The Blood Pit (4 page)

At first it was all tearful reunions and invitations to stay at Foxglove House for as long as she liked so that they could
get to know each properly. Then, gradually, she’d discovered that, rather than being the mother of her dreams, Annette was
a selfish, manipulative bitch who made her boredom only too obvious once the novelty of having a long-lost daughter had worn
thin. Annette’s husband, Charlie, had been charming at first – good looking and fun. In her naivety, Petronella had liked
him. But when she’d realised the truth, she’d got away from Foxglove House as quickly as she could.

Now, after almost two years of silence, the call had come. Annette needed her.

Charlie was dead. He’d been murdered. And ties of blood are hard to break.

*

Heffernan was in a better mood next morning. In fact when Wesley arrived in the office he seemed positively chirpy. Wesley
deduced from this that either Carl Pinney was on the mend … or that he’d decided not to make a formal complaint.

‘Come in, Wes, come in.’ Heffernan said impatiently, consulting one of the crumpled scraps of paper that cluttered his desk
and then discarding it, repeating the process until he found the right one.

‘You look cheerful,’ said Wesley.

‘Do I?’ The DCI grinned. ‘It’s good to have our Sam home, that’s all.’

‘How’s his new job going?’

‘He’s loving it – and the surgery’s in Tradmouth so it couldn’t have worked out better.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe
he’s a qualified vet. Doesn’t seem two minutes since he was little and …’ He sighed and looked at the piece of paper in his
hand. ‘Colin’s doing the PM this afternoon so let’s get down to Rhode and have a word with the Widow Marrick.’ He looked at
his watch.

‘What about our little problem? Steve’s …’

‘I rang the hospital first thing. Pinney’s on the mend. He’s had brain scans but I don’t know if they managed to find one.’
He grinned at his feeble joke. ‘He must be better ’cause he’s saying he wants to make a statement. And he’s demanding a solicitor
which isn’t a good sign. But if anyone’s head’s going to roll about this, Wes, I’m making sure the buck stops with Steve.’

‘Quite right,’ said Wesley with feeling. Some nasty little demon inside him kept saying that he hoped Steve Carstairs got
everything that was coming to him. But then he felt slightly ashamed at his vindictiveness.

‘I’ve asked Rach to call me if there are any developments.’

Heffernan stood up, fastening the top button of his purple shirt – a present from his musician daughter, Rosie, who
thought that her father should be more sartorially adventurous: Gerry hadn’t had the heart to disappoint her.

Ten minutes later they were on their way to the village of Rhode, Wesley in the driving seat as usual. He steered the car
up the hill out of Tradmouth and took the left turn at the roundabout. Once past the high school and the leisure centre, they
were out in open country with the sea down below to their left. A few distant, white-sailed yachts were skimming like toys
over the smooth water and a tiny container ship trundled across the horizon. After a few minutes they reached civilisation
in the shape of a postcard-pretty village, with pastel cottages and a narrow main street more suited to the horse than the
motor vehicle. Wesley’s eye was caught by a fountain of bright flowers tumbling from the balcony of a handsome whitewashed
pub. Rhode was the sort of place visitors came to Devon to see. But nowhere is immune to violent death.

Wesley wondered whether to mention Neil’s strange letter to his boss but he decided to wait until he’d actually seen it. It
was probably a coincidence, but the letter’s mention of blood, just as Marrick’s body was found, made him uneasy.

Foxglove House stood at the end of the lane that ran by the thirteenth-century village church, crooked to accommodate the
contours of the ancient churchyard.

‘I’m surprised Mrs Marrick wanted to stay here,’ Wesley said as they rounded the bend in the drive and the house came into
sight.

‘So am I, Wes, but apparently she insisted. If my living room looked as if I’d hired Count Dracula as the interior decorator,
I’d be miles away.’

A patrol car was parked outside and the entrance was festooned with crime scene tape. Wesley climbed out of the driver’s seat
and followed Gerry Heffernan who was marching with determination towards the house.

