The Funeral Boat (14 page)

The awkward silence that followed was broken when PC Johnson rushed into the office waving a typed report. To Steve’s disgust he made straight for Wesley.

‘Sarge … have you heard? He’s still unconscious, and Rachel’s suffering from shock, her mum said … mind you, her mum sounded a bit shaken and all. ‘

‘Hang on, Paul, what are you talking about? What’s happened?’

‘Has Steve not told you?’ he said incredulously.

Both men looked at Steve for some explanation. ‘1 never had a chance,’ he muttered.

PC Paul Johnson drew himself up to his full and considerable height and prepared to relay the latest news. ‘There was a robbery

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at Rachel’s farm last night. Rachel managed to call the police on her mobile so the gang were disturbed. They didn’t get away with much.’

‘So who was hurt?’ Wesley asked impatiently.

‘Rachel’s boyfriend, Dave. Concussion. He’s not regained consciousness yet. It seems he had a go at disarming one of them … got pushed backwards and hit his head. The whole family are pretty shaken. And Rachel’s not coming in today.’

Wesley picked up his jacket. ‘I’ll go up to the farm and see her. Do you know where the inspector is?’

10hnson’s look of concern was replaced by a grin. ‘I reckon it’s his old trouble.’

Wesley nodded knowingly. The inspector was renowned for his frequent inability to wake up in the morning.

‘I’m going up to Little Barton Farm anyway to take statements after SOCO are finished,’ said 10hnson. ‘I’ll give you a lift over if you like.’

Gerry Heffernan chose that moment to lumber into the office like an outraged gorilla. ‘I know I’m late. That son of mine got in at two in the morning from goodness knows where and woke me up. I overslept. What’s this about our Rach? I’ve heard her place was done last night. Who’s over there?’

‘I’m on my way to take statements now, sir. Sergeant Peterson’s coming with me … and SOCO are there,’ 10hnson said, standing to attention, his spots standing out as he blushed.

‘1 think Rachel’s all right, sir,’ said Wesley quickly. ‘But her boyfriend, Dave, was knocked unconscious. I don’t know the full details yet.’

Gerry Heffernan was a churchgoing man, not usually one to swear, but he emitted a colourful string of expletives, learned in his navy days, to make his opinion of the men who had raided the Traceys’ farm clear to all who cared to listen. ‘So the bastards got away, did they?’

‘Seems like it, sir. Are you coming with us to Little Barton Farm?’

‘You try and stop me, Wes, you just try and stop me.’

‘We’re off out, Steve,’ said the inspector as he passed DC Carstairs’ desk. ‘If anyone wants us you know where we are. Okay?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Steve sat back in his chair, glad to be alone in the

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office with nobody watching him. He had an interesting-looking magazine in his desk drawer which his mate at the snooker club had lent him. He anticipated with considerable glee a couple of hours in the company of Big-Bosomed Sadie and her well-endowed playmates. Then he suddenly remembered the message for the inspector that he should have passed on.

He called out. ‘Have you got the message from the coastguard, sir? I put it on your desk.’ But he was too late. Gerry Heffeman was already halfway down the stairs. Steve shrugged and opened his desk drawer. The message from the coastguard probably wasn’t urgent. It would just have to wait.

Stella Tracey felt she had to keep busy. If she stopped she would begin to think about last night … what happened, what could have happened. The men were working in the fields. There was hay to be made at this time of year before the main harvest, cows to be milked, sheep to be seen to. Robbers or no robbers, the work of the farm never stopped.

The kitchen had been cleaned to within an inch of its life. The policemen in white overalls - the scenes of crime officers or SOCOs, as Rachel insisted on calling them - were in the living room searching for fingerprints and goodness knows what else. It had been Stella’s first instinct to give the place a good clean … to try to eliminate all trace of those evii men from her house. But Rachel had given strict orders that things were to be left as they were: even a quick going over with the Hoover would destroy vital evidence.

Stella looked around, anxious for something else to do. Rachel was still in bed. And the SOCOs were awash with tea: she had made them three pots already. Then she thought of the guests in the holiday apartments. She presumed they were all right: she certainly hadn’t heard otherwise. The old bam being well out of earshot of the farm itself, none of them had been up to enquire about the strange goings-on in the night. But it would do no harm to check … to make sure everyone was okay and to have a good chat to Mr and Mrs Smithers - regular visitors to the farm who, Stella considered, were a nice, sensible couple.

