The Funeral Boat (10 page)

He put the computer down carefully and touched the silver-framed photograph of his wife, smart in her uniform, which stood at the back of the desk. He looked up. Such a view: over the tumbling fields and down to the sea. But now the light had almost gone and the trees of the hilltop wood stood out black against the darkening sky. He could see the large coach house to the left. There was a light on in the window beside the great double doors: his sister, Ursula, was working in her studio, creating her bright, cheerful pottery.

Christopher reached for the curtains and drew them. Gwen had told him this ritual was unnecessary in such an isolated spot with no neighbours to pry, but he did it out of habit. He had lived in town too long to change his. ways overnight.

As the thick velvet curtains swung closed, something caught his eye. He opened the curtains again and saw a figure flitting away soundlessly down the gravel drive.

He \Ľhirred round. ‘Gwen … quick. He’s there again.’ Gwen rushed over to the window, but by the time she reached her husband the figure was just a shadow, fleeing down the drive towards Longhouse Cottage. ‘We should tell the police.’

‘It’ll be poachers,’ Gwen said hopefully, clutching at straws. ‘There are always poachers about in the country.’

‘We should tell the police,’ Christopher repeated. ‘If someone’s watching the house … And what about Ursula on her own in that studio? We should do something.’ Christopher Wentwood breathed deeply, as the books on stress had told him to do. If Waters House was being watched by a prowler, something would have to be done. He would contact the police in the morning.

60

997

AD

Today the people from the country round about came to seek

shelter within the walls of the town and orders were given for

the town gates to be closed. It is said that the Danes were

sighted at the mouth of the river and that they killed the

brother who tends the shrine of Saint Peter and the holy well

there. Then they moved up to Tradmouth and laid waste the

village there and many perished.

From the chronicle of Brother Edwin, monk of Neston Minster

At eight o’clock in the morning Gerry Heffernan was just contemplating rising from his bed. He generally walked to work; it took five minutes at the most. If he got up now, made himself a couple a rounds of toast and threw on some clothes, he could be at work by half past.

The telephone rang and Gerry leaned across the bed to answer it, hoping it wasn’t bad news about Ingeborg Larsen: the discovery of a body that would set CID into overdrive.

But the ringing stopped. The phone had been picked up downstairs. Surely Sam wouldn’t be up at this unearthly hour. Gerry listened for a few moments then, satisfied the call wasn’t for him, climbed slowly out of bed and made for the bathroom, lumbering like a large, sleepy animal: he wasn’t at his best first thing in the morning.

As he emerged from the bathroom, rubbing his face with a towel, he nearly collided with Sam, who was darting along the small landing towards his room.

61

‘Hi, Dad. I’ve just had a phone call about a job I applied for. I’ve got it … I start tonight.’

‘Good. What is it?’

Sam looked sheepish and hesitated. ‘Er … public relations. Quite well paid.’

‘So what have you got to do? What does it involve?’

Gerry Heffeman, a detective of considerable experience, knew when a question was being evaded.

‘Er … I don’t really know yet. I’ll find out when I get there.’

‘Is it legal?’ said the anxious father sharply.

‘Oh, yes. You don’t think I’d do anything iffy, do you?’

Gerry didn’t answer, just gave his son a fatherly pat on the back. He looked at his watch. He was cutting it fine.

He left his son drinking coffee and rushed to the police station, where he found Rachel disgustingly awake. She made straight for hiS office like a speeding billlet, and announced her discovery with an enthusiasm that made him feel tired.

‘So this Laurence Proudy’s staying right under your nose, Rach. Let’s have a word with him, eh? Brighten up his holiday.’ Gerry Heffeman stifled a yawn and leaned back, causing his standard-issue inspector’s executive swivel chair to creak dangerously. ‘What’s he like?’

‘Small and aggressive I should say, sir … like one of those pit bull terriers.’ Rachel smiled conspiratorially. ‘Look, sir, I’d rather someone else interviewed him. He knows I’m from the farm and…’

‘Of course, Rach. Enough said. I’ll go with Wes. After all, it’s the best lead we’ve got at the moment … as the actress said to the dog handler.’

