Cursed Inheritance (26 page)

For the first time he even wondered whether the murder of Patrick Evans had anything to do with Potwoolstan Hall at all. Perhaps it had just been a mugging that went wrong. Perhaps he’d disturbed some youngsters. high on drugs and they had robbed him on the river bank and stuck a knife in his ribs. Perhaps they should be questioning the kids who found his wallet again. Or perhaps pigs were developing aviation skills. If his murder was unconnected with the Harford case it was carrying coincidence too far.

Wesley suddenly longed to talk the case over, not in the chaotic bustle of the office but over a leisurely drink. To try on ideas and theories like clothes and discard any that didn’t fit. He looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock already.

He had been out of the house since first thing that morning and he hadn’t returned till late. If he went out now, Pain wouldn’t exactly be delighted. But it was worth a try.

‘Do you mind if I go out for an hour or so?’ he asked

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sheepishly. ‘I just want to have a word with Gerry. We’ll probably just pop into the Tradmouth Arms and … ‘

‘You see him all day at work. Why don’t you just move in with him?’ But then she looked at him and realised that if he stayed at home, he might be there in body but not in spirit. ‘Go on if you must. But don’t be late.’

He left the house, eager as a newly released prisoner walking out to the freedom of the outside world. It was a cool and drizzly evening so he drove to the waterfront, not intending to drink.

He parked the car and cut through the narrow cobbled street lined with overhanging medieval houses which led to Baynard’s Quay. When he reached the quayside he stood for a few seconds looking out across the dark water, shot with slivers of gold from the reflected lights of the town. He could see the lights of Queenswear on the opposite bank, the coloured lights of the pub by the landing stage, giving the place a strangely festive look. Dark boats bobbed at anchor: it was high tide. A fishing boat chugged purpose-fully along the river towards the sea. Wesley breathed in and smelt seaweed and a whiff of diesel blended with the faint smell of cooking from one of the nearby restaurants. He liked Tradmouth at night.

Gerry Heffernan owned a small, whitewashed cottage at the end of the quay, separated from the Tradmouth Arms by a short, steep alleyway. The cottage nestled up against its larger, grander neighbours like a child against a row of grown-ups. Wesley knocked at the door and waited. When the chief inspector answered, Wesley saw that he had discarded his rather shabby working clothes for a pair of old jeans and a cream roll-neck sweater, the kind favoured by submarine captains in wartime movies. When he saw Wesley his face lit up with a beaming smile. He was glad of the company.

‘Come in, Wes, come in. What brings you here? Gwen Madeley hasn’t turned up, has she?’

‘No. I just fancied throwing a few ideas around.’

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Heffernan rubbed his hands together eagerly as though he couldn’t think of a better way to spend an evening and led the way into the cottage. Wesley could never get over how neatly he kept it: a place for everything and everything in its place, a habit he claimed to have picked up from his days as an officer in the Merchant Navy. For a man with the most chaotic desk in the station, the state of his home came as rather a surprise.

They walked the few yards to the Tradmouth Arms. It was a warm, convivial pub, serving good ale and specialis-ing in sea food. The bar staff had already been asked if Patrick Evans had eaten his last lobster there. But lobster had been off the menu that Saturday night.

‘So what do you make of it all?’ Heffernan said when he was settled with a full pint of best bitter in front of him. Wesley, stuck with orange juice, wished now that he had left the car at home. ‘Has anybody seen Emma Oldchester’s foster father yet?’

‘He’s on my list. When Rachel phoned him he told her that he and his wife had never discussed what happened at the Hall with Emma. According to the psychologists she saw, she’d blotted the whole thing out and he thinks it’s best that she’s not reminded. Who knows? Maybe he’s right. Evans contacted him but he refused to meet him.’

‘What about the husband? Barry Oldchester?’

‘Ditto. Refused to see Evans. He’s much older than Emma, you know.’

‘Perhaps her foster parents thought he’d be a safe pair of hands, as it were. Someone sensible who’d look after her.’

‘You could be right. Emma must have been desperate to remember what happened if she let herself by hypnotised by Elsham.’

