The Funeral Boat (25 page)

‘All my instincts tell me that Proudy’s telling the truth but … 1 really don’t know.’ Wesley sighed and looked at his watch.

Gerry Heffeman slouched in front of him as he walked back to the office, silent in thought. Wesley watched as the inspector slumped down in his chair, head in hands. After a few seconds he raised his head and looked his sergeant in the eyes. .

‘I can’t put it off any longer, Wes. I’ll have to ring Copenhagen again … tell the police there about Sven. And 1 think it might be an idea if we spoke to Ingeborg’s ex-husband some time in the

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next few days … he’s obviously in the clear, but he might be able

to tell us something. If the same person abducted Ingeborg and

killed Sven, that means there could be somebody around here who

has it in for the Larsen family. But why?’

Wesley shook his head. He had some ideas, unformed and

nebulous, but they were hardly ready to put into words, let alone

test and prove.

‘I’ll make the phone call, Wes. You get off home and think

about it, eh?’

‘Thanks. But I don’t know whether Pam’ll be pleased to see

me. Neil’s landed her with a job … translating some Old English

documents. ‘

Heffernan raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t you think the poor

woman went through enough yesterday with them Vikings? Give

her my regards, eh?’

As Wesley left the office he looked back and saw Gerry

Heffernan pick up the telephone.

Pam Peterson had had a frustrating day. It was as if Michael

resented something else claiming his mother’s attention. And he

was teething, which only made matters worse. At last, by three

o’clock, she had managed to get him down for a sleep and was

able to continue the translation. -r

She wrote in a spiral-bound notebook, in pencil. The words had

come slowly at first, but then she became attuned to the unfamiliar

early version of the English language and her pencil moved

rapidly across the paper.

By the time Wesley came in she was totally absorbed. Dinner

would have to wait. The events unrolling in Jeremiah Peacock’s

carefully copied manuscripts were becoming very exciting

indeed.

The man left his large black car parked on the main road and

walked slowly up the drive to Waters House. He glanced to his

left at Longhouse Cottage, squatting in its scrubby fields, a rusting

collection of disintegrating vehicles lying in what passed for a

yard. Whoever lived there couldn’t be the most desirable of

neighbours.

He could see the front door of Waters House. The driveway had

once been satisfyingly crunchy with white gravel; now the gravel

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only remained in trodden-in patches. The rest was bare earth, . pitted with holes that swelled into puddles when the rain came. He

hesitated. Should he watch again tonight? Or should he knock at

the door? Confront them?

He had spent so much time watching. Sometimes he would

almost summon the courage to approach the house. Then his

nerve would fail and he would stand there, camouflaged by the

laurel bushes, staring into the bright rooms where they moved

about like figures in a peep-show. It had been so long … so many

years. But the doctors had told him that he was dying. What had

he got to lose?

The man walked slowly, stiffly, up to the house. When he

reached the front door, he raised his hand to the great wrought—

iron knocker and brought it down with a thunderous crash, loud

enough to wake the dead.

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997

AD

It was just before noon when Hilda and I arrived at my

parents’ farm, and, with much relief and rejoicing, I saw the

house was still standing and had not been burned like those in

the village. I took Hilda’ s hand as we approached, halffearful

of what we would find within.

Then we came upon my mother. She sat before the house

weaving on her loom. She was most joyous to see me and

greeted Hilda as befits my future bride with a warm embrace.

But there lay sorrow beneath her joy. My father, she told me,

had been killed by the Danes on the sands as he brought a

catch offish ashore. They struck him down with their axes. He

was buried near to the church with the_others who perished.

I embraced my mother to comfort her… but she shed no

tears. She told m~ then that she had buried all of value, her

jewellery and coins, in the earth nearby for safekeeping. I

rejoiced in her good wisdom.

Then I heard a noise from within the house.

From the chronicle of Brother Edwin

It was almost eight o’clock when Gerry Heffeman received the phone call from Wilkins the Jewellers in Neston High Street. Mr Wilkins, having been issued by his local constable with a full description of the items stolen from Wexer’ s Farm, had displayed admirable vigilance. A locket had been brought in by. a young man who offered it for sale; an unusual Victorian locket, the one described in the constable’s list. He had taken the young man’s name and address and had kept the

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locket for valuation. He thought the inspector would like to know.

