The Funeral Boat (12 page)

A few minutes later the inspector returned. ‘Well?’ said Wesley. ‘What do you think?’

‘Nice bloke. Got a thirty-footer moored in a little harbour just north of Copenhagen.’

‘1 mean apart from his boating activities. Don’t you think it’s odd that his sister disappears yet all he can think about is going off sailing?’

Heffernan looked at his sergeant as if he were two planks short of a deck. ‘It’s not odd at all. There’s nothing like a run on the river for calming the nerves, taking your mind off things. It’s a lot better than digging up old artefacts … you should try it some time.’

Wesley - sick on the cross-Channel ferry - smiled and shook his head. Whatever the inspector said, he still thought Sven Larsen was hiding something.

Pam Peterson had said nothing to Wesley about her plans for the day. She felt slightly furtive, almost guilty, as she drove to Neston. But, she told herself, it was time she did something to keep her mind active … and Michael had been happy to stay with Mrs Miller, his childminder-elect, for the morning.

She found the assembly hall easily enough and arrived five minutes early, which gave her the opportunity to study her fellow volunteers. For the life of her, Pam couldn’t see most of the men in the assembled company as Viking warriors. The majority were middle-aged or elderly and possessed the warlike demeanour of the average retired bank manager. But the re-enactment group was there to put everyone through their paces. The whole procedure would be entertaining, if not historically accurate.

Pam sat near the front, detennined not to miss the action. Groups of people chattered nervously around her, sharing her apprehension; the fear of the unknown. When a young man

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jumped up onto the platform at the front ofthe hall and announced in ringing tones that his name was Odin and he was the leader of the re-enactment group known as Thor’s Hammers, the hall fell silent.

He was tall and well muscled, with long fair hair and finely chiselled features. Standing there, straight-backed and authorita-tive, he was the dashing Viking warrior to the life. He welcomed them all, his piercing blue eyes scanning the audience, assessing his raw material. Odin was dressed in the full regalia of his calling - a hand-woven blue tunic edged with rich red braid and a sword belt bearing a fierce-looking weapon. He would have looked more at home on the prow of some mighty longboat than there in that shabby modem school hall.

Pam noticed that his eyes were fixed on her as he spoke, and she wriggled a little on her uncomfortable plastic seat.

‘None of you are expected to join in the actual fighting,’ Odin continued. ‘Thor’s Hammers have trained hard in authentic Viking warfare, and it would be dangerous for anybody inexperienced to attempt it. Your role is to be bystanders in contemporary dress. Some of the men, perhaps, could indulge in a bit of mock fighting in the background with wooden weapons to swell our numbers, and the women will act as camp followers, administer first aid or, er … be carried off by our’ warriors.’ He grinned meaningfully. ‘Thor’s Hammers have been in the area for two weeks now, performing re-enactments at various venues, including Nesroy Castle and the Dukesbridge Carnival. But the Neston Viking Festival will be the highlight of the tour for us. Then, next week, we will be giving a demonstration of Viking warfare at Tradmouth Naval College’s annual charity fete.’

Somebody began to clap at the back of the hall, and soon the whole room joined in as Odin stood, triumphant, on his makeshift platform. He raised his sword in salute, and Pam looked up to find that his eyes were still on her. She looked away quickly and scrambled to her feet. Everyone was to assemble on the school playing field next door for a brief rehearsal, so she followed the crowd, tearning up with a formidable elderly lady, a retired headmistress who introduced herself as Dorothy Weston and confided that she was looking forward to being ‘carried off, but feared that she would be landed with the first aid. Pam smiled

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sympathetioalIy, adding that she’d be only too happy to be in charge of the bandages.

The rehearsal was a tame affair - nothing to frighten the warhorses - and Pam found herself ‘tending to the wounded’ for the duration of hostilities. But, Odin announced, things would hot up a bit on the actual day when they would all be in costumes kindly provided by the festival committee. When the thing was over, Pam set off for the carpark, bidding farewell to the feisty Dorothy, who headed off briskly in the opposite direction.

She felt a touch on her shoulder and swung round. Odin was there, looking her straight in the eye. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow for the next rehearsal, then, er … ‘

‘Pam,’ she said automatically, her heart beating against her chest. ‘Is Odin your real name?’

