The Funeral Boat

Kate Ellis was born and brought up in Liverpool and studied drama in Manchester. She has worked in teaching, marketing and accountancy and first enjoyed literary success as a winner of the North West Playwrights competition. Keenly interested in medieval history and ‘armchair’ archaeology, Kate lives in North Cheshire with her husband, Roger, and their two sons. The Funeral Boat is the fourth Wesley Peters on novel. The Merchant’s House, The Armada Boy, An Unhallowed Grave, The Bone Garden, A Painted Doom, The Plague Maiden, The Skeleton Room and The Marriage Hearse are also published by Piatkus.

Kate Ellis has been nominated twice for the CWA Short Story Dagger 2003 for her story ‘Les Inconnus’ and her novel, The Plague Maiden, was nominated for the Theakston’s Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year in 2005.

For more information regarding Kate Ellis log on to her website: www.kateellis.co.uk

Also by Kate Ellis

The Merchant’s House

The Armada Boy An Unhallowed Grave

The Funeral Boat

The Bone Garden

A Painted Doom The Plague Maiden The Skeleton Room The Marriage Hearse

In memory of Andrew Arden who loved South Devon

and who first introduced me to ‘Tradmouth’.

PIATKUS

First published in Great Britain in 2000 by Piatkus Books

This paperback edition published in 2006 by Piatkus Books

Copyright Š Kate Ellis 2000

Reprinted 2007, 2008

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those

clearly in the puhlic domain, arefictitious and any resemblance

to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the

prior pemlission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any fonn of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition

being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

A CIP catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-0-7499-3701-0

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Phoenix Photosetting, Chatham, Kent

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

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The boy’s heart pounded rapidly as he searched for a place to hide. He ran on through the field, the tall grass cool against his legs, caught between terror and thrill.

He knew they were coming after him; he could hear their teasing calls, their excited laughter mingled with the sound of the rising lark. He pressed himself against the hedgerow but jumped away swiftly as the nettles stung his bare legs. He looked down, fascinated, as the raised red weals formed on the pale skin above his socks. But there was no time to register the prickly pain of the nettle stings. He had to hide.

He saw the wooden outbuilding ahead, the planks flaky grey and weathered. The place looked sheltering, inviting. He stared for a moment, summoning the courage to go in. Then he heard a yell, like a fox-hunter’s cry. With trembling fingers he pulled the great door open a little, just enough to slip through.

But he wasn’t alone. The stench of fumes from the throbbing engine made him put his hand to his nose and cough. They kept a tractor in here sometimes. But this didn’t sound like a tractor. He saw the car through the fug of exhaust smoke … and the figure in the driving seat.

The boy made his way round to the driver’s door, choking, sobbing. She sat quite still, her familiar, beloved face flushed red; her sightless eyes wide open in a parody of life. He opened his mouth to scream but no sound emerged. He tried to cry but no tears came.

When the other children found him he was sitting on the

path, rocking to and fro, staring ahead with empty, terrified eyes.

It was six months before the boy uttered another word.

Twenty years later Ingeborg Larsen drove cautiously down the single-track road towards Tradmouth, hoping she wouldn’t meet an oncoming vehicle and be forced to back her car up into a distant passing place. It was with some relief that she looked in the rearview mirror and glimpsed a car following close behind: any car she met now would have to back up for both of them. The other vehicle followed, almost on her bumper, seemingly impatient to pass. But passing wasn’t an option on this road. The driver would have to be patient.

The first impact came as a shock, jolting Ingeborg forward so that her seat belt locked, only just preventing her chest from hitting the steering wheel. Her heart began to beat faster. An accident. She should stop … exchange insurance details: she knew that was the way things were done here.

Taking a deep breath, she put her foot gently on the brake pedal, only to be thrust forward again by a second push from the car behind. What was the idiot doing? People like that shouldn’t be on the roads. Perhaps they thought that a foreign car was fair game. She sat for a few seconds collecting her thoughts as she slowly unfastened her seat belt.

She didn’t have time to look round as the car door flew open and the evil-smelling pad was pressed firmly to her face. Then her wide, blue eyes flickered shut as she drifted into oblivion.

2

997

AD

The Danes ravaged in Cornwall, Wales and Devon and did

much evil by burning and slaying many. Word has come to

our house that they went up the Tamar, slaughtering and

burning. Then they burned Ordulf’s monastery at Tavistock

and took much plunder. We pray the Lord to defend us

against this evil.

From the chronicle of Brother Edwin, monk of Neston Minster

Daniel Wexer looked across the flowery pillow at his young wife, reached out his hand and gently touched her thick, fair hair. He was a lucky man. Little had he imagined when she had come to the farm to help with the accounts that he would now be lying beside her in the huge iron bed that had belonged to his parents and their parents before that. The thought made him smile; a small, sly smile of satisfaction.

He could still smell Jen’s perfume - the stuff he had bought her for her birthday, the stuff he liked - and he felt the stirrings of desire. He reached over, slid his hand beneath the duvet and began to caress her firm, youthful body. ‘Jen’ he whispered in her ear, his voice low and thick with yearning. ‘Do you fancy … er…’

‘Not now, Dan. I’m tired.’ She turned over, as if to make the point, and closed her eyes tightly.

Daniel Wexer lay still for a while, coming to terms with his disappointment. Then something made him hold his breath and listen. He was used to the noises of the countryside but this was different … man-made. There it was again - a vehicle engine

3

outside, gently throbbing. Daniel left the bed; careful not to disturb Jen, and slowly, carefully, made his way to the window.

