Cursed Inheritance (10 page)

Somehow this news surprised Neil. He had only asked about Max Selbiwood on the off-chance that Hannah, being local, might have heard of him. His grandmother had told him that Selbiwood came from Annetown, Virginia and that was all he had to go on. He had hardly expected a connection with the site.

They walked beneath the shade of the cedars and eventually reached the expanse of bare earth and interesting holes that was the site of the excavation. A group of diggers had gathered roundˇ one spot and seemed to be chattering excitedly. Something was happening.

Ten minutes later Neil heard that another skeleton had been unearthed about a hundred feet away from the church. Another skeleton whose skull had been penetrated by a musket ball.

Breakfast at the Petersons’ ‘Dulwich home wasn’t quite as Wesley remembered from his childhood. Nowadays his parents were busy people with little time to sit around the breakfast table and chat first thing in the morning. His mother was due at her surgery two miles away at eight thirty and his father had a long list of patients to see at the hospital that morning before a heavy afternoon of opera-tions. They assured him that they were delighted to see him: they only wished they had more time.

At seven in the morning Wesley sat at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal in front of him. His mother bustled in. Dr Cecilia Peterson had gained a little weight in middle age but she was still a good-looking woman. She stopped

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suddenly and looked at her son.

‘Are you OK, Wesley? You look tired. Are you sleeping well?’

Coming from a doctor this was bad but he resisted the temptation to rush to the mirror. He told himself that she was his mother. And mothers always worry. It goes with the territory.

Before Wesley could answer, his father came in. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man with greying hair and a small, neat beard. He hurried to the mirror and adjusted the sky blue bow-tie he was wearing.

‘I’m just off, honey,’ he said to his wife, kissing her on the cheek. He looked at Wesley and smiled. ‘Good to see you, son.’ Mr Joshua Peterson, Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, grasped Wesley’s hand in both of his. ‘We’ll be down soon to see that little granddaughter of ours. And young Michael. You take care-now.’

Wesley stood up and threw his arms around his father. It had been too long since he had last seen him. The man who had seemed a towering presence as he grew up was now the human being - the equal, not the god. When Wesley thought about all the feckless and absent fathers he came across in the course of his work, he had come to appreciate his own parents. By the standards of the modern day his upbringing had been strict, with the emphasis on good manners, church attendance and academic effort. They were immigrants in a new country and they had to try just that little bit harder. Luckily, Wesley and his sister, Maritia, had gone along with it. They had never been natural rebels: perhaps things would havebe.en very different if they had been.

When his father left the house, Wesley experienced a sudden wave of sadness and wished he could preserve the moment. Ten minutes later he and his mother left the Victorian villa overlooking the park, Cecilia chattering about Michael and Amelia, Maritia’s looming wedding and commenting on the fickleness of the weather. After a warm

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hug, mother and son went their separate ways. It had been a pleasant interlude. But it faded like a distant dream once he started to face the crawling traffic to Deptford.

As he drove towards Kirsty Evans’s apartment, he realised he had left the papers from Patrick Evans’s office in the boot of his car overnight. He had forgotten all about them; in fact he’d put the whole case out of his mind as soon as he’d arrived at his childhood home. It had been careless of him. And Wesley wasn’t usually a careless person.

He was relieved to fmd that Kirsty was waiting for him, her coat on and her overnight bag packed. He hadn’t fancied staying a moment longer in London than necessary and he had a long journey ahead. He thought of the traffic on the M25 and his heart sank.

It took them almost five hours to reach Tradmouth and Wesley was glad they’d set off early. As he had feared, it had been a journey of gushing confidences and uneasy silences. But by the time they reached Devon he felt that he knew Kirsty Evans - and her husband - better.

After studying economics at university Kirsty had landed herself a job in the City and she had met Patrick in a bar when she was out with friends. He had been a journalist, a few years older than her and with a worldly charm she’d found irresistible. To Wesley’s embarrassment she spoke of their physical attraction to one another; how they’d ended up in bed the first night they met and stayed there all the following day. The instant lust hadn’t lasted, of course, but had settled down into something more tranquil. The. wedding in the country church in her parents’ home village had followed. Then the grand passion had dulled into companionship with a few storms along the way. Patrick had wanted children and she hadn’t, which had been a major cause of disagreement. And recently, thanks to their respective jobs, they hadn’t really seen much of each other.