Mr Wilkins assured Gerry Heffernan most earnestly that he considered it every citizen’s duty to help the police in every way they could … particularly in such lawless times. Five minutes later he eventually came up with the name and address of the young man with the stolen locket.

When he put the phone down, Heffernan sat back in his executive swivel chair, deep in thought. The name Mr Wilkins had given him was the last one he had expected to hear.

After a few minutes’ thought he dialled Wesley’s number.

The pubs were normally quiet on Sunday nights … which meant that as soon as Sam Heffernan set foot inside the Ship and Compass on the seafront at Morbay, he would be the centre of attention.

He was convinced that his father didn’t know his secret. He had almost caught him last night, and Sam had waited with bated breath for the knock on his bedroom door. But it hadn’t come: he was safe for now. He looked at himself in the mirror that hung, slightly askew, on Funograms’ office wall.

‘You’re doing really well,’ giggled Carly Pinkerton as she flicked the grey caterpillar of ash from the end Of her cigarette. ‘People are asking for you, you know. Word gets round. And you do suit that costume,’ she added with a suggestive wink. She paused, a smile hovering on her lips. ‘Have you, er … got a girlfriend up in, er … where is it you’re at university again?’

‘Liverpool. There’s nobody special at the moment. Why?’

‘Oh, no reason,’ said Carly innocently. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got your own place down here,’ she added, maintaining eye contact and hitching her skirt up a couple of inches.

‘No … ‘fraid not. I’m staying with my dad. He’s on his own since Mum died.’

‘Does he work, this dad of yours? Is he out in the day?’

The implication of the question was as obvious as a blazing beacon on a hilltop. Sam adjusted his headgear nervously. Carly was keen. The trouble was that he didn’t know whether he was. Perhaps she was a little obvious for his taste.

‘Yeah … he’s, er … police, a detective inspector.’

Carly raised her beautifully plucked eyebrows. ‘Well, we’ll just

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have to be careful we don’t break the law, then,’ she said, the words pregnant with innuendo.

Sam looked at his watch. ‘I’d better be going. It’s a Sharon Daley at the Ship and Compass, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. It’s her hen party. Give her a good send-off.’ Carly walked over to him and fingered the neckline of his fake fur tunic. ‘But not too good, eh, Sam?’ She stood on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his. At first the smell of cigarette smoke caught in his throat as they kissed. Then, as he grew accustomed to it, he began to relax, and explored Carly’s lithe body with his hands as her lips clung to his like a hungry limpet.

Suddenly she jumped back. ‘Bloody hell! What’s that?’ she shrieked.

Sam looked down in horror. ‘Oh, sorry, it’s my sword. It seems to have a life of its own. Er, look, Carly, I’d better be off. I mustn’t be late. Wish me luck.’

Carly Pinkerton rose on tiptoe again and planted a final, firm kiss on his lips. ‘Business before pleasure. Off you go.’

Wesley sat back in the armchair, enjoying the peace of a domestic night in. He closed his eyes. The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the scratching of Pam’s pencil on the paper of her notebook.

‘Want some wine?’ he asked.

She didn’t look up. ‘Better not. I’d be terrified of spilling it on these papers.’

‘How are you getting onT

‘Fine. Peacock’s transcription is very clear. Brother Edwin must have had excellent handwriting.’

‘Brother Edwin?’

‘A monk … talks about Neston Minster.’

‘If it’s about the rninster, Neil’ll be over the moon. That’s what he’s digging up at the moment … on the site of Neston parish church.’

‘Oh, it’s not just about some stuffy old monastery. It’s much more exciting than that. You wouldn’t think the modem Danes were the descendants of the Vikings, would you? They seem such nice, civilised people … all educational toys and tasteful interior design.’

‘Remember what I used to say when I kept getting stopped by

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the police in London, ,cause 1 was black … beware of racial stereotyping,’ said Wesley with a wry grin.

‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘And 1 know that most Scandinavians in those days were just farmers and traders. But these Vikings were such a vicious lot … all that butchery and destruction. You should read what Brother Edwin has to say about them.’

