‘I don’t see how that’s going to help.’
Wesley shrugged his shoulders. ‘Neither do I. But it might be worth talking to her. She might be able to tell us something
about Grisham’s associates. If he knew anybody who’s subsequently turned up down here …’
‘It’s a long shot,’ Heffernan grinned. ‘But we might be able to get a trip to Germany out of it. I fancy a cruise up the Rhine.’
Wesley smiled to himself. Their budget hardly ran to foreign travel but he’d let Gerry dream. ‘What about Barty Carter?’
‘What about him? Somehow I can’t see him as our man, can you?’
After a few moments’ thought, Wesley shook his head. ‘Not really. If it was Carter, it’d be a shotgun in the face … not hemlock
and a knife in the throat. There’s something almost ritualistic about it, isn’t there? Almost as though there’s some significance
in the manner of death.’
‘Ruddy sadistic if you ask me, which brings me to those letters Neil’s been getting. They’re all about people bleeding to death.
Reckon our killer wrote them?’
‘I’ve no idea but I think Neil does. They’ve really put the wind up him.’
‘You should tell him to watch out.’
‘He doesn’t need telling, he’s nervous enough already. He says there’s a weird character at the dig who might be his letter
writer – name of Lenny – but he’s no proof.’
‘We could check him out.’
‘Mmm. Another possibility is that the letters are from someone who saw him on the telly.’
‘Tench was on telly in that property programme.’
‘But Marrick and Grisham weren’t. Let’s face it, Wes, we’re as much in the dark now as we were when Marrick was first found.
More so. We thought it was a straightforward stabbing then and we had Pinney and half the low life of Devon in the frame.
It’s these others – Tench and Grisham – who’ve put a spanner in our works. And Grisham’s death means the killer’s been on
the move.’
‘Darren Collins was up in Chester at the time he died.’
‘Yeah. Maybe we should bring him in again. Try a bit harder. He’d know how to cook up hemlock, wouldn’t he?’
‘He probably only serves it to restaurant critics who’ve given him a bad review.’
‘Our Spider’s never seen in blood-stained clothing and he’s very careful to clear up after himself. He’s methodical.’
‘Like a chef.’
Wesley didn’t reply. But he knew he and Heffernan were thinking the same thing. The more they considered the
question, the more it looked as though Fabrice Colbert – alias Darren Collins – was an obvious suspect. They still had no idea
why he should wish to kill Tench and Grisham. But, given time, they might come up with some plausible motive … if luck was
on their side.
‘Anything on the knife they found in Tradmouth?’
‘Tench’s blood was on it but no prints. It’s the sort that can be bought anywhere … just like the one Pinney says he found.’
‘Not an expensive chef’s knife then?’
Wesley spotted a file on the boss’s desk, nestled amidst all the other paperwork – some important, most not – jostling for
a place in his overflowing in tray. ‘Is that Colin’s report on those bones in Sunacres Wood?’
Heffernan grunted. ‘Could be. To tell you the truth, I’ve no idea what’s on this desk any more. And the bones are hardly a
priority now, are they? They belong to some sex offender who disappeared back in 1989. He probably crawled into the woods
to die and good riddance. I don’t think we need to trouble ourselves too much with this one, Wes. Colin can’t even give us
the cause of death. I reckon it was probably hypothermia or something like that. Natural causes.’
‘The Forensic report said there were minute traces of blood on some of the stones and branches scattered around the bones
and in soil samples taken from the surrounding area. Much of it must have been washed away but the shelter of the trees and
undergrowth preserved some of the evidence over the years.’
‘Okay, he had an accident – cut himself open on a branch and severed an artery or something. There’s absolutely nothing to
indicate that it was suspicious.’
‘Apart from the fact that he was a sex offender.’
‘And you think someone took exception to his nasty little habits and did him in? You sometimes think too much, Wes.
Let’s forget about this one, eh. We’ve got enough on our plate at the moment.’
Wesley still felt uneasy about the possibility that Barry Ickerman might have bled to death – just like the Spider’s victims.
But he told himself that the boss was probably right – he thought too much. He made connections where there were none and
made unnecessary work for himself when he should be getting home to Pam and the children.
