Cursed Inheritance (32 page)

Wesley stood up and put out his hand. ‘Thank: you very much, Mr Pugh. You’ve been very helpful. If you point me in the direction of the greenhouses … ‘

‘I knew there was something not quite right about that Bleasdale, you know, and 1 pride myself on being a good judge of character.’

Wesley glanced at his watch: he only had just over an hour before he had to meet up with Steve to hear what he had found out from the local police.

He took his leave from Pugh politely but firmly and headed out of the stables, passing beneath the wide arch through which grand carriages had once swept into the cobbled yard. A white clock tower stood above the archway, probably built so that the estate workers would know the time and have no excuse for lateness.

He walked down the path towards the walled garden as Pugh had instructed and saw the
reenhouses on his left. Their glass and white framework gleamed in the weak northern sun as Wesley approached the entrance and when he opened the door the smell of damp compost hit him, combined with the sharp, distinctive smell of growing geraniums. It was warm and humid beneath the glass roof and Wesley removed his coat as he looked for a human being amongst the foliage.

He soon spotted a figure moving behind the plants at the far end of the greenhouse. The man swung round, alarmed, when Wesley greeted him. It was clear he wasn’t expecting visitors.

‘By heck, thou gave me a right turn.’ Wesley had found his authentic Yorkshireman at last. He introduced himself and explained the reason for his visit.

Geoff Clayton was a big man with a thick shock of white hair and a large, open face. Probably in his late fifties, he bore the hallmarks of his profession: old corduroy trousers and hands stained with soil. He looked to Wesley like an

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honest man. And he awaited his assessment of Victor Bleasdale’s character with some interest.

‘You’re the second person who’s come asking me about that Vic Bleasdale. What’s he gone and done?’

‘I’m afraid we’re still pursuing our enquiries.’

The gardener chuckled. ‘That’s what t’police always say. Means nowt. You reckon Vic’s a murderer, am I right? T’other one did and all - bloke who called himself an author.’ The word was said with some contempt as though this man of the soil had no time for anybody involved in such effete activities.

‘Patrick Evans?’

‘Aye. That’s him.’

‘What did you tell him?’

Geoff Clayton ignored the question and started to make for the greenhouse door. ‘Come on, lad, I’ll mash us some tea. Like geraniums?’

Wesley realised that Geoff wasn’t a man to be rushed. ‘Yes. My wife took some cuttings last year. They’re doing quite well. What compost would you advise?’

This seemed to clinch it. Wesley was now Geoff’s bosom pal. As they left the greenhouse and walked towards the neat wooden potting shed nearby, Wesley received a torrent of horticultural advice he knew he’d have no chance of remembering. He nodded gratefully, as if he was taking in every word.

But it was over a mug of tea so strong that Wesley could feel it grating against his teeth, that Geoff’s information became really interesting.

‘Vic Bleasdale only stayed a couple of weeks before he buggered off without a by your leave. Moonlight flit it were. Cleared out his cottage and nobody saw hide nor hair of him again. ‘

‘What was he like to work with?’

Another chuckle. ‘Hadn’t a clue. And bone idle. If he hadn’t left I reckon old Sid would have given him his marching orders.’

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‘Do you mean he hadn’t a clue about gardening?’

‘Aye, that’s exactly what I mean. Didn’t know his wall-flowers from his daffodils, that one. You wouldn’t have thought he’d worked as a gardener before. In fact, I had my doubts. I only just managed to stop htm spraying weedkiller on Sid’s prize dahlias. Ruddy idiot.’

Wesley leaned forward, excited. Dahlias. Kirsty Evans had mentioned dahlias. ‘Did you tell Patrick Evans about the dahlias?’

He thought for a moment. ‘Aye. He wanted to know all about Bleasdale so happen I did.’

‘You think Bleasdale might have been an impostor then?’

A slow grin lit up Geoff Clayton’s face. ‘Aye. Happen he could have been. Is that a crime, do you reckon? Impersonating a gardener.’

‘If it’s not, maybe it should be,’ said Wesley as he took another sip of mahogany-brown tea.