But she was grieving for Patrick, hurting. And, after hours closeted alone with her, Wesley didn’t think he could

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take much more. He would ask Rachel to accompany her to the mortuary if she was available.

It was almost two o’clock when they reached Tradmouth and Wesley drove straight to the police station car park. To his relief, Rachel was in the office and she hurried down .the stairs to the foyer where Kirsty was waiting. Wesley watched Rachel as she left the room. She wore a knee-length denim skirt and a tight black T-shirt and she had allowed her straight blond hair to fall to her shoulders today instead of sweeping it up in the usual ponytail. To a man who had just spent a morning suffering grief and heavy traffic, she looked beautiful. When she’d gone he made for Gerry Heffernan’s office, wondering how soon he could get home to Pam.

He found Heffernan sitting at his desk with a glum expression on his chubby face. But when he saw Wesley standing there he grinned.

‘You got out in one piece then?’

Wesley looked at him, puzzled.

‘That London. You managed to escape?’

Wesley laughed. Gerry Heffernan had always had a low opinion of the capital - unlike his native Liverpool which he spoke of as if it were some north-western Shangri-La - his Land of Lost Content. ‘I brought Kirsty Evans back to identify her husband’s body. Rachel’s with her.’

‘What’s she like?’

Wesley shrugged. He still felt he didn’t really know what made Kirsty Evans tick. She was the hard modem career woman with the minimalist apartment who fell in love with a -freelance writer and opted for a romantic white wedding in a pretty country church. There was a contradiction there somewhere. But then he supposed most people were full of contradictions.

‘Learned anything useful?’

‘He was working on a book about a famous murder case but she doesn’t know which one. He did his work in a rented office in a run-down block, probably as cheap as you

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can get in London, and he kept all his work stuff there. I’ve brought most of his files back and I’ll go through them as soon as I get a chance. Any progress this end?’

‘Indeed there is. Thanks to a little toerag called Leigh Bolt, it looks like we’ve found the place where Evans was killed.’ He grinned. ‘When Master Bolt, aged fifteen, was caught twockingin Neston, Patrick Evans’s driving licence and credit card were found in his pocket. He showed me where he’d found them.’

‘Where was that?’ Wesley asked patiently.

Heffeman leaned forward. ‘The grounds of Potwoolstan Hall. In the woods that stretch down to the river.’

‘Accessible to outsiders?’

‘There’s nothing to stop anyone from walking or driving in. In fact, Leigh and his mates have been using the river bank as their own personal playground by the looks of things. The drive leading to the Hall branches off into a track that goes down to the river and there’s a clearing where you can park a car.’ He looked sheepish. ‘Mind you, I think our patrol cars have probably obliterated any tyre prints. ‘

Wesley nodded philosophically. Another possible cockup amongst many. Life in the police was full of them.

‘So Evans and his murderer might have driven to the Hall then walked down to the river from this clearing. Evans’s car’s still in the hotel garage so he must have met someone who gave him a lift.’ Wesley thought for a moment. ‘The murderer must have been someone he trusted. ‘

Heffeman shrugged. ‘I want to ask some questions at the Hall. Maybe Evans met someone who’s staying there. Or perhaps someone saw something. Fancy another trip out?’

This was exactly what he wanted. Something to get the smell of London out of his nostrils. Rachel could look after Kirsty Evans. He was going for a walk by the river and a visit to a healing centre. Just what the doctor ordered.

Wesley grabbed his jacket from his chair on the way out

,

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and followed the chief inspector out of the office.

Potwoolstan Hall was getting Serena Jones down. All that earnest New Age psychobabble made her want to wipe the smug expression off Jeremy Elsham’s smooth, lightly tanned face. He was a charlatan - she recognised one when she saw one. She had avoided his regression sessions so far, choosing instead a diet of meditation, giggle-inducing chanting and the art therapy sessions led by a local artist called Gwen Madeley; a nervy, solemn woman with sly eyes, long brown hair and a genuine talent. And surprisingly expensive clothes.

