The Funeral Boat (17 page)

He walked through the Memorial Park where a brass band were puffing bravely at their instruments on the bandstand. They had gathered quite a crowd - men in shorts displaying pale, hirsute legs; women with bright dresses and equally bright bare shoulders; and children whinging with the heat or appeased with large, half-melted ice creams. A raucous seagull yelling overhead made Wesley look up. Then he saw something that brought him to a sudden halt.

At night, in the height of the season, the park attracted gangs of local youths, bent on troublemaking. The camera fixed to the top of a tall thin pole was a recent innovation: video surveillance, the town council’s latest foray into the brave new world of high technology. Wesley’s mind raced as he considered the possi-106

bilities. Did Neston have similar arrangements? Even if the streets weren’t covered, the shops probably would be. Had Ingeborg Larsen’s movements on the day she disappeared been caught on camera? Had she been with anyone … or had she been followed?

Back at the office Trish Walton greeted him with an anxious enquiry about Rachel while Steve spoke softly, almost furtively, into his phone, making no acknowledgement of Wesley’ s arrival.

There was a smug smile on Steve’s face as he put the receiver down. ‘I’ve got a lead,’ he said with almost childlike pride. ‘I was just on the blower to my snout and the word is the farm gang are using a wheel man from up North who owns a garage in the smoke. They’ve got a lock-up in Morbay and this geezer resprays the motors and gives ‘em new plates and chassis numbers, then they ship ‘em up to the smoke with bent documents and sell ‘em as kosher. Quad bikes and all … big demand for quad bikes.’ Steve sat back, looking very pleased with himself.

Wesley tried hard to suppress a smile. Steve assumed that the patois of the Met would give him a certain cachet in Tradmouth CID, even though he’d never lived further east than Morbay. ‘Good work, Steve.’ He felt a little encouragement might be in order. ‘Have you got a name for this, er … geezer?’

‘His name’s Lo!. That’s all I’ve got so far, but I’ve asked my snout to keep his ear to the ground.’ Wesley could have sworn he detected a note of cockney in Steve’s voice.

‘Good. Get on to Morbay, will you, and tell them to keep an eye on any premises the gang might use. And let the boss know when he gets back. He’s just gone to visit Inspector Jenkins. He shouldn’t be long.’

‘What exactly’s wrong with Inspector Jenkins, Sarge?’ asked Trish shyly.

Wesley smiled at her. ‘I’ve no idea. I was told not to ask. Look, Trish, I’ve had an ide.a. Ingeborg Larsen went to Neston on Monday. If we can check the video surveillance tapes from any shops she might have visited that day … ‘ Trish nodded, quick on the uptake. Steve looked blank. ‘If you and Steve could go over to Neston and ask around … And if she went to Neston first thing in the morning and wasn’t seen at Honeysuckle House till three, that means she must have had lunch somewhere. Take her picture and ask around the cafes too.’

Trish nodded enthusiastically. ‘I think we should have another look through her things too.’

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‘Yes. Rachel’s back tomorrow. I’ll ask her to deal with that.’

‘What about tracking down this Lol?, asked Steve indignantly.

‘That’s all in hand.’

‘So you knew about him already?’ Steve sounded resentful.

‘It was just a suspicion but you’ve confinued it. Any news on Sven Larsen?’

Steve turned away.

‘No, Sarge. Nothing,’ said Trish apologetically. ‘Do you want us to go over to Neston right away?’

‘What’s this, Wes? Why are you sending this pair on the hippie trail to Neston?’ Gerry Heffernan thundered as he strode into the office. ‘Is anything happening that I don’t know about?’

Steve got in first, proudly telling the tale of Lol the wheel man. Then Wesley explained about the proposed Neston trip. Heffernan’ s eyes lit up with the excitement of the chase. ‘We’ll need to get a patrol car over to Little Barton Farm. If Laurence Proudy’ s made a reappearance we’ll need to ask him some questions … or his lady friend’ll do. I reckon he’s our Lol: garage owner; now lives in London but originally from the North. I want his holiday flat given a good going-over and all once he’s been brought in. Tell ‘em to leave it spick and span … don’t wantto create work for Mrs Tracey. Come on, Wes. We’re off to the Tower Hotel first. I want to have a quick look through Sven Larsen’s things.’

