The Funeral Boat (27 page)

Wexer’s rugged face froze into. an expression of shock. He stared at the inspector, his mouth open. Jen stepped forward and sat down on the sofa, interested, curious, rather than iisturbed.

‘It were only a fling. It were nothing. I can’t even remember her lame. What’s it got to do with our Pete anyway?’

‘Tell me about the girl,’ Heffeman persisted.

‘She were just a girl. Pretty. I were a young lad. Nature took its

:ourse. 1 don’t know what it’s got to do with … ‘

‘And where was she from?’

‘1 don’t know. She was foreign … can’t remember.’

‘What kind of foreign? Italian, Spanish, French, Australian?’

‘None of them … Swedish or something. I really can’t member.’

‘And her name?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘You slept with a girl who was living here, on your family’s

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farm, and you can’t remember her name?’ said Wesley with incredulity. ‘Charming. Could it have been Ingeborg?’

Wexer wrinkled his brow in an effort of concentration. ‘I told you, 1 don’t remember. She was blonde … 1 remember that. And pretty. And it was haymaking; lots of opportunity for … ‘ Wexer’s wide mouth formed into a sly, lecherous grin.

‘I think we get the picture,’ said Wesley quietly. ‘Did she tell you about herself, where she came from? What did you talk about?’

‘Didn’t do much talking.’ Wexer’s grin widened.

Jen Wexer stood up. This had gone far enough. ‘I don’t know what all this is about but my husband’s just come out of hospital and … ‘

‘Don’t worry, madam, we won’t take up any more of your time. Just one more thing, Mr Wexer. Did you ever meet the girl’s brother?’

Wexer looked puzzled. ‘Brother? 1 didn’t even know she had a brother.’

‘But surely if she was pregnant her family…’

‘Who said she was pregnant? First I’ve heard about it. About twenty years back I had a fling in a haystack or two with a pretty au pair. That’s all. End of story. I’ve not seen or heard of her since and I certainly don’t know if she had a brother, Okay?’

Wesley and Heffeman exchanged looks. There was a finality about Wexer’s last words which told them they weren’t going to get any more that day. Jen was standing, pointedly waiting to see them off the premises.

‘What do you think?’ asked Wesley as they climbed into the car.

‘I think he’s our man. I think he’s done away with Ingeborg because of something she threatened to drag up from the past and 1 think Sven found out about him somehow and got bumped ofj for his trouble.’

‘But what could she drag up? Not their affair, surely … tha wouldn’t bother anyone, least of all Wexer. AndWexer’s leg’ injured. He could hardly have killed Sven.’

‘What about Lady Macbeth in there? 1 reckon she’s capable 0 most things. She’s brought a hell of a lot of misery to that family,

‘Jen Wexer? She might be a ruthless bitch but I don’t see her a a murderer. You sound like Pete Wexer.’

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‘Maybe, Wes. What is it they say nowadays? Don’t be judgemental?’

‘Something like that.’

‘But 1 still reckon it’s him … or him and Jen. Maybe Ingeborg knew something about Wexer … something really bad. Let’s find out if anything suspicious happened on Wexer’s Farm around the time all this romping in haystacks was going on.’

Wesley nodded. He’d been thinking along the same lines himself. ‘Rachel’s mother might be able to help. If there was anything untoward going on in the farming community around here, word would surely have got around.’

‘Aye. Stella Tracey strikes me as being the kind of woman who has her ear to the ground … like daughter like mother, as they say. We’ll have a word with Rach then we’ll pop along for a gossip this afternoon, shall we?’

Gerry Heffernan sat back in the passenger seat looking pleased with himself while Wesley concentrated on driving down the narrow country lanes.

‘You realise where we are, don’t you, Wes?’

‘Where?’ Wesley had been concentrating too much on his driving to notice his surroundings.

‘We’ve just passed the place where Ingeborg’s car was found. We’ll reach that house she knocked at in a minute - what was it called?’

‘Honeysuckle House.’ Wesley spotted it. ‘There it is on the right.”

They slowed down as they passed the house. Gerry Heffernan leaned across and stared out of the window. ‘Nic;e place, isn’t it? Big. You and Pam could do with something like that.’

‘Chance’d be a fine thing on a sergeant’s salary,’ said Wesley without bitterness.

