‘So who’s been feeding her the information?’ Wesley wished he’d come to the point.
‘Our mole. I want you here while I cut off his balls and put them in my trophy cabinet.’
Wesley opened his mouth to say something but he thought better of it. In the mood the DCI was in, it was better that he was
allowed to let off some steam. He just felt a little sorry for the mole – whoever it was.
Wesley was surprised when DC Lee Parsons knocked on Heffernan’s door. Wesley could see his youthful face through the glass.
He looked terrified. Heffernan growled a ‘come in’ and the young man shuffled in and shut the door behind him. He looked more
guilty than most villains he’d locked away in the cells – and a good deal more fearful. He wasn’t invited to sit.
‘You’ve got a new girlfriend, I believe,’ Heffernan began innocently.
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Reporter on the
Echo
, isn’t she?’
The young DC swallowed hard. He knew what was coming.
‘Bit of inside information impresses the girls, doesn’t it? They like to feel they’re with someone who has his finger on the
pulse.’
There was no answer but the young man’s eyes widened in terror.
‘The postmortem results for Marrick and Tench were confidential. We like to keep things like the fact they were poisoned with
hemlock back from the hoi polloi because that way we can sort out the real killer from all the nutcases who crawl out of the
woodwork making false confessions to brighten up their dull little lives.’ He looked Parsons in the eye. ‘But you had to go
and impress your girlfriend with your inside knowledge, didn’t you. Was it her who thought up “the Spider” or you? Her at a
guess. You don’t look the imaginative type.’
‘Well?’ said Wesley. ‘Was it you who leaked the information?’
Parsons cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sir,’ he croaked. ‘Sorry, sir. I realise now that it was a stupid thing to do but …’
‘But what?’ Heffernan hissed, standing up, looming over the unhappy constable like the Grim Reaper.
‘Well, I didn’t think it would do any harm telling Sarah. I mean …’
‘You knew she worked for the
Echo
?’ Wesley said with some incredulity. It was many years since he’d been that naive and he’d almost forgotten what it was like.
‘When she talked about her job she said it was all reporting village fetes and the mayor’s charity engagements. I never thought
… She seemed really interested in these murders and …’
‘So you gave her chapter and verse.’
Lee Parsons hung his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.’
‘Too right it won’t.’
‘Please, sir, I know I’ve screwed up but …’
Heffernan shook his head. ‘Just get out of my sight.’
Parsons hurried out as if the Devil himself – or Gerry Heffernan which was probably worse – was in hot pursuit. When he was
out of earshot Wesley spoke. ‘What are you going to do, Gerry? Return him to uniform?’
‘I’d like to but at the moment we’re short handed.’ He shrugged. Lee Parsons’s place in CID was probably safe for now. Providing
he’d learned his lesson.
‘I don’t suppose there’s any serious harm been done.’ Wesley smiled. ‘And it might alert potential victims to the dangers
of taking drinks laced with hemlock from strange men. By the way, Steve Carstairs picked up the inquest report on the ex-headmaster,
Stanley Hadderson. It was suicide all right and there was nothing suspicious in the toxicology report. And Hedge was telling
the truth – he did have a brain tumour. Inoperable.’
‘No sign of hemlock?’
Wesley answered in the negative. Then he took Neil’s letter out of his pocket. He’d already put it in an evidence bag ready
to send to Forensic. He pushed it across the desk and Heffernan read it.
‘Weird,’ was the DCI’s verdict. ‘All this stuff about bloodletting. Do you reckon our killer wrote them?’
‘If he did, I’d have expected something more specific … even boasting about what he’d done.’ He hesitated. ‘But there is a
link with the victims. Norman Hedge is taking part in Neil’s dig. And I’ve been thinking … perhaps the killer uses hemlock
because he can’t overpower the victims physically. Hedge is elderly – no match for the likes of Marrick and co. And if the
victims take the hemlock, they must trust their killer. There’s nobody more trustworthy than your old history master come to
call.’
Before Heffernan could reply, there was a knock on the
door. This time it was Tom from Forensic. He had a sheet of paper in his hand and he looked pleased with himself.
‘I’ve been on to the service provider.’ He paused, as if he was about to impart some dramatic information. ‘And you’re not
going to believe this,’ he said with a gleam in his eye.