Rachel rolled her eyes and marched back into the main office. She sat down at her desk and called over to W esley. ‘The boss wants you. Laurence Proudy’s staying in one of the holiday flats on my parents’ farm. He wants to go over and have a word with him. And that’s not all: my mum seems to think that Proudy’s been going out a lot in the early hours of the morning.’ Wesley raised his eyebrows but passed no comment. Tlllook him up on the computer,’ Rachel continued. ‘See ifhe’s got any form.’

Wesley walked over to Rachel’s desk and watched, leaning on the back of her chair, as she retrieved the information. Laurence Proudy was originally from York. He had three convictions for

62

car theft in his youth. He had been on a training scheme for young offenders where he had learned car mechanics and he now owned a garage in London. In addition, last year he had done six months for a lucrative little racket in bent MOTs, and he had been convicted of actual bodily harm four years ago. Rachel shuddered. If her mother knew what kind of man was occupying her thoughtfully modernised apartment, she would be bound to panic.

She wished Wesley luck as he set off, knowing that she could rely on him not to alarm her mother … but she wasn’t so sure about the inspector.

Little Barton Farm - home to the Tracey family for six generations - was just outside Tradmouth, down a network of dark narrow lanes. Rachel had given them directions, suggesting that they headed straight for the old barn: there was no need to disturb her mother.

Laurence Proudy - known to his associates as Lol-opened the door with an apparent lack of caution, wearing a navy blue towelling dressing gown, the material thick and luxuriant - not cheap. He looked alarmed to see the two strangers standing there, and even more alarmed when they produced their warrant cards.

‘What do you want? I’m busy … just getting in the shower.’

‘Laurence Proudy? We just want a quick word. Won’t take long,’ Wesley assured him as he stepped firmly inside the flat.

It was a comfortable apartment; plainly furnished and modern. Proudy sat on the edge of the dark green sofa as if prepared for flight, like an athlete on the starting blocks.

‘We understand you had words with a Danish lady last weekend. She backed into your car. Her name was Ingeborg Larsen.’ Wesley sat forward in the armchair expectantly as Heffernan watched Proudy’s expression.

‘1 had words with her, yeah. The stupid cow wasn’t looking where she was going.’

‘How long are you staying in Devon, sir?’ asked Wesley politely.

Proudy looked awkward. There was something in Wesley’s last question that caused him to perform mental somersaults. ‘Er … we’ve booked in here for three weeks. We’ve got a week to go.’ , ‘We hear that you’re out and about a lot … all times of the day and night.’ Heffernan watched Proudy as a snake watches a rabbit.

63

Proudy looked astonished. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Let’s just say it’s been noticed,’ Heffernan said quickly, not wishing to implicate the Traceys.

‘I’m on holiday, aren’t I,’ said Proudy defensively. ‘And I’m doing some business here and all. I’ve got a garage up in London and … ‘

‘You see, we think this Ingeborg Larsen’s been abducted. And whoever abducted her would have to take a bit of time out to feed her … if she’s still alive.’

Proudy looked alarmed. ‘Look, 1 don’t know anything about this. She backed into my car, 1 gave her a mouthful. She got her side of the insurance sorted out … rang me on my mobile to tell me it was all going through. That’s all, 1 swear it … 1 swear it on my mother’s life.’ Proudy stood up, agitated, grabbing his dressing gown to stop it falling open. ‘I’m down here on holiday. Someone backed into the car and I made a fuss and the insurance got sorted out.’

‘I thought you owned a garage, sir,’ said Wesley, trying to sound naIve. ‘The damage doesn’t look very bad to me. Couldn’t you have mended it yourself?’

‘Er … well, bodywork’s an expensive business and…’

‘So you claim a fortune from the insurance company and you do the work yourself on the cheap. Bit naughty, isn’t it?’ Heffernan grinned widely. ‘And illegal.’

Proudy began to panic. ‘Look, I’ve not done nothing that…’

‘What can you tell me about Ingeborg Larsen?’

‘Nothing. 1 only saw her the once. Honest.’ He sat looking from one policeman to the other. He didn’t resemble a pit bull now so much as a kicked mongrel. Laurence Proudy knew defeat when it was staring him in the face.

‘Well, sir,’ said Wesley, ‘If you’d make a statement about your dealings with Ms Larsen I’m sure we can leave you to get on with your holiday in peace.’

