‘We didn’t want to bother you. This your lad, is it?’ Heffernan grinned at the youth, who was standing slightly behind his
father, looking awkward.
‘Yes. This is my son, Jason. I’m giving him a lift to my sister’s place, so if you’ll excuse us . . .’
Wesley stood aside to let them through and the two men watched as father and son made their way to a sleek red Jaguar standing
in a parking space marked ‘Managing Director’.
‘Do you get the feeling that we we’re not exactly welcome, Wes?’ Heffernan said as he watched the Jaguar drive away.
‘Some people just don’t appreciate us,’ Wesley replied with a smile.
After they had been driving for a few minutes, Gerry Heffernan began to feel in his jacket pockets. Then he swore under his
breath.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve left my keys at home and Rosie’s out this afternoon. I’ll have to get Sam’s. The place he’s working is just along this
road. Gallows House. Keep a look out for it, eh.’
Carole Sanders had just returned home from work when she heard the door bell. A visitor. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
She smoothed her hair before rushing to answer the door. When she reached the hall she saw that a little girl of about nine
was sitting on the stairs playing with an electronic hand-held game. Kayleigh. Carole knew that Brenda brought her here for
free food and any other unconsidered trifles that could be snapped up. But she didn’t mind: good cleaners were hard to find
and Brenda was useful in many ways. She smiled at Kayleigh as she passed and Kayleigh smiled back.
She opened the front door and found a man standing in the porch. He wasn’t particularly tall but he was well built
with an untidy shock of hair and, in spite of his jacket, shirt and tie, a generally uncared-for appearance. Behind him stood
a smartly dressed, good-looking young black man with watchful, intelligent eyes.
‘Sorry to bother you, love,’ began the older man. ‘But is a Sam Heffernan working here?’
‘Er, yes, he’s in the garden, but . . .’ Carole sounded wary.
‘I’m his dad. I’ve forgotten me keys so I came to borrow his.’
Carole’s expression softened. ‘Please come in. Sorry I’m a bit disorganised but I’ve only just come in from work.’ She stood
aside. ‘Go through to the kitchen. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Normally I wouldn’t say no, love. But I’ve got to get back home.’
Gerry Heffernan was beaming broadly as he entered the huge kitchen and Wesley noticed that he was watching the woman appreciatively
as she disappeared out of the back door.
‘Very nice, this, Wes,’ Heffernan announced appreciatively, looking around. Wesley felt vaguely embarrassed. Gerry Heffernan
looked as if, given half a chance, he’d get his feet well and truly under the table.
The woman reappeared. ‘I’ve told Sam you’re here, Mr Heffernan. I’m Carole Sanders, by the way.’
Heffernan beamed. ‘Call me Gerry, please. And this is Wesley Peterson.’
‘Pleased to meet you. I believe you’re a policeman, Gerry?’
‘Our Sam’s told you, has he?’
‘And you, Mr Peterson?’ Wesley couldn’t decide whether there was approval in Carole’s voice.
‘Yes.’
‘It makes me feel very safe having two policemen in the house,’ said Carole lightly.
There was a moment of awkwardness, of hesitation,
when nobody knew quite what to say.
Carole broke the silence. ‘Are you sure you won’t have that cup of tea?’
‘No thanks,’ said Wesley quickly, thinking of Pam. ‘We’d better not be long.’
‘Sam tells me your daughter’s studying music, Gerry,’ said Carole, making conversation.
Wesley noticed a thin little girl peep round the kitchen door and disappear. He wondered who she was. Carole Sanders looked
too old to have a child that age. Perhaps it was a grandchild.
‘Yeah. She’s marvellous. She’s got herself a job playing the piano at the posh hotel down the road.’ Heffernan beamed with
paternal pride.
‘Are you musical? Does it run in the family?’
He blushed. ‘Well, I sing in the choir at St Margaret’s.’
Before Carole Sanders could comment the door was flung open and a young man burst into the room. ‘Auntie Carole, is it okay
if . . .?’ Jason Wilde stopped when he saw Gerry Heffernan and stood rooted to the spot, his mouth opening and closing like
that of goldfish.
Wesley made the connection. Carole Sanders was Sebastian Wilde’s sister. Jason was her nephew.
‘This is my nephew, Jason,’ she said with what sounded like affection.
‘We met earlier.’ Now that he looked at Carole, he could see a resemblance between her and her brother, Sebastian Wilde.
