The Funeral Boat (3 page)

The niceties over, Carl’s mind returned to the matter in hand. ‘I found this in the soil.’ He handed a small coin to Heffernan, who in turn handed it to Wesley. ‘It’s dead old, ain’t it? That wasn’t put there a couple of years ago,’ he concluded smugly. He gave Gerry Heffernan another swift glance, ensuring that he’d made his point.

Wesley studied the coin. It was in good condition, the inscription quite clear. ‘A silver penny … Saxon,’ he announced. ‘Ethelred the Unready.’

‘How old is it, then?’ Carl asked.

‘Late tenth … early eleventh century. About a thousand years.’

Carl Palister raised his eyebrows and leaned over to take a fresh look at the treasure he’d discovered. ‘Is it worth much?’ he enquired greedily.

‘They’re not uncommon. Actually more are found in Denmark than in England - Ethelred paid the Vikings off with them to stop them raiding. It was protection money … called Danegeld. But it didn’t make much difference -like most self-respecting gangsters they kept coming back for more.’

‘Nothing much has changed,’ mumbled Gerry Heffernan philosophically.

Wesley turned his attention to deeper matters. ‘Let’s have a look at this body, then.’

‘Dr Bowman’s on his way,’ said the smaller of the two constables helpfully.

Wesley looked down. The brown-stained skeleton lay at the bottom of the pit, on its back in an orderly fashion, its arms by its side. Somebody had taken the trouble to lay it out.

Carllooked Wesley up and down. ‘Are you police, then? You don’t look like police.’

‘I’m a detective sergeant.’

Carl shrugged. The well-spoken young black man with a detailed knowledge of ancient artefacts wasn’t like any policeman he’d ever come across before … and he’d come across a fair few in his time.

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Wesley climbed down into the pit to examine the bones more closely, careful not to disturb anything. The skull grinned up at him, greeting him like an old friend as he studied the soil around the body. He was hardly equipped to begin a detailed excavation, but he brushed some soil away gently with his fingers, recognising two small rust-encrusted objects that he found during his cursory search.

‘He’s got a degree in archaeology, you know,’ he heard Gerry Heffernan announce proudly to anyone who cared to listen. Heffernan leaned over the edge of the pit. ‘Well, Wes, what have you found? Don’t keep us in suspense.’

‘When Dr Bowman’s examined the bones, I’d like Neil to have a look at the grave.’ He turned to Carl Palister, who was watching, open-mouthed. ‘A friend of mine works for the County Archaeological Unit, and there’s something here I’d like his opinion on. You weren’t thinking of filling this hole in just yet, were you?’ Carl shook his head, speechless.

‘So what is it, Wes? Come on.’ Gerry Heffernan’s voice was impatient.

Wesley looked up at the expectant faces. Even the flowery-frocked woman, whom the inspector had addressed as Maggie, had deigned to join the group and was staring down at him with barely disguised hostility.

Wesley looked down at the bones again, then at the tiny objects he held in his hand. ‘I can’t really say anything for certain at the moment but I’ll tell you one thing.’

‘What?’ said Gerry Heffernan, curious.

‘There’s a nasty hole in the top of this skull. 1 reckon he was murdered.’

In the CID office on the first floor of Tradmouth police station, Detective Constable Rachel Tracey was feeling hot. She said as much to her colleague, DC SteveCarstairs, but regretted the words as soon as they had left her mouth.

‘Take something off, then,’ he leered. ‘I won’t look. ‘

‘Steve.’

‘What?’

‘Get lost.’

‘Only making a suggestion.’

Rachel picked up a witness statement and began to read,

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sending the message that the conversation was over. But Steve didn’t take the hint.

‘Where’s our Wesley, then? Bet you’d have taken something off if he was here.’

Rachellooked up, her blue eyes ablaze with indignation. ‘I’ve told you once, Steve. Get lost.’