Heffernan’s lips twitched upwards in a secretive smile. ‘Did I mention 1’d had a word with the Super … recommended you for promotion?’

‘Thanks,’ said Wesley simply, feeling the gratifying glow that

omes with the knowledge that one’s efforts are appreciated … at

least by someone. ‘I was thinking, sir,’ he said, changing the

mbject. ‘I’d like to have another look through Sven Larsen’s

hings. There could be something we’ve missed … some mention

)f someone in this country … ‘

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‘Wexer?’

ˇPerhaps.’

‘Okay, Wes. You get over to the hotel … see if anything useful turns up.’

As Wesley turned the car into the police station yard, he had a nagging feeling that there was something he had seen in the past half-hour that held the key to the mystery of Ingeborg’s disappearance and Sven’s murder. But he couldn’t, for the life of him, think what it was.

‘There you are, Sergeant; said the young, smart-suited receptionist as she handed Wesley the key to Sven Larsen’ s room. She smiled, the distantly friendly smile she had been taught to use during her initial training. Wesley half expected her to add ‘Have a nice day’, but she controlled herself. Nice days weren’t often the lot of police officers.

‘Thank you. I’ll bring the key back when we’ve finished,’ said Wesley, returning the smile.

‘What exactly are we looking for?’ asked Rachel as they mounted the thickly carpeted stairs.

‘I don’t know. Anything.’ Wesley marched, determined, towards Larsen’s room. ‘Did the boss tell you he wants to talk to your mum … about Dan WexerT

‘He did mumble something.’

‘He wants to know if anything untoward happened on Wexer’s Farm about twenty years ago … when Ingeborg was supposed to have been over here. And we need to find out whether this foreign au pair Wexer romped in the hay with was actually Ingeborg.’

‘Why don’t you ask him?’

‘We have. He said he couldn’t remember her name.’

‘Charming,’ said Rachel as Wesley pushed the door to Sven Larsen’s room open.

‘It shouldn’t be this difficult to find out where Ingeborg stayed when she was over here, surely. Her parents are dead and her brother claimed he didn’t know. But there must be some way of finding out.’

‘Do you think Sven was telling the truth? Do you think he knew who she stayed with?’ asked Rachel.

Wesley shrugged. ‘There’s no way of finding out now, is there?’

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They stood together in that neat, tasteful hotel room. Rachel looked at Wesley. He was stroking his chin, deep in thought. She had recovered from her feelings of foolishness. Wesley hadn’t realised how she felt … neither had anyone else. The situation was retrievable. They were colleagues, friends; nothing more.

‘I haven’t asked you how Dave is,’ said Wesley unexpectedly.

‘He’s coming out of hospital later today. They wanted to keep an eye on him but he’s fine.’

‘And what about your little problem?’

She looked at him in alarm. Perhaps he had guessed after all. ‘What little problem?’

‘Your mother … have you put her straight?’

Rachel smiled with relief. ‘Yes. 1 told her and she seemed to understand. If I catch her looking at wedding hats I’ll know she hasn’t got the message.’

‘And Dave?’

Their eyes met and she smiled. ‘The jury’s still out on that one,’ she said simply. ‘Where shall we start?’ She looked around the room, wondering exactly what it was that Wesley was after. Surely nothing had been missed in the first search.

She rummaged through the wardrobe while Wesley stood by the bed, looking for inspiration. But none came. The room was as bare of clues as when he had last seen it. He sat down on the bed and idly opened the bedside drawer. Inside was a small Gideon Bible, an assortment of leaflets describing local tourist attractions, and a local telephone directory. He pulled them from the drawer and arranged them on the bed. There must be something in this room he had missed the first time around.

He flicked through the Bible, pausing briefly when he encountered familiar verses, learned on the rainy London Sundays of his childhood. He placed it back in the drawer and picked up the telephone directory, searching for anything hidden within its pages.

He hadn’t seen it at first, but after he had flicked through the directory a couple of times he noticed a small piece of tissue paper wedged between two pages, as if to mark the place. ‘Rach,’ he said. ‘Look at this. Do you think it could have found its way in there by accident?’