Steve Carstairs had nearly ruined everything. It was a good thing that she had never told him what she really did for a living. If she had, he -would have betrayed her for sure. Their half-hearted relationship had begun when he’d picked her up in a club and they had arranged to meet a few days later at a karaoke bar on the Morbay waterfront. He was good-looking and splashed his money about but when their less than memorable rendezvous had been followed by several more nights of clubbing and pubbing she had discovered that Steve only had a place for one person in his heart - and that person was Steve. He had boasted that he was the scourge of the local villains, but somehow Serena hadn’t believed a word of it. He was a pathetic specimen who got off on playing the hard man, the tough cop. And after enduring a fortnight of his company, she had begun to make excuses.

When he’d turned up at the Hall she had been gratified to see that the young woman sergeant who was with him seemed to have him where she wanted him but Serena
cursed Mrs Jeffries for not taking better care of her valuables. Steve’s appearance might have blown her cover. And that would never do.

They had just had lunch - vegetarian of course - in what used to be the Hall’s library, now converted into a refec-tory with long pine tables and walls painted in a restful

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shade of pale green. It was a pleasant, sunny room and the food was edible, if rather strange: nuts, mushrooms and pulses seemed to feature highly on the chef’s list of ingredients but Serena didn’t mind. Perhaps, she thought optimistically, a week off the fast food would make her lose some weight.

Serena sat on a wicker armchair in the entrance hall, pretending to be engrossed in an improving book. She was booked in for an aura workshop but nobody would ask questions if she didn’t turn up. Jeremy Elsham insisted that the Beings each controlled their own programme of enlightenment. Which meant that she could come and go as she pleased.

The theft of her fellow Being’s money and ring had never been mentioned at the Hall. It had been hushed up like some dreadful family secret. She wondered how the police investigation was going. No doubt Steve would be able to enlighten her. But after what she had just discovered, all thoughts of the theft had been pushed to the back of her mind.

She sat with one eye on her book - a worthy Booker Prize winner that was a little hard-going for her taste - and the other on the staircase. The woman in the wheelchair passed by with a cheery good afternoon and a comment about the weather but Serena didn’t reply. The Mrs Carmodys of this world weren’t of any use to Serena Jones. Not like the man who called himself Charles Dodgson. Her heart began to thump in her chest as she watched him coming down the wide oak staircase. He hurried down, trying to make himself inconspicuous, and shot out of the front door.

Serena abandoned her book gratefully and followed after him, careful to keep her distance. Dodgson was definitely up to something and there was no other entertainment on offer.

She had half expected him to make for the car park but instead he was heading for the woods. He walked quickly,

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his progress heralded by the cries of the crows nesting in the dark trees. She followed, keeping close to the tree trunks. A twig cracked beneath her trainers and she froze. But her quarry hadn’t heard the sound above the crows’ raucous noise. She had a fleeting wish that someone would come along and shoot the evil-looking birds and stop their din once and for all.

Dodgson stopped in a clearing and Serena flattened herself against a tree and waited, trying to ignore the nettles stinging her bare legs and the twigs digging into her back.

Serena heard hushed voices. Someone had been waiting for Dodgson. Serena crept closer and peeped round a fat tree trunk. Gwen Madeley, the art therapist from the Hall, was talking to Dodgson, her face close to his. Dodgson looked anxious, as though the conversation wasn’t a happy one. A lovers’ tiff perhaps. If he was indeed Anthony Jameston, he wouldn’t be the first Member of Parliament who had difficulty keeping his trousers on.

As Serena began to tiptoe back towards the Hall her mobile phone began to ring. She cursed and pressed the button that would silence it before uttering a hushed ‘Hello’.

Her heart sank when she heard, Steve Carstairs’s voice on the other end of the line. This was the last thing she wanted. He asked her if she was still at the Hall and when she answered that she would be there till Monday morning he lowered his voice, as though he feared he would be overheard.