He smiled. ‘It is now,’ he said mysteriously.

A couple of men - one tall, with tattoos decorating each bulging muscle and a sly weasel face, the other crop-haired and burly with a beard that hid a multitude of sins - had just appeared, hovering behind Odin, trying to attract his attention. Thor’s Hammers, Pam thought, were a very mixed bunch; this pair resembled nightclub bouncers, but the rest, the vast majority, looked like off-duty computer professionals and civil servants. And Odin? What was his role in the humdrum present day? The question intrigued Pam as she tried to envisage him in a number of modem-day occupations … and failed.

‘I’d better get back. I’ve got to pick my son up from the childminder’s,’ she mumbled nervously, her heartbeat quickening.

She was not mistaken. There was a flash of disappointment in Odin’s eyes; then another look, a hint of determination. She said goodbye as casually as she could manage and began to walk away but, when she’d gone a few yards, she turned round, just in time to see the two thickset men march away from Odin in her direction. Odin watched them go, his hand resting defensively on his sword, then he saw Pam and smiled, although his eyes remained cold.

The two men strode past her without a glance, but she caught a few snatches of their animated conversation. She heard the words ‘wheels’, ‘tonight’ and ‘farm’, but she couldn’t make sense of the rest.

But the words somehow brought to mind the case Wesley was working on - the robberies at local farms. She could easily

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visualise these characters brandishing sawn-off shotguns. But then she stopped herself: she was being too imaginative. Whatever they were discussing didn’t concern her … which, in view of Odin’s obvious interest, came as a bit of a relief: she had enough on her mind. Since Michael had been born she had frequently felt exhausted and unattractive - however much Wesley tried gallantly to assure her otherwise. And, like most women, she was flattered by a little light-hearted male attention. But there had been something in Odin’s eyes that suggested danger. Could it be that he was so immersed in the culture of the Vikings that he had absorbed some of their more undesirable attitudes? But, she told herself firmly, it was nothing she couldn’t handle.

As Pam began walking again towards the carpark, Odin fingered his sword and watched her go, the smile still playing on his lips.

Wesley dreamed all day of arriving home, taking a long soak in the bath, then enjoying a mouth-watering supper. He told himself he must be getting old if he was beginning to relish such simple domestic pleasures. But, unrepentant, he rang Pam and asked her to order a Chinese takeaway. Pam, feeling mildly distracted by her experiences of the afternoon, and not being inclined to cook, readily agreed.

But Neil Watson had other plans. As Wesley was tidying the papers on his desk, ready to abandon the fight against crime for the evening, the telephone rang.

‘Hi, Wes. I’ll meet you at the Peacock Museum in fifteen minutes. Okay?’ Before Wesley had time to answer the line went dead. He looked at his watch. It was five thirty already and the progress he and his colleagues had made that day in tracking down Ingeborg Larsen and the farm robbers was negligible. Things were moving at the pace of an elderly and arthritic snail, and Wesley felt frustrated.

He hurried from the office and down the stairs. When he reached reception he heard a booming voice behind him. ‘Wesley, can I have a quick word?’ He turned round to see Bob Naseby, the desk sergeant, giving him a huge lopsided grin. Wesley had once made the error of admitting that his great-uncle had played cricket for the West Indies, and Bob, obsessed with the game, had come

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to regard Wesley as a trophy to be won for the divisional team. Wesley hadn’t the heart to tell him that his cricket-playing left much to be desired.

‘Sorry, Bob. I’ve got a suspected abduction, a series of armed robberies and a wife who’ll resort to murder if I don’t spend my days off in the bosom of my family. I’m afraid my debut on the cricket field will have to wait a while.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing to do with cricket … not this time.’ Bob looked from side to side, as if preparing to share a great secret, and beckoned Wesley to come closer. ‘I’m worried about my daughter,’ he said in a loud whisper. ‘She’s married to a farmer out near Stokeworthy … isolated place it is. The wife and I have been worried sick with these farm raids, especially after what they did to Dan Wexer. Someone could get killed next time. And it’s haymaking. What if they take it into their heads to set fire to the barns? Are you any nearer catching the buggers?’