‘No need to be like that,’ said Steve, all injured innocence. ‘I just wondered where him and the boss had got to. ‘

‘Last I heard they were off to the hospital to interview that farmer who was shot last night. Then they went straight over to Stoke Beeching, apparently. A body’s been found there but I don’t know any details yet.’

Steve rolled his eyes. ‘Let’s hope it’s not more bloody work. Mind you, it might not all be bad news … we might get teamed up for some night-time surveillance, eh?’ he added suggestively.

Rachel ignored him. She stared at the statement, not registering the words. If only Steve could be transferred back into uniform, resign, be posted to another division, be abducted by aliens - anything - it would make her life a lot easier.

‘How’s the boyfriend?’ Steve began again, still leering. ‘Still the Aussie, is it? Know what they say about Aussies?’ He had made enough racist quips about Wesley in his time; now it seemed he was about to add Australians to his unpleasant repertoire.

‘Steve,’ Rachel said, exasperated, ‘haven’t you any work to do? Last I heard all the criminals around here hadn’t gone on strike.’

Steve looked affronted. ‘I’ve got all these statements to sort out. Then I’m going over to Morbay for a meet with my snout this afternoon,’ he swaggered self-importantly. ‘Someone must know something about these farm robberies. I can’t believe these villains have no local knowledge.’

Rachel looked across at him, pleasantly surprised. Steve Carstairs had made an intelligent observation - that made a change. The telephone on her desk rang, summoning her down to the station’s front desk. When Steve asked where she was off to, she said nothing but shot him a look that she hoped was mysterious. He could mind his own business.

Sergeant Bob Naseby, the large and avuncular guardian of Tradmouth police station’s front desk, greeted Rachel with a wink and told her that a lady was waiting to talk to someone from CID.

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He pointed to a woman who stood with her back to them, studying the array of colourful posters on the station notice-board.

Rachel walked over to her. ‘Excuse me,’ she said quietly, not wishing to startle her.

The woman turned, and Rachel could see that she wasn’t the type to startle easily. A tall, capable-looking creature, probably in her late forties; well-built bordering on plump. Her hair was a brassy shade of auburn that owed more to the chemical industry than to nature. Rachel, a natural blonde, held a low opinion of those who resorted to the bottle.

‘I’m Detective Constable Tracey. Was there something you wanted to report?’

The woman looked around, as if afraid she might be overheard.

‘We can go into one of the interview rooms if you like,’ Rachel suggested helpfully.

‘Oh no. It’s nothing really.’ The woman looked uneasy, as if anticipating imminent arrest. ‘My husband said that it was early days … that I shouldn’t be bothering the police about it yet.’ Her accent wasn’t local. Rachel, who considered herself to be good on accents, put her somewhere up near Birmingham.

‘So what exactly do you want to report, madam?’ she asked. It was always best to know what you were dealing with right from the beginning.

‘A missing person,’ the woman stated dramatically. ‘A Danish lady. She’s just vanished off the face of the earth.’

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997

AD

It is said that those they did not slaughter were taken, men,

women and children, and put aboard their ships to be sold as

slaves, treated as common plunder. The people of our town

gathered within the Minster this day to pray that as these

heathens from the north come around our coast, they pass by

our river and do us no harm. Oh Lord defend us.

From the chronicle of Brother Edwin, monk of Neston Minster

Rachel knew from long experience that a good cup of tea oiled many wheels and even more tongues. She sat opposite the woman in the interview room, sipping the hot, reviving liquid, and listened patiently.

‘I was worried, you see,’ the woman said. ‘She’s left everything in her room. Her clothes, shoes … everything. She went out in her car two days ago and she hasn’t come back.’

Rachel had discovered by gentle questioning that the woman’s name was Barbara Questid. And that she ran a small but select bed and breakfast establishment - with en suite facilities and magnificent views over Tradmouth harbour - up on Newpen Road.

‘I mean, it’s the height of the season and I can’t let the room again, can IT Barbara continued anxiously. ‘Not if I don’t know whether she’s coming back.’