The telephone on Rachel Tracey’s desk began to ring. She picked up the receiver and recited her name.

The man at the other end of the line identified himself as a constable in the traffic division and asked to speak to Inspector Peterson.

‘He’s not here at the moment. Can I help?’

‘It’s just that car we’ve been asked to watch out for - the one belonging to that missing woman, Gwen Madeley. It’s turned up on a lane near Derenham. Near a footpath leading down to the river. The farmer who reported it said it’s been sitting there for a couple of days. Just thought I’d let you know.’

The line went dead, leaving Rachel staring at the receiver. Then she dialled the number of Wesley’s mobile. This was something he’d want to know at once.

The police station nearest to Gristhorpe Hall was in the small North Yorkshire town of Pickrington. It was a pleasant, stone-built town, clustered around a large market

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square which was blessed with more than its fair share of public houses and restaurants. Wesley imagined that at the weekend people in outlying villages probably descended on the bright lights of Pickrington for a good night out.

The police station was a red-brick Victorian building situated in one of the narrow side streets that snaked off the market square. The exterior stood as it had done for over a century, the community’s temple of law and order, but the interior had been stripped of all its original features and transformed into a fine example of bland institutional design, all grey walls and pale-wood office furniture.

Wesley met Steve as arranged in the station foyer. Steve stood up as he entered through the swing door; his hands were thrust in the pockets of his leather jacket as usual.

‘How’s it going?’ Wesley asked. ‘Anything new?’

‘Yeah. The constable who took the statement is retired but he still lives on the outskirts of the town. Anyway, he doesn’t remember much about it. He took the statement and sent it through. Just routine. He can’t even remember what Bleasdale looked like.’

‘Hardly surprising. Anything else?’ He had the feeling that Steve was saving the best till last.

‘Oh yes,’ said Steve triumphantly. ‘There’s more. A couple of weeks after Bleasdale made his statement his car was found burned out in a lane leading to some farm cottages just off the Whitby road. Enquiries were made but the police were told that he no longer worked at Pickrington Hall and nobody knew where he’d gone.’

Wesley felt his heart beating faster. ‘You say his car was burned out. Bleasdale wasn’t in it, by any chance?’

Steve shook his head. ‘Apparently not. He disappeared into thin air never to be seen again.’

‘Until Patrick Evans woke the dead,’ Wesley said quietly.

His mobile phone began to ring, singing out its tinny version of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue. After a brief conversation he turned to Steve.

‘That was Rachel. They’ve found Gwen Madeley’s car.’

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He looked at his watch. They were stuck in North Yorkshire for the night, booked into one of the numerous pubs on the market square, and there was nothing much Wesley could do.

He had hoped that Gwen Madeley was still alive. But now he was beginning to fear the worst.

Steve had disappeared off to what was reputed to be the

hottest local nightspot - probably barely lukewarm by big

city standards - just when Wesley wanted someone to

discuss the case with. Wesley had been left alone in the

hotel bar, the focus of curious stares from the locals. He

consumed two pleasing pints of Black Sheep bitter before

retiring upstairs to his room, hoping that Steve would be in

a fit condition to share next day’s driving.

At eight o’clock the next morning Wesley was anxious to

begin the long journey south. He wanted to retrace

Bleasdale’s steps and find the motel where he was supposed

to have stayed on his way up to Pickrington. He didn’t expect

anybody there to remember him; he just wanted to satisfy

himself that the place existed. He was starting to doubt

whether anything about Victor Bleasdale could be trusted.