DC Trish Walton answered the door, standing almost to
attention as they passed. Wesley wondered how much she knew about Steve’s suspension. Steve and the sensible, if plodding, Trish
used to be an item … before Trish came to her senses, as Heffernan put it. However, Wesley sensed that there was still a slight
spark of attraction between Trish and Steve, even though it had never exactly been a relationship made in heaven. Now Trish
shared a house with Rachel Tracey who would probably keep her on the straight and narrow as far as Steve was concerned. But
Trish and Steve were opposites … and sometimes opposites can be drawn to each other against all the odds: look at magnets.

‘How is she?’ was Wesley’s first question.

‘The doctor gave her something to help her sleep and she seems fine this morning,’ Trish replied, sounding rather puzzled.
‘She’s more worried about how the decorators are going to get rid of the bloodstains.’ She shuddered. ‘She’s even started
ringing up specialist cleaners.’

‘Already?’ Heffernan frowned. He’d come across a good few widows in the course of his career but this was the first one who
didn’t even wait till her husband’s body was cold before removing all trace of him.

‘Where is she now?’ Wesley asked.

‘In the kitchen having coffee. Her daughter arrived last night. Petronella her name is. She’s in there with her.’ Trish hesitated. ‘It’s
all a bit odd if you ask me. The daughter doesn’t seem in the least bit bothered. Mind you, he was only her stepfather – and,
reading between the lines, I don’t think they got on.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘Apparently Annette Marrick
had her when she was sixteen and abandoned her in the hospital. Petronella was adopted and she only traced her biological
mother a couple of years ago. Annette’s been married twice since she had Petronella but there’re no other children. She was
fourteen years older than Charles Marrick.’ Trish raised her eyebrows and Wesley wasn’t quite sure what he was expected to
say.

But Gerry Heffernan stepped into the breach. ‘So he was what is commonly known as a toy boy. Maybe he had a younger model waiting
in the wings. Do you see this as a crime of passion, Wes? Older woman marries younger man. He gets fed up with her and takes
up with someone else. She loses control and stabs him in the neck. I know she claims to have an alibi and we’ve found no blood-stained
clothing yet, but it’s possible, don’t you think?’ He watched Wesley for a sign that he approved of his theory.

Trish interrupted. ‘Sir, how’s that boy Steve was supposed to have … ?’

‘It looks like he’s on the mend,’ said Wesley with a reassuring smile. ‘But Steve’s suspended from duty.’

She looked Wesley in the eye. ‘Steve always was an idiot.’

There was no answer to that. Gerry Heffernan had begun to lumber through the hall, making for the kitchen.

Wesley was about to follow him when Trish touched his arm. ‘Steve’s been having problems.’

‘Rachel mentioned something.’

‘His parents are divorced and he last saw his dad when he was twelve. Now he’s come back to Devon and made contact again.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that bad?’

Trish shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I think it’s upset Steve a bit. Unsettled him, if you know what I mean.’ She gave him a weak
smile. ‘Actually you might have met his dad. He’s manager of that sandwich shop on the High Street … the one near the Boat
Float.’

Wesley thought he knew the man Trish was talking about – there was a new boss there, a middle aged man with greying hair and
an ingratiating smile who always liked to banter words with any reasonably attractive female who happened to cross the threshold.
Now he thought about it, he could see a resemblance to Steve – a similar-shaped chin; the same mouth; a likeness around the
eyes.

‘I think I know who you mean,’ he said. ‘Time to have a word with the merry widow, I suppose,’ he added before making for
the kitchen.

Gerry Heffernan had already made himself at home at the kitchen table. A tall young woman in her late twenties with short
brown hair and large, pleading eyes, stood at the other end of the kitchen, waiting for an electric kettle to come to the
boil. She looked up at Wesley as he entered the room, her eyes registering surprise for a split second. Then she asked him
if he wanted a coffee and when he said yes, she took another mug from a nearby cupboard. If this was Annette Marrick’s daughter,
she was certainly nothing like her mother.

The older woman sat opposite Gerry Heffernan. She had immaculately cut shoulder-length blonde hair, a sun-bed tan and a body
that had spent a lot of hours in the gym. Mrs Annette Marrick had put in a lot of effort to keep her younger husband. But
she didn’t seem too upset by the fact that she’d lost him.

‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Marrick,’ Wesley said as he took a seat beside his boss. ‘It must have been a great shock
for you, finding him like that.’

