Dark possibilities hurtled through his mind as he reached the hospital entrance. What if Neil was seriously injured? What
if he was paralysed? What if he didn’t make it? These vague feelings of dread caused an almost physical pain which was hard
to shake off.
He showed his warrant card to the woman on the reception desk and asked where Neil was being treated. If he hadn’t had his
ID he knew that getting information, let alone access to the patient, would have been a problem, but as it was he soon found
himself standing by the nurses’ station on the ward, talking to a staff nurse. She told him that Neil had been drifting in
and out of consciousness but in his lucid moments he’d been asking for Wesley. He seemed anxious, she said. And she got the
impression he had something important to say.
The way the nurse spoke about Neil, in that cautious way that professionals have when they’re trying not to alarm worried
friends or relatives, only fuelled Wesley’s fears. He wondered whether to call Pam but he didn’t want to alarm her before
he knew the true situation.
Eventually the nurse gave him permission to enter the side ward where Neil was lying, sprouting drips and monitors. A machine
was bleeping in the corner and Neil lay quite still on the narrow bed with his eyes closed and his long hair spread out on
the crisp white pillow like a halo. For a brief, horrible moment Wesley thought his friend was dead. Until he realised the
monitors were bleeping just as they should be.
‘Don’t tire him out,’ the nurse ordered. ‘The doctor’ll be here to see him in a minute. He wants to do more tests. And we
might have to operate.’
At the sound of her voice, Neil’s eyes flickered open and Wesley moved forward into his line of sight. He suddenly felt nervous
and unsure which words to choose that wouldn’t sound like a police interrogation. If Neil had been involved in a road traffic
accident, the questions would come all too soon.
‘What happened, mate? What have you been up to?’ Wesley was finding it difficult to sound cheerful. But he felt he had to
lift Neil’s spirits somehow and strengthen his will to recover.
‘I couldn’t stop. The other driver was OK but I came off worst. Or rather the Mini did.’ He took a deep breath and winced
with pain.
‘What does the doctor say?’
‘They’ve been poking and prodding but they won’t tell my anything. But every breath I take hurts like hell.’
Wesley could see the fear in his friend’s eyes; the fear of death … or of a life spent dependent on others; of a life without
getting his hands dirty delving into the past. ‘Can you do something for me?’
‘What’s that?’
‘There’s something in the car,’ he said in an urgent, breathless whisper.
‘What?’
‘A coffin.’
‘A coffin?’ Neil had always been unpredictable but this was something new.
‘A little one with a wax doll inside. It’s a horrible thing stuck with pins. I was taking it to Exeter to be examined.
When you’ve got time can you pick it up for me … make sure it’s safe?’
Wesley nodded. ‘OK. I’ll find out where they’ve taken the car and rescue it.’
‘Odd, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘That the crash happened when it did.’ He winced with pain. ‘I tried to stop at the junction but I just kept on going. I think
my brakes failed. But why then? Why did it happen when I had that thing with me. I think it might have belonged to a witch.’
This was something Wesley had never encountered before. A superstitious Neil imagining curses and evil dolls. ‘A few days
ago you would have said all this business about wax dolls and witches was a load of nonsense,’ he said lightly.
Neil turned his head away. ‘Ignore me. It must be the drugs they keep pumping into me.’
This sounded more like the old Neil. Wesley touched the motionless hand lying on the bedspread. ‘I’ll sort everything out.’
The nurse entered the room and looked at Wesley meaningfully. It was time to go. ‘I’d better be off. Do you want me to tell
anyone what’s happened?’
‘Better let my folks know. My mobile’s in my jacket. And the Unit. Dave’ll have to stand in for me at the Princes Bower dig.
And the Mumfords should be told. I was supervising their builders to make sure they didn’t destroy anything important. That’s
where the coffin and the doll came from. Tell Dave he’ll have to take over there too, will you?’
Wesley found Neil’s jacket hanging in a wardrobe near
the window and took the phone from the pocket. ‘Pam and I’ll see to it between us.’
‘And the Mini …?’
‘No problem.’
He felt reluctant to leave but there were things to do. And the strange cargo to retrieve from the wreckage of the car.
Alex wasn’t quite sure why he’d wrapped the knife in a sheet of lined A4 paper he’d found in his pocket and taken it home.