Rachel examined the improvised bookmark. Then she opened

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the suitcase at the end of the bed and took out a half-full box of tissues. ‘No. I don’t think so. It’s a piece of one of these tissues from Larsen’s case. See? They’ve got the same imprinted pattern. Larsen must have put it there.’

Now they were getting somewhere. Wesley opened the directory at the marked page. Wem to Wex. ‘Look at this.’ He read, ‘D. Wexer, Wexer’s Farm, Little Shute Lane, Brofton, near Stokeworthy. ‘

He looked up at Rachel, eager to share his triumph.

‘No,’ the young woman on reception said in patient, well-trained tones. The phone system used in the hotel recorded only the cost of the call, not the number dialled, unless it was long-distance. There was no quick way of discovering whether Sven Larsen had rung Daniel and Jen Wexer. She was-sorry she couldn’t help, she said with apparent sincerity.

That was it … a tantalising clue but nothing that could be proved. The receptionist hurried to the other end of the marble counter to answer the telephone and Wesley picked up the hotel register, idly flicking through the-pages, looking for Sven Larsen’ s entry. But it was another name that caught his eye. A name with a familiar car number written beside it.

He turned to Rachel. ‘Look. There’s a Harry Wentwood staying here. Do you remember the Waters House prowler … the one we thought might be connected with the farm robberies?’

Rachel nodded, wondering where this was leading.

‘A black car was seen parked near Waters House at the times the prowler was reported. I checked the number on the computer and found that it belonged.to a Harry Wentwood. Now we haven’t had a chance to speak to the people in Waters House yet, but their name’s Wentwood, so it could be a relative of theirs. It’s probably quite innocent but … ‘

‘But you want to see this Harry Wentwood to get his side of the story?’ Rachel could see the sense in this.

‘Might as well talk to him while we’re here … if he’s in. Excuse me,’ he called to the receptionist, who had just finished her phone call, ‘is Mr Wentwood in?’

She checked, a model of efficiency. ‘Yes. Shall I ring his room for you?’

‘Er, no … we’ll go up and have a quick word.’

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The young woman’s helpful expression changed to one of officious challenged authority. ‘I don’t know whether … ‘

‘What number is it?’ asked Wesley, ignoring the woman’s misgivings.

‘Thirty-two, but … ‘

Wesley marched up the stairs towards Room 32. Rachel, following, glanced back and saw that the receptionist had lifted the phone, no doubt warning Wesley’s quarry of their imminent arrival.

Room 32 wasn’t locked. Wesley discovered this after he had stood knocking politely on the door for a full minute without receiving an answer. He turned the door handle and the door swung open smoothly.

On the bed lay an elderly man, his eyes shut, as in sleep. He had the distinguished appearance of one used to authority and he had, in his younger days, been good-looking: that much was obvious to Rachel even from the brief glimpse she had of his face. He lay on his side, his six-foot frame curled in foetal comfort. The shirt he wore tucked into a pair of grey cavalry twill trousers was good quality but frayed at the collar and cuffs. And a pair of expensive but well-worn brown brogues lay with military neatness at the side of the bed.

‘He’s asleep,’ mouthed Rachel. ‘Let’s leave him, eh?’

But Wesley stepped towards the bed and touched the man’s face gently. Then he touched the neck and kept his fingers pressed there till he was sure.

‘He’s not asleep,’ he said gently, almost in a whisper. ‘He’s dead.’

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997

AD

I asked my mother what was the sound I heard from within.

She seemed greatly afeared and said it was her Christian duty

to care for the sick and wounded. I agreed that this was so but

I knew that she was keeping something from me that I, as her

son, should know.

So I left her with Hilda and went into the house. There,

through the gloom and the smoke of the fire, I saw a man. He

was tall of stature, the tallest man I have seen. His hair was

light and he stared at me with eyes blue as summer sky. I saw

ihai his body l’,lOS wounded and bound with cloth about the

shoulder. He showed no fear of me. I asked him who he was

but he spoke in some foreign tongue, words I could not

comprehend.

Then he reached for a great sword that lay beneath the

window and held it at me and I was greatly feared. My mother

entered and shouted to him that I was her son and not to hurt

me. I shielded her with my body, to protect her, but she went

to him, taking the sword from his hand which he allowed most

meekly. ‘My son, ‘ she said. ‘This man is wounded and in my

care. I pray you, do him no harm. ‘