She took off her rubber gloves and walked purposefully over to the old barn, noting that most of the cars were still parked outside. Except Mr Proudy’s.

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She knocked at all the doors in turn, just to make sure everything - and everyone - was all right. She recounted the events of the previous night to a captive and sympathetic audience. Mr and Mrs Smithers - a recently retired couple whose new-found freedom seemed to have endowed them with boundless energy - invited her in for a medicinal brandy - to steady her nerves. Stella was feeling better already, and if it hadn’t been for Dave she might even have begun to enjoy the excitement.

‘Did you hear anything last night?’ she asked Mrs Smithers.

‘I heard the police car sirens, of course, but I didn’t realise they were so near.’

‘I hope they didn’t wake you up.’

‘Oh, no. As a matter of fact we were woken up before then … by that man in number three. He was slamming his car door and revving his engine long before the police cars arrived. Then eventually he drove off.’

‘Mr Proudy?’ Stella wasn’t surprised. If one of her guests was going to go slamming car doors at unsocial hours she would have laid money on it being Mr Proudy.

‘Yes. That’s right. He went out in the small hours … and I don’t think he’s back yet.’ Mrs Smithers leaned forward. She was a woman who liked a gossip. ‘I wonder where he’s gone,’ she said with relish.

‘Yes,’ said Stella thoughtfully. ‘I wonder.’ She pondered this question all the way back to the farmhouse, wondering whether to mention it to Rachel.

Stella opened the back door and was surprised to find her kitchen full of police officers. A good-looking young black man sat at the huge pine table next to a tall, spotty uniformed constable and a large untidy man with a barely ironed shirt and a couple of disreputable-looking tattoos on his chubby forearms. She had heard all about Rachel’s colleagues, but this was her first encounter with them in the flesh. Wesley Peterson - whom Rachel seemed rather taken with - lived up to her expectations, but Inspector Heffernan was certainly no advert for the police force. He needed to smarten himself up a bit. But then Stella remembered that he had lost his wife and her censure turned to instinctive sympathy.

Rachel herself had dressed and was seated at the head of the table. She smiled weakly at her mother and made the

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introductions. ‘We need statements from everyone, Mum,’ she said. ‘And I’ve just phoned the hospital. There’s no change.’

SteIla sank into a vacant chair and shook her head. ‘If I hadn’t asked him to come back here … it’s my fault … ‘

‘Of course it’s not your fault, Mrs Tracey: You couldn’t have known. You mustn’t blame yourself.’ Wesley spoke quietly, his voice full of sympathy. Stella could see why Rachelliked him … why she talked about him such a lot.

They were interrupted by one of the SOCOs, who poked his head round the door and asked if he could have a word. Wesley and Heffeman followed him to the living room, one corner of which was covered in broken china.

The white-overalled officer produced a large plastic bag. Inside was a sawn-off shotgun - a weapon favoured by many of the constabulary’s not-so-valued customers. ‘One of them dropped this in the struggle,’ he said. ‘It’s strange…’

‘What is?’ said Heffeman.

The officer looked nonplussed and carried on. ‘Well, I was very surprised to find that it’s not loaded.’

‘Not loaded?’ said Heffeman incredulously. ‘But they shot Dan Wexer.’

‘Perhaps arter that they lost their nerve,’ said Wesley.

‘And began to help old ladies across the road? Oh, come on, Wes, that type don’t lose their nerve .. , they just get more desperate, more vicious,’ answered Heffernan, sceptical.

Rachel stepped into the room and looked around. ‘I thought I’d better tell you, sir. My mum’s just told me that she’s been over to the old barn this morning … to the holiday apartments. She says Laurence Proudy drove off in the small hours and hasn’t come back. Do you think it’s important?’

Heffeman and Wesley looked at each other.

‘Could be,’ said the inspector with barely concealed excitement.