Perhaps it was a desire to have a secret that could shock the world. His own private bombshell.
He took it up to his room hidden under his coat and placed it on the chest of drawers. The woman in the red coat had been
murdered. And he knew the woman who lived on the other side of Jessop’s Farm was a witch who’d killed some girls. His mum
and Shane had never mentioned it in his hearing but somebody at school had said she’d just got out of prison. He’d hardly
imagined anything so exciting could happen in that godforsaken place.
The knife wasn’t that big, only nine inches or so, with a plain silver handle and a sharp, tapering blade. It lay on the unfolded
paper and the crusted red-black substance on the blade had a smell about it that wasn’t nice – soil and something else. Something
metallic and meaty like he’d smelled once in a butcher’s shop. Blood. Probably the blood of the woman in the red coat.
Suddenly he didn’t want it there in his room any more. It was out of place in his sanctuary plastered with posters of his
favourite bands and if he kept it and someone found it, it would look bad. It might even make him look guilty. He had to get
rid of it.
After wrapping it in clean paper torn from the pad on his desk, he packed it up in his rucksack and crept downstairs just
as his mother was emerging from the room she referred to as the drawing room – the room his friends called the lounge or living
room.
‘Where are you going?’ She was using that voice again … casual yet forced, as if it didn’t matter when it obviously did.
‘Out.’
‘Haven’t you got homework?’ Her voice had become heavier, more authoritative.
‘I’ll do it when I get back.’
Before she could object he was out of the front door, heading down the gravel drive. Once in the lane, he made for Jessop’s
Farm. The policeman was still there at the gate. This was his chance to look good. To look innocent.
The policeman was pacing up and down, looking as if he was playing a private game of I Spy. When he saw Alex approaching he
stood to attention, suddenly alert. There was no backing out now.
‘Er … I’ve found something,’ Alex said.
‘What’s that, son?’ The policeman asked, positively delighted that someone had come to relieve his tedium.
Alex flinched at the use of the word. He wasn’t the man’s son. His real father was the only man who had the right to call
him that and he didn’t even know what he looked like. According to his mother, he’d disappeared abroad when he was just a
baby. He was now in some unspecified foreign country while Shane replaced him in his mother’s bed like some incubus, exerting
a malevolent power over her.
He took the package from his rucksack and handed it to
the policeman who held it very carefully, as though it was some precious and delicate treasure.
‘I was out with my metal detector and I found it in a field over there on the other side of the lane.’ He waved his arm in
the vague direction of the field. ‘I thought I’d better hand it in in case …’
As the paper fell open, the policeman swore. And then he began to talk on his radio. Result.
Wesley called Pam to tell her about Neil’s accident. Then he made the other call to Dave who promised to assume the mantle
of Site Director at Princes Bower until Neil recovered. Dave sounded shocked and worried, as though he wasn’t looking forward
to the unexpected opportunity to emerge from Neil’s shadow.
It turned out that Neil’s wrecked car had been taken to the police garage at Neston, and Wesley called to tell them he’d be
down at some point to pick up an archaeological artefact that had been left inside. However, he was busy with a murder enquiry
so he wasn’t sure when it’d be. The officer he spoke to didn’t quibble. He told him the car hadn’t yet been touched and he
was welcome to come and pick up the artefact any time. He pronounced the word ‘artefact’ as though it was something slightly
rude.
After the calls were made Wesley sat at his desk, head in hands, and when Gerry came up behind him and placed his hand on
his shoulder he jumped.
‘What’s the latest on Neil?’
‘They’re doing tests and they might have to operate, but he’s conscious.’ Wesley didn’t want to voice his fears. Until he
knew for sure, he felt he ought to keep up a show of optimism. ‘He thinks his brakes failed.’
‘Well that car of his is a relic in itself. I always thought he must have dug it up at one of his excavations.’
Wesley knew Gerry was right. Neil’s distinctive yellow Mini was old. A friendly garage in Exeter had serviced it annually
and coaxed it through its MOT but things can deteriorate fast between one check and the next.
His thoughts were interrupted by Trish Walton who was hurrying towards him. She held a piece of paper in her hand and the
look of triumph on her face told him she had important news.
‘Durham police have visited Gabby Soames’s family but none of them have been near Devon in years. It’s been checked out.’