‘Not professionally, I hope.’ It was hard to tell whether she was joking.
‘Not really. We went to Nestec to see one of the staff and your nephew was there with his father.’
‘About that terrible robbery . . . the lorry being hijacked?’
‘Something like that,’ Heffernan said non-committally. ‘Well, I’d better get the keys off Sam and let Wesley here get back
to his missus and kiddie.’ He felt a sudden desire
to keep the conversation going. ‘He’s got another on the way, you know.’
Carole smiled shyly and turned to Wesley. ‘Congratulations. When’s the baby due?’
‘Not for a while yet. November.’
‘Is your wife keeping well?’
‘She’s a bit tired. She teaches at Tradmouth primary school so she’ll be able to put her feet up now term’s finished. Do you
have any children, Mrs Sanders?’
Carole smiled sadly. ‘No, I haven’t,’ she answered. Wesley wished he’d never asked.
Jason Wilde had been hovering on the threshold. He muttered something to his aunt about going to find Brenda, then he disappeared
in a cloud of embarrassment.
Once Jason had left the room, Gerry Heffernan hesitated, reluctant to leave.
But Wesley thought he’d better make a move. ‘We’ll go out the back way and pick up Sam’s keys. It’s been very nice to meet
you, Mrs Sanders.’
‘Yeah,’ Heffernan agreed, his eyes glowing. ‘I hope we meet again.’
‘Maybe you can stay for a cup of tea next time.’ Carole Sanders smiled at Heffernan, a hint of something in her eye that Wesley
thought might have been a come-on. Perhaps Gerry’s luck was in at last.
Sam was cleaning himself up at the garden tap when they found him. He announced that he had finished for the day and begged
a lift. There was no sign of his colleagues, Keith and Andy: they had sneaked off half an hour ago.
‘Nice woman, that Carole,’ Heffernan said to Wesley in a low voice as he climbed into the passenger seat of the car. Sam sat
in the back, happy to be chauffeured.
‘Mmm.’ Wesley was concentrating on getting out of the gateway of Gallows House, awkwardly situated near crossroads on a blind
bend.
‘Carole Sanders. Carole Wilde as was,’ Heffernan
mused. ‘I’ve heard that name today but I can’t remember where.’
Wesley Peterson was relaxing in the bosom of his loving family when Steve Carstairs parked his new car, his gleaming black
pride and joy, outside the Royal Oak and strolled inside, hands in the pockets of the expensive leather jacket he wore come
rain or shine.
He looked around the pub and spotted Harry Marchbank in the corner. Harry hadn’t wanted to meet at the Star as it was likely
that Heffernan would be in there on a Friday evening. Harry had a pint of bitter and a whisky chaser lined up in front of
him as though he was in for a heavy night. He hardly looked like a man who had just been discharged from hospital. And at
the rate he was going, Steve thought, he’d soon be back in there if he didn’t watch out.
Steve went to the bar and ordered himself a pint and another for Harry. A thin, fair-haired woman standing at the bar in an
outfit that left little to the imagination, looked him up and down and smiled. But he wasn’t in a position to take advantage
of anything she had to offer. Harry was waiting.
Harry growled a greeting and accepted his fresh pint. ‘I bloody need this after being stuck in that place,’ he said before
downing his whisky in one.
‘Should you be, er . . .’
‘Oh, don’t you bloody start. Any developments?’
‘Not since I saw you last.’
‘I want to check out that cottage tomorrow. Coming with me if Scouse Gerry lets you off the lead?’
‘I would but we’ve got a lot on at the moment and I don’t know if . . .’
‘I’ll come in first thing and use my powers of persuasion – cooperation between forces and all that.’
‘Best of luck.’ Steve stared into his half-empty pint glass. The pub was beginning to fill up; mainly with well-heeled locals
and yacht owners.
After a few seconds of silence Steve spoke. ‘Harry.’
‘What?’
‘You know what you said about that woman getting pushed off a cliff?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Was anyone charged?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I just wondered.’
Harry thought for a few moments. ‘Stan Jenkins was in charge of the case. It was a girl from Neston – worked in a building
society. Marion somebody. She lived with her parents and she just went out one day without telling anyone where she was going
and her body was found at the foot of the cliffs at Little Tradmouth – signs of a struggle at the top. The boyfriend was brought
in but there wasn’t enough evidence to stick so he was never charged. And now there’s the one you told me about – the woman
on Monks Island. It sounds similar.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Why?’