‘Yes it was,’ she said but somehow the words didn’t sound very convincing. She began to examine her glossy blood-red nails,
almost as though she was bored and when the younger woman placed the coffee cups in front of them, the two policemen thanked
her but Annette Marrick made no acknowledgement. If Wesley had been in a charitable frame of mind, he might have put this
down to grief. But instinct told him it was sheer bad manners.

Wesley addressed the younger woman. ‘I presume you’re Mrs Marrick’s daughter.’

‘Yes, I’m Petronella Blackwell,’ she said, taking a seat at the table beside her mother.

‘I’m sorry about your stepfather,’ Wesley said automatically.

She looked away. ‘I hardly knew him.’

Her manner implied that she hadn’t wanted to know him. There was definitely animosity there. When Wesley caught Gerry Heffernan’s
eye, he knew that he’d noticed it too.

Heffernan turned to Annette. ‘Right, love. I understand you discovered your husband’s body when you returned home yesterday.
By then he’d only have been dead an hour or so, according to our pathologist. Where had you been?’ Annette’s apparent lack
of grief made him speak more brutally than he would normally have done to a recent widow. And besides, there was a hardness
about the woman that he didn’t like.

‘I’d been out to lunch with friends,’ she said with a cool glance at Petronella who was staring into her coffee mug, her face
expressionless.

‘According to your statement you got home at five thirty. That was a long lunch,’ Heffernan said. Wesley could hear the scepticism
in his voice – or was it some inborn disapproval of ladies who lunch?

‘We were planning a charity dinner. There was a lot to arrange.’

‘Who were you with?’

‘I’ve given the names to that little policewoman.’

Wesley assumed she meant Trish, although, at five foot eight, he wouldn’t have described Trish as ‘little’. Maybe the word
was used to denote status rather than height. ‘I’m sure you won’t mind telling us again,’ he said with a businesslike smile.

She squirmed in her seat and repeated the two names, neither of which meant anything to Wesley or the DCI. But then they didn’t
mix in those circles.

‘Do you mind telling me if you noticed anything was missing?’

‘You mean a burglary? You think he disturbed a burglar?’

‘We’re not sure yet. Is anything missing?’

Annette shook her head. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘And do you know anything about your late husband’s movements yesterday?’

‘He’d been into the warehouse in the morning and he planned to come home after lunch to catch up on his paperwork. That’s
all I know.’ She pressed her lips together as though that was all she was willing to say on the subject. Wesley looked at
Heffernan who gave a small shake of his head. Leave it for now.

Wesley turned to Petronella. She looked rather nervous, out of her depth. ‘What about you, Miss Blackwell. Where were you
yesterday?’

‘At home in Bath. I took the day off work – I had some holiday owing. Annette called me and I drove straight down.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a secretary for a marketing company.’

‘Is there anyone who can confirm where you were yesterday afternoon?’ Wesley made the question sound casual.

She shook her head. ‘I’m doing an Open University degree. I was working on an essay.’

Wesley smiled at her and she smiled back shyly. He had no reason to disbelieve her story. She had become entangled in events
that had nothing to do with her because of an accident of birth. But he still had to find out about her relationship with
Charlie Marrick … if she’d had one.

Gerry Heffernan looked Annette in the eye. ‘Right then, love. Have you any idea who’d want your husband dead?’

The answer was a shake of the head.

‘Had he quarrelled with anyone recently?’

Annette hesitated for a few moments and Wesley knew that she was making some sort of decision. Eventually she nodded. ‘He
had as a matter of fact,’ she said warily before falling silent again.

‘Who?’ Gerry Heffernan sounded impatient.

‘Fabrice Colbert. He owns Le Petit Poisson in Tradmouth.’

Heffernan caught Wesley’s eye. They’d both heard of Le Petit Poisson but neither man could have afforded to eat there on the
policeman’s salary. It stood discreetly on the road leading to the castle and catered for the wealthy owners of the sleek
white yachts which bobbed at anchor in the marina. And they knew of Fabrice Colbert too – the chef-proprietor was famous for
his cuisine and his volatile temper and he wasn’t afraid to display both on national television. Colbert could swear fluently
in French and English and Wesley, for one, wasn’t exactly looking forward to bearding this particular dragon in his den.