‘Get home, Wes,’ Gerry Heffernan said as though he had read his mind. ‘We’ll make a fresh start tomorrow. Dean’s PM’s first
thing and Tom should have that e-mail address for us by then.’
Wesley didn’t need telling twice. He hurried to his desk and read through some notes he’d made for himself. Facts he wanted
to remember. He’d walk home because he needed time to think. Rachel gave him a shy smile as he left the office but she didn’t
ask where he was going, which was unusual. Rachel usually liked to know everything. That’s why she was good at her job.
When he was halfway home, climbing the steep, winding street that led up to his house overlooking the town, he began to wonder
if there was something they were missing – something obvious. Perhaps everything would seem clearer after a good night’s sleep,
he thought.
Or perhaps tomorrow things would be as confusing as ever.
The letter arrived the next morning. Saturday. And Neil’s first instinct had been to destroy it, to rip it into pieces. It
sat there in his hand for some time, irresistible like some horror film watched from behind the sofa. When he eventually tore
it open and read the letter inside, he sensed that the writer wanted to share some secret with him. Perhaps a secret that
was too terrible to tell in the conventional way. What it all had to do with Brother William and the function of Veland Abbey’s
seyney house, he had no idea. But as he read it, he knew that he’d
been wrong about Lenny being the author – it just wasn’t his style at all.
He decided to take advantage of his day of leisure and drive to Tradmouth to see Wesley and Pam. Wesley hadn’t been of much
help so far but he’d want to see this new letter. And talking it over – sharing the burden – would make Neil feel better.
He arrived at the Petersons’ house at ten fifteen and found Wesley dressed for work while Pam lounged in her towelling dressing
gown playing with the kids and reading the paper at the same time – women, so he’d heard, were adept at multi-tasking. She
greeted him with a shy smile and asked him how the dig was going. But as soon as he told her it was going well and that he
was going to be on the local TV news again on Monday, their conversation was interrupted by Wesley who summoned him into the
kitchen where he’d made coffee for both of them. He was due at work shortly, he said, and couldn’t be long.
‘I’ve had another letter,’ Neil blurted out as he sat down and pushed the envelope across the kitchen table.
Wesley read it and looked up, his face serious. ‘Have you any idea who this Brother William is? Or what happened to him?’
‘Annabel’s been looking in the archives for any reference to a Brother William in Veland Abbey but one of the books she wanted
seems to be missing – the journal of some abbot of Veland who was around at the time of the Dissolution. Look, do you think
the letters have got anything to do with these Spider murders?’
Wesley hesitated. He didn’t want to frighten Neil but, on the other hand, he couldn’t put his hand on his heart and swear
that they weren’t connected. He decided to opt for the honest answer. ‘Sorry, we can’t be sure. The other letters you’ve given
us have been examined but we’re still in the dark, I’m afraid.’
Neil leaned forward. ‘The letters mention blood – people being bled. That’s what this Spider does, isn’t it – bleeds his victims
to death? What if it’s him who’s writing them?’
Wesley felt helpless. Neil could well be right. But the letters had yielded no clue about their author.
‘You suspected someone at your dig, didn’t you? Lenny was it?’
‘Yes but now I’m not so sure. He doesn’t seem particularly interested in monks. Annabel was sure she recognised him so I thought
he might have been snooping in the archives. However, she told me yesterday that she saw him once protesting at some hunt
she went to.’
‘Another dead end then. What about Norman Hedge?’
‘What about him? He’s a retired teacher. A nice, harmless man.’
‘So you don’t see him as your letter writer?’
Neil shook his head.
Wesley put a hand on Neil’s arm. ‘Look, there’s absolutely no evidence that your letter writer is our killer. I know there’s
all this mention of blood but you’re digging up the place where monks went to be bled so it’s probably a coincidence.’ He
didn’t know whether he believed what he was saying but he wanted to allay Neil’s fears.
He looked at his watch. He had dallied at home long enough – mainly in an attempt to keep Pam onside. Gerry Heffernan reckoned
that as they’d been working long hours all week, they needed a little rest and relaxation if they were to be of any use to
the enquiry. Wesley had been ordered to take his time and meet the boss at the police station at eleven before going on to
the hospital for Mortimer Dean’s postmortem – something Wesley wasn’t looking forward to.