Wesley nodded. If Larsen had disappeared, it had to be done. There was always a possibility, however slight, that there would be a clue of some kind among his belongings. He thought of the yacht Larsen had hired, adrift on the sea, sailing off aflame into the sunset. It was strange that Gerry Heffernan had described just such a scene when they had found the skeleton at Longhouse Cottage: the common, though inaccurate, view, gleaned from Hollywood movies, of the traditional Viking funeral. Only there had been no dead body on Larsen’s boat to be consumed by the flames.

He knew it was going to be another long day. He picked up the phone and dialled his home number to warn Parn that he would be late. But the phone rang and rang. There was no answer. Then Wesley finally remembered where his wife was that Friday afternoon.

Michael was growing more used to Mrs Miller: Pam could tell. His little face lit up with a wide toothless grin every time he saw her. Although this brought considerable relief, it also brought a

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small nagging ripple of pain - a dread that by the time September came ‘find she was back teaching her class full time, her baby son would be so enamoured of his new childminder that he might not miss his mother at all.

As she parked her VW Golf in the carpark of Neston High School, she noticed a strangely dressed figure standing outside the school entrance beside three large hold-alls, two black, the other bright red. Odin was in full regalia as before. Pam walked self-consciously across the carpark towards him in her short lime-green dress, aware of his eyes upon her.

Somehow Odin didn’t look odd in his rough-woven blue tunic, leaning against the wall of the box-like 1960s building, his sun-bronzed arms folded. It was she who felt out of place. He smiled, his bright blue eyes fixed on hers as she approached.

He said something softly in what she guessed was Danish … or an old version of that language, used by the Vikings. Then he translated. ‘Greetings, Pam. We1come. I’ve been waiting for you. ‘

She blushed, her heart pounding. ‘Er … are we in the hall again?’ she asked, matter-of-factly. ‘Sorry I’m late. I had to drop my son at the childminder’s. Sorry.’ She didn’t know why she was apologising: it must have been nerves. She cursed herself for not putting into practice what she’d learned in that assertiveness class she’d attended when she’d lived in London. But she’d not had much need or opportunity to assert herself recently: she’d got out of the habit and had sunk back into the quicksand of coy British politeness.

‘You’re not very late,’ he said, looking her up and down appreciatively. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

At that moment, with a mixture of relief and regret, she spotted Dorothy, the feisty ex-headmistress. And she raised her hand to greet her.

‘See you later, then,’ Odin whispered in her ear before disappearing through the double glass doors.

‘Is he bothering you, dear?’ asked Dorothy, whose dealings with sly and frequently dishonest youth had taught her to read body language from a great distance.

‘He’s not bothering me,’ said Pam, feeling more confident now. ‘Everything’s fine.’

Sven Larsen’s room at the Tower Hotel had yielded nothing of interest. All Wesley and Gerry Heffernan had learned about the

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man from his possessions was that he had travelled light. A few changes of underwear, a spare set of clothes, a razor and a toothbrush. His room was as neat as his sister’s.

‘Tidy lot, these Larsens,’ commented Heffernan. ‘Bet their mum didn’t have to nag them to clean their rooms. My kids’ bedrooms always made the municipal rubbish tip look like a lUxury penthouse.’ He winked at Wesley. ‘You’ve got all that to come,’ he added smugly.

‘How’s your Sam doing? Got ajob yet?’

‘So he says, but he hasn’t told me what it is. He said it was public relations, but I reckon he’s working behind a bar … he didn’t get in till the early hours last night. He probably doesn’t want his old father turning up expecting free drinks and embarrassing him … that’ll be why he hasn’t confessed.’

‘More than likely. Where to now?’

The two policemen left the hotel under the hostile gaze of a young blonde receptionist, who clearly thought that a police presence was lowering the tone of the place, and drove out to Little Barton Farm.

It was a slow journey, as they were forced to crawl along behind a caravan for the first two miles on the main road out of Tradmouth: one of the increasingly familiar perils of the holiday season. Wesley turned onto the narrow, hedge-lined lane leading to the farm and drove carefully, slowing down for blind bends. He .still hadn’t gained the confidence oflocal drivers like Rachel, who knew what lay beyond each turn in the road. Gerry Heffernan sat slouched in the passenger seat, a small smile of anticipation on his face.

The police cars had gone. With all the evidence gathered, Stella Tracey would be clearing up her living room. There was no need to disturb her, so they made straight for the old barn and parked outside.