‘I expect Evans’s phone calls brought it all back to the surface.’ Heffernan thought for a few moments. ‘I’ve been wondering about this hypnotism business. 1 was talking to one of the bellringers at St Margaret’s the other night - turns out he’s a psychiatrist at Tradmouth Hospital. He’d

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know about that sort of thing, wouldn’t he?’

‘I expect so.’

‘If I could ask him to see Emma Oldchester … ‘

Wesley smiled to himself. In the Met it had been the Masons and the golfing fraternity who provided each other with favours. Gerry Heffernan’s network of contacts was rather less conventional but no less effective. ‘Worth a try,’ he said, draining his glass of orange juice. He’d been thirsty. He went to the bar to buy another round and when he sat down again, things were a little straighter in his mind.

‘I think we can safely assume that Martha Wallace didn’t kill the Harfords. But someone made it look as though she’d done it. Someone who knew they might be suspected? Did you know there was an old legend about the Hall being cursed hundreds of years ago? The local peasants nailed dead crows to the doors.’

This captured Heffernan’s attention. ‘The killer must have known about it.’

‘According to Patrick Evans’s notebook, he went up to North Yorkshire but he didn’t find the gardener, Bleasdale. I’ve looked at the file and Bleasdale was interviewed by North Yorkshire police just after the murders but as he’d left Devon before the Harfords were killed, he was eliminated from the enquiry. According to Gibbons’s statement in the file he was telling the truth. Do you trust Gibbons?’

Heffernan shook his head. ‘Not as far as I could throw him. What about all this stuff Emma said about Mr Bleasdale shooting the Harfords then changing her mind and saying that they were shot by “the other man”? Was she just rambling or what? Perhaps by the other man she meant the other gardener - Gibbons.’

‘Gibbons had an alibi. It was checked at the time. And what was his motive?’ Wesley sighed. They were getting nowhere. ‘I’m concerned abo,J.J.t Gwen Madeley. Surely she wouldn’t take off when she’s expecting a friend to stay and leave her place unlocked.’

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‘Maybe her brother, Dylan, knows where she is. He’s on Evans’s list.’

‘If we can find him. And where do Arbel and that husband of hers fit into all this?’

‘Maybe they don’t. But I still think it’s funny he should choose to stay at Potwoolstan Hall. Decidedly odd if you ask me.’

‘He said Patrick Evans had made him curious about the place. But I’m wondering whether Gwen Madeley was the attraction. Does he know her better than he’s admitting? He met her in the woods.’ Wesley took a long drink and thought for a few moments. ‘Those paintings of the murder scene in her studio; how could she have known the details? She must have been there at some point but there’s nothing in the files about her having been on the premises between the time Arbel reported it and the police arriving. As far as I can see she was only told about the murders afterwards when they were looking for a place for Arbel to stay.’

‘Odd. Unless she went to the Hall before Arbel got there. But if that’s the case, why didn’t she raise the alarm?’

Wesley sighed. ‘If we could find her we could ask her. She can’t have vanished into thin air. Perhaps we should have another go at Richard Gibbons. If we can get past his mother. He was around the grounds the morning the bodies were found.’

‘Mmm. Brenda Varney had a reason to resent the Harfords.’

‘And again we don’t know where she is. Anyway, Emma implied they were shot by a man. The other man,’ Wesley took another drink and leaned forward. ‘Let’s make a list of all the men connected with the case.’ He took a diary out of his pocket and turned to the blank pages at the back. ‘Right. We’ve got Richard Gibbons, the undergardener who said he was at the cinema with a friend at the time of the murders, then he went home to his old mum. The cinema alibi checked out and the mother backed his story all the way, of course, but that’s what mums are like. However, we only have his

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word for it that he didn’t meet Patrick Evans that Saturday night. Then there’s Anthony Jameston.’

‘He wasn’t even around at the time of the murders. He didn’t meet Arbel till later on.’

‘Do we know that for sure? He talked to Evans.’

‘Only because Evans was trying to get to Arbel.’

‘What about Barry Oldchester? Did he have any link with the Hall?’

‘Not that we know of.’

‘Emma’s foster father, Joe Harper?’

‘There’s no evidence of a link between him and the Harfords.’

‘Jeremy Elsham?’

‘The same. No link. He’s not even from Devon.’

‘But why choose Potwoolstan Hall?’

‘He probably got the place cheap. Why don’t you ask him if you think it’s important?’