Proudy was only too happy to oblige. As he was signing the statement, a slim, dark woman emerged from the bedroom wearing only a thin T-shirt, her eyes heavy with sleep. She spotted Wesley and looked him up and down appreciatively.

‘Morning, madam,’ said Wesley. The light behind her shone through the thin material of her T-shirt, revealing the contours of her body underneath. He averted his eyes. ‘Do you know an

64

Ingeborg Larsen? A Danish lady who backed into your … er, Mr Proudy’s car?’

‘I know some woman backed into Lol’ s car … but that’s all. I wasn’t there.’ The woman lit a cigarette and waved the packet at W esley. He shook his head, wondering how Mrs Tracey felt about her guests smoking in her apartments: if Rachel’s attitude to smoking was anything to go by, she wouldn’t be best pleased.

Wesley stood up. ‘I think that’s all for now. Thank you for your cooperation. If you remember anything else … ‘

Laurence Proudy and the woman stared as the policemen left; the woman coolly calculating, the man with relief.

‘What did you make of all that?’ asked Gerry Heffernan as they climbed into the car.

‘He might be as crooked as a corkscrew, but I don’t think abduction’s his styk. He was nervous about something, though. Don’t you think?’

‘Oh, definitely, Wes. I think we’ll ask the traffic lads to keep a lookout for his car … just in case.’

Wesley smiled. ‘I was thinking along the same lines myself. He’s up to something … it’s just up to us to find out whatit is.’

‘Lucky we’ve got our Rach on the premises, isn’t it?’

‘Very,’ answered Wesley as he negotiated the narrow lane that led away from the farm. ‘What time’s Sven Larsen arriving?’

‘About eleven. I can’t wait to hear what he’s got to say.’

‘Neither can I.’ Wesley drove on, his mind on an abandoned car and a small pad soaked in chloroform.

Constable Johnson knew that sunshine was good for his spots. He climbed out of the patrol car and stood, his face raised towards the sky, outside Waters House, breathing deeply and enjoying the warm, beneficial rays. Then he put on his hat, drew himself up to his full height, and prepared to meet his public.

The heavy wooden front door, in sore need of a coat of varnish, opened. ‘Morning, madam. I’m PC Johnson from Tradmouth police station. Someone rang us from this address this morning to report a prowler?’

The statuesque woman who stood there, dressed in a sleeveless denim shirt and khaki shorts, smiled nervously and invited him in.

She led PC Johnson into the living room. ‘It was my husband who rang you but he’s out at the moment,’ she said quickly. ‘He

65

only caught a glimpse of him, but he said he seemed to be

watching the house. I said it was probably a poacher and that it

wasn’t worth calling you but…’

‘Can you give me a description of this man, madam? It was a

man, 1 take it?’ ‘

‘I don’t know. It was just a figure … a shadow really. I’m sure

it was just a poacher.’

Johnson smiled to himself. The romantic solitary poacher after

a couple of rabbits for his pot had been superseded years ago by

gangs from the cities, slaughtering anything they could sell for a

profit. This woman was from the town - a newcomer buying into

the rural dream. That much was obvious.

‘I think it’s unlikely he’s a poacher, madam. You’ve not got

any game birds - deer, salmon, anything like that - have youT

Gwen Wentwood shook her head. ‘There’s been a spate of

robberies recently,’ 10hnson continued. ‘Mostly isolated farms.

They’ve been after money and small valuables … and vehicles:

four-wheel drives; quad bikes, that sort of thing. Where do you

keep your carT

Gwen Wentwood looked worried. ‘In the coach house. You

passed it on the way in. My husband’s sister has her flat and studio

there. She keeps the van she uses for her pottery business in there

too. It’s locked up at night.’

‘I’m sure your vehicles are quite safe there, madam.’ Johnson

thought for a moment. ‘Would you like to show me where you

saw this prowler … where he was standing?’

Gwen Wentwood led the way out of the front door, across the

wide gravel drive to a clump of bushes and small trees, once

ornamental but now reverted to a semi-wild state. The garden,

thought Johnson, needed a bit of attention.

‘About here, I think. We only caught a glimpse each time so I ” can’t be absolutely sure.’ f-Johnson looked round at the barrier of trees behind him. ‘Do the

woods belong to youT

‘Yes. But we don’t venture in there very often,’ she said