It was a long time before Proudy’s door was opened: it was the woman who stood there, uncertain, a hint of apprehension in her eyes.

‘Mrs Proudy?’

‘Ms Jones, Astrid Jones.’ Wesley detected a faint, but barely audible, hint of a European accent.

‘We’re looking for Laurence Proudy. Is he inT

‘No. He’s gone.’

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‘When will he be back, love?’ Heffeman asked.

‘He was called back to London on urgent business. Why?’

‘Can we come in, love? We’re catching our deaths out here,’ said Heffeman cheekily.

Astrid looked confused. The temperature was in the seventies. But the tactic worked. She stood aside meekly, and Gerry Heffeman made straight for the living room, looking in each room, making certain that Proudy wasn’t lurking behind a closed door. When he looked in the second bedroom something he saw there surprised him.

‘Hey, what are you doing?’ asked Astrid, indignant.

‘It’s okay, love. Mr and Mrs Tracey own the place and they don’t mind.’

‘But 1 do,’ she said. ‘You have no right.’

‘Three armed men broke into the farmhouse here last night and threatened the family. A lad got hurt. Did you know about it?’

‘I saw a lot of police about. 1 didn’t know what had happened.’

Wesley could tell the woman was lying.

‘These robberies started just over a fortnight ago … just when you and Proudy arrived in the area for a so-called holiday. What made him decide on a holiday down here? 1 didn’t think rural Devon would be his scene.’

‘Lol had some business down here … some cars he wanted to look at.’

‘So you’re combining business with a little holiday. That’s nice.’

‘It was till you started harassing us. I’m going to complain about our treatment,’ she said half-heartedly, as if she thought a token protest was expected of her.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Ms Jones. Me and the sergeant here like to promote peace and harmony when we interview suspects, don’t we, Sergeant? Make it more like a friendly chat. Andwe serve a lovely cup of tea down at the station … and biscuits. So if you’d like to come with us and make a statement … ‘ Gerry Heffeman gave her his most beatific smile, bearing a strong resemblance to a degenerate cherub. ‘You see, we’ve had information that your Lol’s involved with these robberies and we’d like to have a little word about what he’s been up to down here.’

Astrid Jones began to look uncertain of her ground. ‘I told you

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I don’t know anything and Lol went back to London early this morning. Business.’

‘And will he be back?’

‘I don’t know.’ She folded her arms, defiant.

‘I believe you had an argument with Mr Proudy yesterday. What was it about?’ asked Wesley softly.

Astrid’s expression changed. She looked from one policeman to the other nervously. ‘Nothing much. 1 thought it was a bit off him going back to London and leaving me here on my own in the middle of nowhere. That’s all.’

‘How long have you known Proudy, Ms Jones?’

‘Only for a few weeks.’

‘I see you’re not sharing a bedroom,’ said Heffeman softly.

‘That’s none of your business,’ retorted Astrid, outraged. She hesitated. ‘He snores, if you must know … and 1 like to get a good night’s sleep.’

‘How did you meet him?’

‘I went to get my car fixed at his garage,’ she said quickly. ‘All this is nothing to do with me … really.’

‘I think it would be best if you came down to the station to make a statement.’

Astrid fell quiet as Heffeman led the way to the car. When she was safely installed in the back seat, he shut the back door and turned to Wesley. ‘Think she’ll tell us much?’

‘I don’t think there was a great deal of loyalty there, sir. And if she’s feeling badly done by, we can only hope she might want to get her own back.’

‘Hello sir, hi Wes. 1 thought I saw your car.’

Wesley swung round. Rachel was standing there, her fair hair loose around her shoulders. She wore shorts and a T-shirt. Wesley, used to seeing her dressed smartly for work, hardly recognised her. .

‘Arresting our guests, are you?’

‘We’re sure Laurence Proudy’s our man. An informant told Steve that a man from London called Lol is. involved in the robberies, specialising in disposing of the stolen vehicles. Proudy owns a garage in London, and we suspect he’s gone back there.’

Rachel shrugged. ‘Can’t say it surprises me. Good job he paid for the apartment in advance, isn’t it?’ She gave Wesley a shy smile.

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‘Is your mum okay?’

‘Yes … now that Dave’s on the mend. See you tomorrow, then.’