No sooner had PC 10hnson dropped DI Heffeman and DS Peterson back at Tradmouth police station than a message came through on his radio. The prowler had been up at Waters House again last night. Mr Wentwood thought he’d better let the police know. 10hnson wondered why he had waited so long; why hadn’t he reported it while the prowler was actually there rather than the

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morning after when he was long gone? But his not to reason why … his just to deal with the paperwork.

It was Christopher Wentwood he spoke to this time, his wife standing behind his chair protectively like a mother watching over her young. Beside Gwen he looked young, immature, with his wavy brown hair and anxious eyes. Wentwood clearly didn’t follow Iohnson’s reasoning. He had seen the man run away. It would have been no good contacting the police last night. He had gone.

Gwen Wentwood seemed tense. She appeared a capable woman, but perhaps the thought that her house was being watched was getting to her too.

Iohnson took out his notebook, longing for a cup of tea, but he wasn’t offered one. ‘So what did the prowler do? Did you get a better look at him this time?’ he asked hopefully.

Christopher shook his head. ‘It was the same as before. I saw this figure in the bushes. Then he ran away. It was too dark to get a proper look at him.’

‘You’re sure it was a man?’ Christopher nodded. ‘And what direction did he run off in?’

‘Towards Longhouse Cottage ’” just like before.’ Gwen Wentwood put a protecting hand on her husband’s shoulder and shot Iohnson a mildly resentful look.

Iohnson thought for a moment. Longhouse Cottage - a body had been found there. He recalled that Sergeant Peters on had had some interest in the place. He made the appropriate reassuring noises and made his exit.

As Iohnson walked down the drive towards his patrol car, he pushed the button on his radio and spoke. ‘Can someone get a message to DS Peterson? Can you ask him to meet me on the main road outside Longhouse Cottage, Stoke Beeching, in half an hour?’

Wesley Peterson drove out to meet PC Johnson feeling optimistic for the first time that day. He had just taken a call from Neston police station. Daniel Wexer’ s Land Rover had been found parked on a street near the middle of the town, its presence reported by an irate householder, complaining that its owner’s thoughtlessness was denying her husband a precious parking space. The Land Rover was being brought to Tradmouth for forensic examination. The villains must have left some trace: fingerprints or hairs …

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maybe even traceable possessions. After a depressing start at

Little Barton Farm, this was the best news he’d had all day. Just

before he’d left the station he’d rung the hospital to ask how Dave

was. There was no change. It was just a matter of waiting.

Johnson met him, as arranged, at the side of the main road out

of Stoke Beeching. He was leaning on his patrol car, and he raised

a hand in greeting as Wesley drew up beside him.

‘I just thought I’d let you know, Sarge. The prowler reported at

Waters House always runs off in the direction of Longhouse

Cottage. I know you had some dealings with the people there …

wasn’t there a body found?’

‘That’s right. A skeleton. According to Doc Bowman it’s

almost certainly centuries old, so officially it’s not our problem.

Tell me about this prowler.’

‘Mr and Mrs Wentwood who live up at Waters House say

there’s a man standing in the bushes watching the house. It’§

happened a few nights now and Mr. Wentwood’s getting a bit

worried. He seems the nervous type … jumpy. Do you think it

could be these robbers? One of them might be casing the joint,’ he

suggested with relish.

‘Anything’s possible.’ Wesley looked around. ‘I think we

should pay a call on Maggie Palister to ask if she’s seen anything.

Have you heard of the Palisters?’

Johnson shook his head. Jock Palister’s notoriety had been

before his time.

‘According to Inspector Heffernan Jock Palister was a local

villain who came into money. He bought Waters House and

owned all this land, then he disappeared suddenly and left his

wife, Maggie, and her son in the lurch. They sold Waters House

and most of their land and moved into Longhouse Cottage -

which had been farm workers’ accommodation - and now they

just run a smallholding there. The inspector has a theory that the

skeleton belongs to Jock Palister, but I’m afraid he’s going to be

proved wrong. Anyway, it’s always possible Maggie might have

seen this prowler, so it’s worth a call.’

Wesley led the way up the farm track and spotted a half-naked

Carl Palister, his torso glistening with sweat, digging in the field

near the house … probably still labouring away at the drainage . . Wesley called to him and Carllooked up, shielding his eyes from