‘Try us,’ said Wesley, wishing Tom would come to the point.
‘It’s a monastery.’
This made Gerry Heffernan sit up and take notice. ‘A monastery? You mean monks have computers?’
‘Why not? It’s a place called Shenton Abbey not far from Plymouth.’
‘Thanks, Tom,’ Wesley said, wondering about the significance of this new development. It was possible that the ‘Frankie’ Dean
was corresponding with was a former member of Belsinger’s staff, retired to a life of prayer or contemplation. Or perhaps
an ex-pupil – someone who knew the victims.
He saw the list of former Belsinger pupils lying on top of a pile of witness statements on Heffernan’s desk and picked it
up. ‘There’s only one Francis listed here, Gerry. He was in the same year as the victims and he was in Tavistock House. Francis
Duparc. It could be our Frankie. He might work at Shenton Abbey – he doesn’t necessarily have to be a monk.’
‘Whatever he is, we need to talk to him. If it is this Francis Duparc and our Spider is going round eliminating everyone who
was in that year at Tavistock House, he could be in danger.’
‘Only if the killer knows where to find him.’ Wesley looked at his watch. ‘We should be on our way to the hospital. Mortimer
Dean’s postmortem.’
Gerry Heffernan scratched his head. He’d almost forgotten about their appointment with Colin Bowman. Or perhaps he’d put it
out of his mind because it was difficult to face a postmortem on a sunny Saturday.
But there were some things that couldn’t be avoided. And duty was one of them.
Barty Carter hadn’t ventured into Tradmouth for some time. But he needed to eat – bread and milk and some tins to keep him
going. In days gone by his wife had seen to that sort of thing but since she left he’d had to make occasional forays into
town, scurrying in then scurrying out again, keeping his head down, courting an anonymity that was hard to win with the odour
of the farmyard clinging to his battered waxed jacket.
Today he parked the mud-splattered Land Rover he’d bought when he arrived in Devon to give him the appearance of a genuine
son of the soil, in a side street and made his way to Winterlea’s supermarket. He had made a mental list of his requirements
which included nothing stronger than a few cans of Boddingtons. Since he’d met Rachel Tracey, he’d felt more hopeful about
the future. Even the pigs seemed to sense it.
When he was in London he’d held down a high-powered job – dealt with contracts worth millions. The countryside had defeated
him once but now he was going to get up and fight. It was Saturday – he’d ring Rachel and ask her out for a drink. He’d say
he needed her advice on some agricultural matter. And if she refused, he’d try again. Never had the arms of the law – long
or otherwise – looked so inviting.
He walked on, enjoying his pleasant daydreams, barely aware of the crowds of shoppers milling through the High Street. It
wasn’t until he almost collided with a woman emerging from a gift shop, that he was jolted from his reverie.
The face on the other side of the road looked familiar. But it was a while before Barty realised where he had seen it before.
Back in his days at Belsinger he had seen that face most days … but it had hardly registered on his consciousness.
When he saw Rachel Tracey again he would mention it to her. Who knows? She might be impressed by his powers of observation.
He took his mobile phone from his trouser pocket and began to search for the card she’d given him with her number printed
on it.
Extract from ‘The History of Veland Abbey’ available from all good local bookshops
Late in 1535 the methodical John Tregonwell, a Cornishman and a subordinate of Thomas Cromwell, was ordered to visit various
religious houses in the South-West and report back to his master. Of all Henry VIII’s commissioners he seems the most reliable
and independent and he didn’t mince his words.On visiting Veland Abbey he reported that ‘The house is well repaired but £300 in debt. I send you a shoe called Mary Magdalen’s
shoe and St Helena’s comb and St Margaret’s tooth. I send you also a book of the miracles of St Petroc which I found in the
library. The Abbot of Veland is a virtuous man. But his monks are more corrupt than any others in vices with both sexes.’
Wesley Peterson and Gerry Heffernan strolled back to the police station. The postmortem was over, much to Wesley’s relief.