Her eyes shone, as if she was saving the best till last. ‘I’ve also had a call from Jessop’s Farm. A young lad’s handed in
a knife he found in a nearby field. Looks like it could be the murder weapon.’
Wesley saw Gerry roll his eyes. ‘Don’t know what our search team do with themselves all day. Dozy lot. We’d better get over
there and have a word with this lad. The sooner we get that incident room at the village hall up and running the better.’
He watched Gerry grab his anorak from the coat stand – a new model which, owing to Joyce’s benign influence, was a vast improvement
on the disreputable garment he used to wear.
‘Don’t forget Zac James is due here any moment,’ said Wesley as Gerry made for the door.
‘The wait’ll do him good,’ was Gerry’s reply. Wesley was inclined to agree with him. Zac James had kept them waiting and they
were only returning the favour. And a wait in the Spartan interview room would focus his mind wonderfully.
The traffic was heavy on the main A road out of Tradmouth, but as they turned off onto the coast road they almost had it to
themselves. They drove on until they saw the sign informing them that West Fretham welcomed careful drivers. Gerry was right
about the incident room. It would save time if they were nearer the heart of things, able to pick up on local knowledge. They
needed gossip about Lilith Benley’s return. And whispers about what Boo Flecker had been up to.
A young uniformed constable greeted them at Jessop’s Farm, eager as a border collie in a field full of rebellious sheep. He
proudly showed them the knife which had been placed in an evidence bag and neatly labelled. It certainly matched Jane Partridge’s
description of the murder weapon and, after placing it carefully on the back seat of the car, Wesley drove the short distance
to the Rectory. As he passed through the open wrought-iron gate into the drive he saw Gerry twist round in his seat to look
at the knife and wrinkle his nose in disgust.
Gwen Gulliver answered the door. Her aloof manner had vanished and she stood aside to let them in, head bowed. ‘Alex told
me what he found. He’s a bit shaken.’
‘We’ll be gentle with him,’ said Gerry.
Gwen’s eyes widened as though she didn’t believe a word, but she led them through to the kitchen. Alex was sitting at the
long pine table in the centre of the room, a half-empty dish of pasta in front of him. He had jet-black hair and clothes to
match and his corpse-pale skin was pierced by several pieces of interesting metalware. They’d already learned from Shane Gulliver
that Alex was a Goth. But even though Goths weren’t known for their cheerful, outgoing natures, they were, by and large, a
harmless bunch
and often deceptively amiable. Alex gave them a wary look and carried on shovelling food into his mouth. His discovery hadn’t
ruined his appetite.
‘After you found the knife how long did it take you to show it to the constable next door?’ Gerry asked.
Alex’s mouth was full so Gwen answered for him. ‘He told me he found it with his metal detector and took it up to his room
for half an hour or so but as soon as he realised what it was he took it next door to the farm and handed it in. Isn’t that
right, Alex?’
Alex nodded.
‘I suppose you’ll have to take Alex’s fingerprints …’
‘If he touched it. Just for elimination,’ said Gerry. ‘And yours and your husband’s if you handled it.’
Gwen shook her head. ‘I didn’t touch it. I never even saw it and neither did Shane.’
Alex’s dish was almost empty and he was studiously retrieving the last morsel. He didn’t look particularly upset … not like
his mother who was wringing her hands as if all the evils of the world had been released into her tasteful home.
‘We’d like to ask you a few questions, Alex,’ Wesley said gently. ‘Nothing to worry about. Can you tell us exactly what happened?’
The boy’s mother sat down beside him and placed a protective hand on his shoulder. But Alex didn’t look as though he was in
need of maternal comfort. On the contrary, Wesley suspected he was enjoying the drama of the situation. The boy’s black T-shirt
bore the grey outline of a pentagram behind a superimposed skull. Death and the occult.
‘I just found it,’ the boy said.
‘Where?’
‘Just past Jessop’s Farm in a field on the other side of the lane. I climbed over the gate with my metal detector. There were
cows in the field but cows don’t bother me,’ he added with casual bravado. ‘I saw a patch of soil that looked as though it
had been disturbed so I swept the machine over it and it gave a strong signal – really loud. I started to dig and there it
was an inch or so down.’