Not for the first time in his career, Wesley felt helpless. ‘Sorry, Bob. We’ve not made much progress yet. Sorry,’ he added feebly.

‘You don’t know where they’re going to strike next,’ Bob called out as an afterthought as Wesley disappeared through the swing-doors.

As Wesley walked past St Margaret’s church, he said a silent prayer that the robbers would soon be caught and that the misery they were bringing to the already beleaguered farming community would cease. But something told him they hadn’t finished their evil work just yet.

When he reached the Peacock Museum, Neil was waiting, leaning against the wall, looking more like a loitering mugger than an archaeologist. His face was a picture of impatience and disappointment. ‘They’re bloody closed,’ he announced indignantly. ‘Bloody tourist season and they’re closed.’

Wesley looked at his watch. ‘Well it is five forty-five.’

‘Yes, but it says they’re open till six. Look.’ He pointed at a weathered board hanging on the wall outside the entrance which displayed a list of opening times and admission charges.

The Peacock Museum was unimpressive, to say the least. It was a small, whitewashed house with flaking black paintwork and a large front window. It had clearly once been a shop like its neighbours; a small establishment selling greetings cards stood on one side and an expensive-looking antique shop on the other. The

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museum window displayed a pair of intricately constructed model ships which flanked a huge dust-shrouded turtle shell. A notice above these artefacts announced that the museum housed the collection of Jeremiah Peacock Esquire, local antiquary and collector, of Waters House, Stoke Beeching, 1828-1903.

Neil pressed his face to the glass set into the sturdy oak door. There was no sign of movement; no sign of life. Wesley joined him, and they stood like aˇ couple of small boys with their noses pressed to a toyshop window, trying to make out the shapes within. But it was useless. The interior was in darkness, and they could see nothing. They would have to return another day.

‘Fancy a Chinese? Pam’s ordered one.’

Neil grinned, licking his lips. ‘Sure there’ll be enough?’

‘We always order too much. Come on.’

Wesley tried to banish all thought of Bob Naseby’s frightened daughter and Sven Larsen’ s missing sister from his mind as he led the way up the narrow hilly streets that led towards home and chicken chow mein.

Sven Larsen jumped aboard the yacht he’d hired earlier that day and prepared to cast off. As a cautious man he checked his life-jacket and ensured that the small dinghy bobbing behind was securely fastened.

‘I see you don’t take any chances,’ said his companion softly.

‘I am what you might call a perfectionist,’ replied Larsen. ‘It is not in my nature to take chances.’

‘And the police don’t know you’re meeting me?’

‘I told them nothing. 1 think that matters should remain between ourselves. There are certain things about my sister 1 should not wish the world to know. Do you not agree?’

His companion smiled as they set off down the River Trad towards the open sea, the warm salty breeze in their faces.

The takeaway from the Golden Dragon had been up to its usual high standard, and Wesley sat back on the sofa, his appetite satisfied, while Neil delved into the oblong foil container, polishing off what remained of the beef and cashew nuts.

Pam sat watching them, wondering how to broach the subject. ‘By the way, dear, I’ve just volunteered to be ravished by Vikings’ sounded a little foolish.

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But it was Nei1. who gave her her cue. ‘You’ll have to come and see the work we’re doing in Neston parish church. We’ve uncovered a whole section of the Anglo-Saxon stone foundations … and they show signs that the building was destroyed by fire. 1 reckon the original minster wasn’t as big as the present church, but it waS quite substantial. But then it should have been, 1 suppose. Neston was an important place.’

‘A burgh?’ Pam grinned. She was only too familiar with Neil’s single-minded enthusiasm for his work. She had gone out with him in their first year at university … until she had met Wesley.

Neil gestured with his fork. ‘Yeah … right. 1 reckon it was destroyed in Viking raids. All the evidence points to it. They were very fond of that sort of thing, the Vikings. Raided and burned churches and monasteries and carried away their treasures; pillaged towns and villages - pinched everything they could lay their hands on, including people to sell in the slave markets of Bristol or Rouen. Slaughtered, raped … you name it, they did it. Good craftsmen, though. And their long boats were the stealth technology of their day. ‘