Harry saw that Steve was looking serious, deep in thought. Not like Steve at all.
‘Ah, forget it, Steve. Think how many cliffs there are around this coast – people are bound to get pushed off them from time
to time, especially in summer when quarrelling couples go for walks and that.’ He shook his head and smiled. ‘You’re not getting
conscientious in your old age, are you? Is it our coloured friend’s influence, eh? Or are you trying to impress that Trish
with your brilliant deductive powers so that you can get her into bed? Come on, you’ve got better things to do at your age
than to start imagining that some loony’s going round pushing people off cliffs.’
‘What happened to this Marion’s boyfriend?’
‘If I remember right, he emigrated to Australia shortly after.’ Harry stood up and thrust his hand into his pocket. ‘Have
another drink.’
As Steve sat alone, staring into what remained of his
beer, he concluded that Harry was probably right. There was nothing in it.
Gerry Heffernan spent Friday night at choir practice at St Margaret’s and had a quick drink with a couple of tenors in the
Star afterwards. But when he went to bed at 11.30 he couldn’t sleep. He found himself thinking of Carole Sanders: imagining
himself taking her for dinner, taking her flowers that would be received with gushing delight. Dinner at Monks Island – minus
the censorious head waiter – followed by a moonlit walk.
He told himself he was being silly, like a schoolboy smitten with a girl he’d seen on the school bus. And he was being disloyal
to Kathy’s memory. He rolled over in an attempt to make himself more comfortable.
Perhaps it was meant. Perhaps Sam going to work at Gallows House and him forgetting his key was all part of the Great Scheme
of Things.
Maybe he’d have a word with Wesley – ask his opinion. He’d mention Carole and see what he thought.
Carole Sanders – née Wilde. He’d heard the name Carole Wilde but he couldn’t remember where. He closed his eyes and tried
to stop thinking. It was time to get some sleep.
But just as he was nodding off it came to him suddenly, leaping up from the depths of his memory. The name had been in the
file on Alexandra Stanes’s disappearance. Carole Wilde had been Alexandra’s best friend.
With this thought circulating in his head and the night too clammy for comfort, Gerry Heffernan didn’t get to sleep for another
couple of hours.
‘Sir, can I have a word?’ Steve Carstairs hovered on the threshold of Heffernan’s office. It was half past eight on Saturday
morning and, the chief inspector thought, too early for one of Steve’s ‘words’ which usually presaged a report of some cock-up
or other.
‘Can’t it wait?’ Heffernan felt as lousy as if he’d had a
night on the town – but he didn’t even have the satisfaction of a good time remembered. ‘Is Inspector Peterson about yet?’
‘No, sir.’ Steve felt smug at the thought that Wesley was late.
‘Tell him I want a word as soon as he comes in.’
‘Sir, I was talking to Harry Marchbank last night.’
Heffernan looked up. Steve saw that he looked tired. ‘So? Hope he’s not been leading you off the path of righteousness . .
. not that you ever needed much leading.’
Steve’s face reddened. ‘It’s about this suspect he’s looking for. He thinks he’s tracked him down and he’d like some back-up
when he makes the arrest. I’m willing to go with him.’
‘I’m sure you are. But I’ve got other little treats in store for you. I want you to contact every computer shop within a forty-mile
radius and see if any more of Nestec’s stolen goods have turned up – that’ll include Plymouth, Morbay and Exeter, so it’ll
keep you out of mischief for a while.’ Heffernan grinned wickedly as Steve bit back his resentment.
‘Perhaps I’ll allow Marchbank to take a couple of uniforms with him if I’m feeling generous. Is he going to let me know when
he wants this back-up or am I supposed to read his mind?’
‘He says he’ll let you know later.’
‘That’s good of him. I suppose he’ll show his face as soon as he’s read the paper and his butler’s run his bath for him. What
does he think we’re doing? Sitting on our backsides twiddling our thumbs all day, waiting in case he has a villain he wants
catching?’ He muttered something under his breath that Steve couldn’t quite make out.
Steve was rescued from further embarrassment by Wesley’s arrival. He scurried out of the office, barely acknowledging Wesley
as he strolled in.
Heffernan stood up, his initial tiredness fading. ‘Wes. I remembered last night where I’d heard the name Carole
Wilde. She was Alexandra Stanes’s best mate and she was interviewed when she disappeared. Mrs Sanders is Sebastian Wilde’s
sister – she was Carole Wilde before she married. I think we should have a word with her.’