Colin Bowman stuck to his opinion that Mortimer Dean had probably been poisoned and samples had been sent off to the lab. Although
Colin, ever cautious, wanted to wait for the results before he committed himself to a formal report, he admitted – albeit
cautiously – that hemlock was a possibility. The dead man had consumed whisky shortly before
his death – just like the others. But Colin concluded that this might just be a coincidence – lots of people, including himself,
enjoyed a drop of Scotch at the end of a busy day. Colin’s tentative verdict was that Dean had taken his own life. But Wesley
had seen that extra glass on the draining board, washed and wiped carefully of any tell-tale fingerprints. Someone had wanted
it to look like suicide but he wasn’t falling for it. He was certain that Mortimer Dean had known the identity of the Spider. And
now Mortimer Dean was dead.
And there was someone else who might know what, if anything, had happened at Belsinger School all those years ago. Frankie
– the recipient of Mortimer Dean’s last e-mail. As soon as he was back in the office, Wesley looked up the phone number of
Shenton Abbey and his call was answered by a Father Joseph who seemed rather excited at the prospect of a visit from the police. Wesley
went to some pains to reassure Father Joseph that he only wished to speak to a potential witness and that there was no question
of anyone at the abbey being hauled off to the cells. After this reassurance, Father Joseph became almost gushingly co-operative
and confirmed that Francis Duparc was indeed at the abbey and that he was now known as Brother Francis.
Brother Francis wouldn’t be available to speak to him until Monday, during his recreation period. The words were said with
a certainty that brooked no argument. Brother Francis answered to a far higher authority than the police – he was out doing
God’s work that afternoon and an interview on the Sabbath was out of the question. Wesley, using all his store of tact, asked
whether he could spare half an hour that afternoon as the matter they were investigating was rather serious. Somehow he didn’t
like to mention the word murder to this man he imagined to live on a higher, more unworldly plain than most mortals. In the
end Father Joseph relented and told him that Brother Francis was helping out a priest
at an inner city parish in Plymouth that afternoon. The monks at Shenton Abbey weren’t an enclosed order, he added – they
involved themselves in the community and the life of the area. He told Wesley where he could be found and Wesley wrote down
the address.
The fact that Brother Francis was helping at a Catholic church in the middle of a Plymouth council estate made Wesley uneasy.
If he’d been a member of an order that had no dealings with the outside world, he would undoubtedly have been safe. But if
he was out and about, anyone could get to him. And that included the killer.
But he told himself that Brother Francis would almost certainly be working with others and then he would return to the abbey
where privacy would be a rare commodity – almost like the boarding school he had attended in his youth. He would eat in the
abbey refectory with the other brothers. No risk of a hemlock nightcap. Unlike the other victims, he’d be perfectly safe.
As they didn’t want a wasted journey, Wesley called the presbytery of St Giles’ church to make sure Brother Francis was still
there. A woman with a soft Irish accent, possibly the priest’s housekeeper or a stalwart lady of the parish, said that Brother
Francis would be there helping at the homeless drop-in centre till five. She sounded disapproving, as though she imagined
the presence of the police would set the cat amongst the charitable pigeons. Perhaps she imagined that they were coming to
harass the unfortunates who came to the church hall seeking shelter and a bowl of soup. But when Wesley told her that all
they wanted was a chat with Brother Francis about something he might have witnessed, she softened a little and said she’d
tell the brother to expect them.
When Wesley broke the news to Gerry Heffernan that they had an appointment with Francis Duparc, the DCI didn’t seem as excited
as Wesley had expected him to be.
‘Before we see him, I want another word with that Norman Hedge,’ he said. ‘He knows more than he’s telling if you ask me. With
a little persuasion, he might be able to give us the low-down on Duparc. And, who knows, he might know who “our friend” is.’
Wesley looked puzzled.
‘Mortimer Dean’s e-mail to Frankie: I’m frightened for our friend. Who’s he talking about? That’s what I want to know. Mind
you, it’d be just our luck if this Brother Francis has decided to take a vow of silence.’
‘That’s the Trappists, Gerry. He’s a Benedictine.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Well I suppose Norman Hedge lives on our route
so we can have a quick word if that’s what you want.’
When they left the office Rachel was talking on the phone. She blushed when she caught Wesley’s eye and he wondered why. Perhaps
all would be make clear in due course.