Wesley’s eyes lit up, and he made a grab for her notebook. She held on to it, teasing. ‘Not yet. 1 haven’t finished.’ She leaned across and kissed him. ‘And I’m just getting to the juicy bit.’

Wesley was about to make further enquiries when the telephone began to ring.

When Wesley announced that Gerry Heffernan needed him over at Neston to bring in a suspect for the Wexer’s Farm robbery, Pam sighed and returned to her work. She had married a policeman: she had known what to expect, but that didn’t make it any easier.

The tiny box-like modem semi, exiled in a new housing estate on the outskirts of Neston, loomed before Wesley and Heffernan in the evening light. It had been designed by some unimaginative lfchitect on an off-day and jammed up against its neighbours for naximum profit.

‘This is the address, sir,’ said Wesley. ‘Bit of a contrast to Nexer’s Farm.’

The two policemen climbed out of the car and walked up the :oncrete front path, past the parched square of scrubby grass that lassed for a front garden.

The woman who opened the door was probably in her forties,

nd not unattractive. Her figure, although inclined to plumpness,

las shapely, her dark brown hair well cut in a shoulder-length

ob.

It was Gerry Heffernan who did the talking. Claire Wexer

laked alarmed when he asked if they could talk to her son, Pete.

e had a job in a pub in Morbay, she said. He was working.

‘What’s it about? He’s not in trouble is heT asked the anxious

other. ‘Since his dad and 1 split up, he’s not been the easiest of

enagers … but he’s never been in trouble with the police,’ she

sured them.

‘It’s in connection with the robbery at your ex-husband’s farm,

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Mrs Wexer. A lad giving your son’s name tried to sell a locket stolen in the robbery to a jeweller in Neston. We’d just like a word with your Pete. And I’m afraid we might have to send someone to search his room,’ he said, with genuine regret.

Penny, Wexer’s daughter, came up behind her mother in the hallway and put a thin protective hand on her shoulder. Wesley recognised her from the hospital. ‘What is it, Mum?’

‘The police think Pete’s taken something from the farm. It can’t be true. He wouldn’t have gone there. He won’t even talk to his father. There must be some mistake.-‘

She looked at Heffernan, her eyes pleading with him to believe her. Gerry Heffernan felt sorry for her … as he felt sorry for every innocent mother who found out her child was in deep trouble. But he couldn’t leave it there. ‘Where was your son last Tuesday night?’

Claire clutched her daughter’s hand, confused. ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember;’

‘He was in Morbay. He works in a pub there,’ said Penny, confidently. ‘I don’t know what that Jen bitch has accused him of but…’

Heffeman had no wish to become embroiled in family arguments. He asked for the name of Pete Wexer’s place of work and left li‘1e two women clinging to each other in the doorway.

‘I don’t halffeel sorry for those two,’ he said as Wesley pointed the car towards Morbay.

Sharon Daley and her flock of human hens weren’t difficult to find; their high-pitched hilarity could be heard throughout the large, modem -bam of a pub. As soon as they saw him they cheered. Sam stopped in his tracks, trying to ignore theit suggestive, drunken invitations, preparing himself for his perforˇ mance. He straightened his shiny plastic-homed helmet, drew [ sheet of typewritten paper from the pocket in his furry tunic, anc began.

‘My name’s Eric the Viking and my longboat’s parked outside.

My mates are a-raping and pillaging until the turn of the tide.

But I’ve come to wish you, Sharon, the very best of luck

And I’m bringing you this message today in the hope that

you’ll give me … a great big kiss. Come on, Sharon.’

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Amid hooting laughter, Sharon was pushed forWard by her mates, her plump, pretty face flushed. Sam always felt some affinity with his victims: they were usually as embarrassed about it all as he was. He lifted Sharon up in his anns and carried her round the pub, followed by comments ranging from the witty to the obscene. Then he kissed her with mock passion, raising bawdy cheers from her fellows. He sensed an encore was needed (his public expected their money’s worth) so he swept her up in his anns again and carried her off out of the pub, kicking the door open dramatically. He planned to chat with her outside for a few minutes, asking her about her wedding and wishing her luck, before making his last dramatic entrance.