After telling Neil to make himself another coffee and stay and keep Pam company, he kissed Pam goodbye and told her he’d try
not to be late back. In fact if her mother had a guilty conscience about letting them down last weekend and was
willing to babysit, they’d go out for a meal that evening. As Neil watched Wesley go, Pam asked him to entertain the kids
while she got dressed. Neil fixed an awkward grin to his face – he’d have preferred minding a pool full of man-eating crocodiles
than a couple of young children. But he wasn’t going to let Pam know that.
Steve Carstairs held Joanne’s hand. He knew it was the sort of thing teenagers did but he didn’t really care. The previous
night they’d been out for a drink but once again she’d made an excuse not to stay at his flat. She was still playing hard
to get but Steve found he was quite enjoying the challenge.
That morning he’d picked her up at her small bed-sit in Bloxham, not far from the harbour, and given her a lift into Tradmouth,
hoping that soon all his good behaviour would be rewarded. She was starting work at eleven and he was supposed to have been
in the CID office an hour ago. But he had his story ready in case Gerry Heffernan made one of his wisecracks. He’d been to
pick up the inquest report on the ex-headmaster of that posh school the Spider’s victims went to. He’d picked it up first
thing before he called on Joanne and he had it there in an envelope ready to present to the boss. That would shut him up.
When they reached Burton’s Butties, Steve and Joanne stood facing each other as if neither wanted to be the first to make
the parting move. ‘See you tonight, then?’ Steve said, trying to sound casual.
‘I don’t know. I’ll ring you.’
Steve bent to kiss her. Then he stood back, his hands resting on her shoulders. ‘You’re gorgeous, you know that.’
Joanne gave him an enigmatic smile. ‘So you keep saying.’
He looked into her eyes. What more did she want? He’d never known a female resist his undoubted charms for so long before and,
somehow, her unattainability increased her allure. She was driving him crazy, playing with him. And
now he wanted her more than he’d thought it possible to want any woman. He was surprised – and a little disturbed – by the
depth of his feeling. It was usually a quick shag and farewell in the morning. But Joanne was different.
‘You could stay at mine tonight,’ he whispered. ‘Or would you rather I stayed at yours?’
‘We’ll have to see,’ she replied, her face inscrutable. ‘Look, Steve, don’t rush me, eh.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed his
nose. ‘Your dad’s going to tell me off if I’m late so I’d better go.’
As she disappeared into Burton’s Butties, Steve could see his father busy in the back of the shop. He toyed with the idea
of going in and saying hello but he decided against it. The old bastard had ignored him for long enough. It was time he had
a taste of his own medicine.
He turned towards the police station and spotted Wesley Peterson walking up the High Street. He wondered whether to slip down
one of the side streets, to pretend he hadn’t seen him. But it was too late. Peterson had raised a hand in unenthusiastic
greeting. The feeling was mutual.
‘I picked up the inquest report on Stanley Hadderson,’ he said, falling into step beside the inspector. It was best to stick
to work matters.
‘Good. What does it say?’
‘Suicide. He got into the bath and cut his throat with one of those old-fashioned razors. Took his own life while the balance
of his mind was disturbed. He had a brain tumour – probably didn’t have long to live anyway.’
‘Any toxicology report?’
‘Tests were done but nothing was found.’
‘No hemlock then.’
Steve shook his head. They were approaching the Memorial Gardens and Tradmouth’s handsome new library loomed to their right.
Not far to go now. Wesley decided that he should make an attempt at conversation. Steve might have been a
pain in the neck in the past, but they had to work together so they might as well be on reasonable terms. ‘Was that your girlfriend?
Been going out long?’
‘Not long.’
‘I recognise her. She works at the sandwich shop, doesn’t she?’
‘Yeah. She works with my dad. That’s how we met.’
A long silence followed as they entered the police station and climbed the stairs to the CID office. Perhaps, Wesley thought,
he shouldn’t have ventured on to personal territory. You live and learn.
As soon as Gerry Heffernan spotted Wesley, he summoned him to his office. He had news to impart.
‘I’ve caught our mole,’ he said viciously. ‘I went and had a quiet word with Ray Davenport last night and it seems he’s getting
his story through one of the girls who works for him. New and keen, she is – hopes to end up in Fleet Street.’