The back room of the pub had been converted into a

makeshift breakfast room for bed and breakfast guests. It

was a large, north-facing room and the weak spring

sunlight seeping in through the small windows had to be

supplemented with artificial light. The wallpaper was the

colour of grubby claret and the woodwork was dark and

glossy. The remains of last night’s coal fire lay grey and

dusty in the hearth. It was a room that looked cosy by night

but oddly shabby in daylight. An evening room. Wesley . breathed in the aroma of beer and stale tobacco smoke as

he and Steve sat together at a table for two enjoying a

generous full English breakfast that would have sent Gerry

Heffernan into a state of ecstasy. The only other residents

in the room were a ruddy-faced middle-aged couple,

dressed for walking. They studiously ignored Wesley and

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Steve as they chewed through their bacon and eggs, obviously believing in the British virtue of keeping oneself to oneself. Wesley found himself wondering how Neil had adapted to the American way of life. No doubt he’d hear all about it when he returned, which wouldn’t be long now. Time flew - or perhaps it was a sign he was getting older.

He looked at Steve - who was clearly recovering from a heavy night - and wondered how life would have been if he was still single and fancy-free. Then he put the thought out of his mind.

‘Don’t you want that toast?’ Wesley nodded towards the half-full toast rack.

‘Help yourself,’ Steve muttered back.

‘Good night last night?’

Steve didn’t answer and Wesley sensed that the subject was closed. He wished Gerry Heffernan was sitting there across the table. There would be little chance of extra toast but at least he’d be able to discuss the case, swapping speculations and possibilities.

His mobile phone began to ring and Steve looked wary, suspecting that it heralded more work. After a brief conversation, Wesley looked up. ‘That was the OS we spoke to at the local nick. He says he’s found something else.’ Wesley took a swig of lukewarm coffee and stood up, his chair scraping loudly on the stone-flagged floor.

They walked to the police station to the accompaniment of the bells of the parish church near by: Wesley had almost forgotten it was Sunday. At the station, OS Kevin Haslet was waiting for them. He was a big man, sixteen stone at the very least, who shook Wesley’s hand with an enthusiastic and painful grip. Wesley tried his best to smile.

‘Now then,’ Haslet began. ‘I’ve dug out something else that might interest you. When that car your DC was asking about went up in flames an old lass from the farm cottages reported it. She made a statement.’ He handed a sheet of paper to W esley.

Wesley began to read. The old lass, a Mrs Edith

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Shawthwaite, had been observant. On a routine walk with her dog she had seen smoke ahead on the quiet lane, hardly used except by locals, farmers and the occasional walker. She had approached cautiously and as she drew nearer she realised that it was a car in flames. Being a practical sort of woman her first thought was to retrace her steps to -her cottage to telephone the emergency services - this being before the days of universal mobile phones. Then she spotted a couple walking off in the other direction and called out to them but they hurried away. She didn’t get a good look at their faces but she gave the police an approx-imate description. Which they promptly filed and forgot about.

The description of the man could have fitted the one they had of Victor Bleasdale. And he was with a young woman with brown hair.

Wesley’s heart began to beat faster as he asked where he could find DS Haslet’s old lass.

But his elation was short-lived. The old lass had been a friend of Haslet’s mother. And she currently resided in Pickrington churchyard. She had passed away three years back.

Wesley hardly said a word all the way home, not even when they discovered that the motel where Bleasdale claimed to have stayed was no longer there, having been demolished to make way for a shopping centre fifteen years before. It just wasn’t his day.

The corpse floated in the river, swayed gently this way and that by the outgoing tide. At first the skipper of the car ferry took it for a bundle of old clothes. But after a few seconds he was certain that it was a body. A floater. Buoyed up by putrefying gases; swollen and disfigured by days of lying on the river bed, dragged to and fro by the currents.
His colleague, Iim, was busy collecting the money from the drivers, weaving between the parked vehi-cles on the deck and leaning into car windows. The skipper

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cut the engines and shouted over to Jim, who hurried to the

side rail followed by a couple of pedestrian passengers, a man and a woman whose waterproof clothing showed them to be well prepared for Devon’s unpredictable weather.

‘Looks like a woman,’ Jim shouted up to the skipper,

with inappropriate excitement. This was a welcome diver—

sion. Something to relieve the boredom of another day

spent travelling back and forwards across the river from

first light until dusk.

‘Hadn’t someone better call the police?’ the male passenger said with what sounded like authority. Jim stared at him

for a second. The police meant more entertainment. He

might even be called as a witness. There might be time off