But his consideration was in vain. When the crash came Jen sat up with a start. ‘What the hell was that?’ she asked, panic in her sleepy voice. ‘Dan … ‘

The sounds from downstairs were now distinct. The door had been forced open and the intruders were moving from room to room, smashing, opening drawers.

‘I’m ringing the police.’ Daniel reached for the phone on the bedside table as his wife sat, her eyes wide and fearful, clutching the duvet to her chest in defence. Daniel stabbed at the buttons with his index finger. Again and again he tried. Then he turned to his wife. ‘They’ve cut the bloody wires, Jen. They’ve cut us off.’

‘The mobile … ‘

‘It’s in my coat downstairs.’ He reached for the towelling dressing gown on the back ofthe door. ‘I’m going down.’

‘No, Dan. It said on the teIly that they’re armed. They threatened that farmer over at Dukesbridge.’

‘It might not be the same ones.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Dan. They could kill you.’

‘Not if I’ve got this they won’t.’ He picked up the shotgun propped against the wall by the bed, placed there each night since the farm robberies began. Over the past couple of weeks alarming tales had been reported on the local TV news: isolated farmhouses had been stripped of valuables by the audacious robbers, desirable vehicles taken, and the hapless farmers and their families threatened with a sawn-off shotgun t6 ensure their acquiescence.

Jen leaned over and grabbed her husband’s arm. ‘No, Dan. Please…’

‘I’ve had enough, Jen.’ He pushed her restraining hand away. ‘It’s about time they learned their lesson.’

He marched from the bedroom, his eyes blazing with righteous fury. His farm was threatened, all that he had inherited from his father and built up. His only livelihood, for so long jeopardised by economics and regulations, was now under siege by mindless, grasping thugs. He flicked the safety catch off. This was war … and Daniel Wexer wouldn’t surrender without a fight.

He kicked at the parlour door and it flew open.

They had switched the main light on, making no pretence of

4

stealth. His opponent stood there, black-clad, his face hidden by a knitted ski mask.

Daniel felt no fear as he pointed the shotgun. ‘Get out,’ he shouted, his voice cracking with fury. ‘Get out of my house and off my land.’ The robber didn’t move. ‘Now!’ he screeched, increasing the pressure of his finger on the trigger.

Daniel Wexer felt a tearing pain in his left leg which sent him hurtling backwards. The shotgun seemed to leap from his hand and he heard a second shot which sent a shower of plaster fluttering down from the ceiling onto his balding head.

Still conscious, he reached down to his leg, gasping with pain. His hand was wet with blood. His head swam as he listened to the retreating footsteps and the noise of the car engine - something big, a Land Rover … his new Land Rover. The sound faded as the vehicle drove away.

A nervous scampering in the doorway announced Jen’s terrified arrival. She looked down at her husband’s prone body and screamed, the scream echoing in Daniel’s ears as he fell into unconsciousness.

The two men pushed open the swing-doors to Tradmouth Hospital’s C Ward, trying their best to look purposeful.

‘I still don’t know why we had to come down here, Wes,’ said the larger of the pair, a big man in his late forties with tousled hair, a badly ironed shirt and a noticeable Liverpool accent. ‘I thought Stan Jenkins’s sergeant was going to deal with this one. Stan did offer his services when we were pushed.’

‘He’s away at a conference … Policing for the New Millennium. Apparently he was very keen to go.’

The big man emitted a sound of disgust. ‘I’ll start going to ruddy conferences when the villains start holding ‘em. Couldn’t Rachel or Steve have done this?’

‘Rachel offered to come but 1 wanted to have a word with Mr Wexer myself while the events are fresh in his mind.’

‘That’s very noble of you, Wes, but don’t forget Heffernan’s fifth rule of life.’

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘Never volunteer.’ Detective Sergeant Wesley Peters on suppressed a smile as they reached the ward’s desk. ‘Morning, love. Police,’ said Heffernan cheerfully.

5

The plump, navy-blue-clad sister at the desk looked up at the newcomers: the large, scruffy one and the well-dressed young black man, rather good-looking with an air of confident intelligence. She might have taken the latter for a new doctor assigned to the ward … if it weren’t for the company he kept.

Heffernan flashed his warrant card. ‘We’re here to see Daniel Wexer, love. Have we come to the right place?’

The sister pushed her paperwork aside and managed a weak smile. ‘Yes. He’s over there on the right.’

‘How is he?’ Wesley enquired politely.

‘He’s comfortable,’ said the sister in an official tone. ‘And the doctor thinks he’ll make a good recovery.’

The inspector turned to his colleague. ‘Right, Wes. You lead the way. Do you think we should have brought some grapes?’

‘He might not like grapes.’

‘I didn’t mean for him, I meant for me. I didn’t have any breakfast this morning. Remind me to get a bacon butty on the way back to the station, will you.’

Daniel Wexer wasn’t hard to find as his position was marked by a young uniformed constable who had made himself comfortable on a bedside chair. The constable looked relieved to see them, a welcome distraction from his tedious vigil.

Heffernan looked down at the sleeping patient. ‘Has he said anything yet, Wallace?’

‘He hasn’t made a proper statement yet, sir. He was in an awful lot of pain before he went down to the theatre so he couldn’t say much … just that he’d disturbed an intruder who fired a shot at him and made off in his new Land Rover. That’s about all.’