But Wesley wasn’t to be discouraged. He wrote down the names as though he was on the verge of an exciting discovery. ‘There’s Dylan Madeley, Gwen’s brother. Convictions for drugs and robbery. We need to find him. And Victor Bleasdafe?’

Heffernan nodded. ‘Now Emma has named him he’s worth a second look. Maybe he didn’t go up north the day before the murders. And maybe Evans did manage to trace him and that’s why he was killed. If Bleasdale’s the killer, he must be somewhere nearby.’

‘What did he have to gain from killing the Harfords?’

‘Perhaps it was revenge. Perhaps he was due to get the sack like Brenda and they had a row.’

‘Gibbons would have known about something like that.’

‘That’s why I want another word with him. He worked with the man. He must have known him better than most.’

‘Is there a photograph of Bleasdale anywhere in our records?’

‘No, Wes. And he had no form so there’s no fingerprints either. Shame.’

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They sat there for a few moments contemplating their drinks. Wesley was instinctively against fmgerprinting and photographing the entire population, but he had known times when it might have come in useful.

He looked at his watch then at Heffernan, who was sitting there expectantly with an empty glass. ‘Look, Gerry, I really should be getting home. Pam … ‘

‘Yeah, off you go. I think I’m going to stay and have another.’ He stood up to go to the bar. ‘See you tomorrow, eh? First thing. ‘

Wesley left, feeling uneasy, tom between keeping a lonely man company and his duties as a husband and father. But you can’t please all the people all the time. He climbed into his car and drove back home, shifting into second gear to tackle the steep gradients of the streets leading up from the waterfront. .

It was ten fifteen when he reached the house but the place was already in darkness. Pam had gone to bed and he took this as a signal of disapproval. He suddenly regretted his impulsive visit to Baynard’s Quay. Maybe he was becoming obsessed with work, letting it take over his life. He had seen it happen so much in his job, especially with his colleagues in the Met. He climbed the stairs wearily. When they had caught the killer of Patrick Evans and Gwen Madeley had turned up safe and well, he would make it up to Pam and the children.

He crept into the bedroom and found Pam reading. She. said nothing as he sat on the bed and kissed her cheek.

‘Sorry I’m late. I think Gerry needed some company.’

‘And I didn’t.’

Wesl~y didn’t have an answer for that.

‘You left your mobile in the hall.’

‘Yes. I realised when I got to Gerry’s.’

‘You had a call while you were out. A Kirsty Evans. She wants to know if you can meet her for lunch again tomorrow.’ Pam pressed her lips together in disapproval.

‘1 won’t be able to. I’ll get one of the others to look after

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her. Trish maybe.’ He looked at Pam hopefully. ‘The woman’s husband’s just been murdered. She just wants a sympathetic person to talk to, that’s all.’

Pam didn’t look convinced. That night Amelia woke up twice. And Wesley’s guilty conscience made him get up to see to her both times.

Jeremy Elsham walked slowly down the landing and stopped outside Anthony Jameston’s door. He hesitated for a few moments before walking on, continuing the night patrol just as he did every night, just to make sure that all was well and that none of the Beings were in need of any sustenance, spiritual or physical. They expected attentive service for their money and, in the absence of live-in staff, it was his and Pandora’ s duty to provide it out of normal hours.

He had wondered about approaching Jameston. But Pandora had counselled against it. And it was her affair after all. He made his way back to the bedroom where he knew she would be waiting for him.

Sure enough she was there, propped up on one elbow, a slight smile of invitation on her face. Jeremy slipped his dressing gown off and got into bed beside her.

‘All quiet?’ she asked, just as she did every night.

‘No problem. They’ve been swilling down the camomile tea all day.’ He lay down and pushed a straying strand of hair off her face, thinking that the last stay in the cosmetic surgery clinic had done wonders for her appearance. ‘I wanted to talk to Dodgson… sorry, Jameston. Now we know who he is, 1 think we should say something.’

Pandora turned away from him. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because we should keep out of it, that’s why not. That man was murdered here in the grounds. And Gwen’s still not turned up. But then Gwen’s always been an awkward bitch.’ Jeremy ran his fingers over her naked back and she turned over again to face him. ‘Promise you’ll say nothing?’