means we’re looking at the Shipborne case all over again, sunshine. Did your dad
plant the silver in Chris Hobson’s flat to frame him? Is that what happened? Is that why Hobson’s served twelve years for
a crime he didn’t commit?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘We have a witness who’s quite prepared to swear you were at Belsham vicarage that night.’

‘Whoever it is, they’re lying.’

‘Get your coat,’ said Wesley quietly. ‘You’re coming with us to Tradmouth.’

Norbert kicked at the sheepskin rug on the floor. ‘And what if I don’t want to?’

Wesley took a deep breath. ‘Philip Norbert, I’m arresting you for being in possession of a class A drug. You do not have to
say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not …’

Norbert swung round. ‘Okay. Okay. I get the message.’ On the way to Tradmouth, Philip Norbert didn’t say another word.

‘We’ll let him cool his heels, contemplate his wrongdoings,’ Heffernan said when they’d handed Norbert over to the custody
sergeant. They didn’t make any mention of who his father had been. It was probably best that nobody knew. They didn’t inform
his mother either: the man was almost thirty, well beyond the need for parental protection. And besides, it would hurt Mrs
Norbert to discover that her son was no saint … although she probably knew already.

Surprisingly, Norbert had no police record, even for dealing or possession of drugs. He had been either clever or lucky. And
of course, in the early part of his criminal career, he may have had some help in high places. As Wesley prepared to settle
down to some paperwork while
he awaited developments, a restless Gerry Heffernan ambled over to his desk.

‘How’s Loveday Wilkins? Is she ready to be interviewed yet?’

‘The doctor says she’s a very disturbed woman. He’ll tell us when he thinks it’s okay to talk to her.’

Heffernan rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘Great. And Philip Norbert? Think he could have killed the vicar?’

‘I reckon his dad thought so and that’s why he suppressed so much evidence.’

‘Maybe Philip confessed to his dad.’

‘And Norbert put away an innocent man to keep his son out of trouble?’

Heffernan sighed. ‘We’ve both got kids, Wes. We both know how far you’d go to protect them.’

‘But that?’

Heffernan shrugged his shoulders and turned to go back to his office. Then he stopped as though he’d remembered something.
‘Do you know, every time I read through the file on Shipborne’s murder, I keep coming across Barry Castello’s name. Before
we talk to Philip Norbert, I’d like a word with Barry … I want to see if Philip had any connection with Shipborne.’

‘Surely Philip wasn’t one of Castello’s bad lads … he went to St Peters.’

‘But who knows where he went after he left. He dropped out before his A-levels, remember. Come on. Let’s take the road to
Damascus.’

Wesley looked at his paperwork, then at Heffernan. Damascus Farm won.

‘Should we be doing this, Neil?’ Pam Peterson tried the church door and found that this time it wasn’t locked.

‘I want to take photographs of the tower room … show them to some experts.’

‘How are you feeling?’

Neil began to fiddle with the digital camera he’d taken
from his pocket. ‘Much better since Matt told me that Huntings have had to give us longer to complete the excavation because
of the skeletons.’ He grinned. ‘Nice to puncture the tyres on the wheels of commerce from time to time.’

Neil was walking better now and complained about the pain in his ribs only when Pam suggested that he do some household chore.
He had even spent the morning at the dig, supervising and giving his opinion on the finds. And there seemed to be plenty more
skeletons to dig up. The archaeologists were unearthing two or three a day and placing the bones in boxes ready to be taken
away for examination.

Pam had driven out to Belsham to pick Neil up but he had been in no hurry to leave and, as Michael was safe at home with her
mother, neither was Pam. So when Neil suggested another visit to the church to take some photographs, she agreed. Although
a visit to the pub over the road would have been preferable.

She pushed open the church door and when she stepped inside she was surprised to see a flickering light in the gloom. As her
eyes adjusted she could see that a candle was burning in front of a side altar at the end of the far aisle. To her surprise
she saw a man kneeling in the pew nearest to the candle, his head bent in prayer. Instinctively she stopped and Neil almost
cannoned into her.

She put her finger to her lips. ‘There’s someone there,’ she whispered. ‘I think they’re praying.’

Neil, unimpressed by displays of reverence, began to walk down the aisle. Pam tried to call him back in a loud whisper but
Neil took no notice, so she followed him, taking hold of his arm.