‘So you last saw her on Monday?’

‘Yes. At breakfast it was. She had toast and marmalade. I do the full English, of course, but that’s all she wanted … toast and marmalade. ‘

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‘Did she say what her plans were for the day? She was over here on holiday, 1 presume?’

‘That’s what she said. She told my husband she was going to Neston. She’d read about the town walls there. Apparently they date back to Saxon times … or that’s what my husband told her. He said she was very interested … but 1 told him she was just being polite. He can be a bit of a bore at times. But she said she was going to spend the day there and set off at about ten in the morning. That’s the last 1 saw of her.’

‘How long was she planning to stay in Devon?’

‘Just for the week. She arrived last Friday and said she’d probably leave next Saturday. 1 told her it was a shame because she’d miss this big festival they’re having in Neston at the weekend. The Viking Festival … they were from round her way, weren’t they, the Vikings? 1 had a little joke with her about it but she didn’t seem to understand. Do you think I can relet her room? Will you have to search it or … ‘

‘I think we should take things slowly, Mrs Questid. After all, most missing persons turn up safe after a few days. She might have met someone … gone off with them and not thought to tell you. I don’t think we should be worrying too much yet.’ Rachel smiled reassuringly, suspecting that Barbara Questid was more worried about the loss of revenue from her unoccupied luxury en suite room than about her errant Scandinavian guest. ‘If you’ll just give me some more details about this lady…’

‘She was about my age … thirty-five.’

Rachel tried hard not to smile at Barbara Questid’s economy with the truth. She was forty-five if she was a day.

‘Slim, shortish fair hair … about your colour. About five foot eight. Nicely dressed. Attractive, my husband thought,’ she added disapprovingly.

‘And what was her name?’

‘Larsen. Ingeborg Larsen.’ Mrs Questid’s plastic chair creaked dangerously as she sat back and drained her cup of tea.

Neil Watson, crouching in a trench beside the south wall of Neston’s magnificent medieval parish church, cursed as he pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket and stabbed, with soil-covered fingers, at the button that would stop its importunate whining.

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‘Feel like helping the police with their enquiries?’ asked a familiar voice on the other end of the line.

‘Wesley. I’m a bit pushed at the moment.’

‘Still in Neston?’

‘Yeah, we’ve just opened up another trench inside the church,’ Neil replied cautiously. ‘Why?’

‘Could you do me a favour?’

‘What?’ Neil asked suspiciously. ‘Not looking for a baby-sitter for your Michael, are you? I’m no good with babies.’

Wesley smiled. It was hard to imagine Neil in the Mary Poppins role. ‘Nothing like that. A skeleton has just been unearthed at a place called Longhouse Cottage; it’s a smallholding near Stoke Beeching. The doc’s having a look at it now and there are a couple of things in the grave that 1’d like you to see.’

‘Interesting?’

‘If my suspicions are correct it could be very interesting indeed … interesting bordering on exciting.’

‘What is it?’

T d rather you had a look for yourself.’

Neil, suitably intrigued, said he’d be over right away. He put his mobile phone, his one personal concession to high technology, back into his pocket, straightened himself up, and persuaded himself that a quick visit to Stoke Beeching would do no harm.

The sheep in the field beside Longhouse Cottage had never witnessed so much activity. They stood in a group, a safe distance away from where Dr Col in Bowman was examining the unidentified occupant of the grave, and chewed insolently, unworried by the police presence in their domain.

‘Well, Gerry,’ Colin Bowman said cheerily, ‘I think our friend here might have been dead a very long time. Not that I can tell you how long now, of course - we’ll need tests to tell us that.’

Wesley held out a hand to help the pathologist out of the trench. ‘I’ve asked Neil Watson to come over,’ he said. ‘I’d like the bones lifted carefully if that’s okay. And I’ve seen something in the trench that I’d like his opinion on.’

Colin Bowman stripped off his rubber gloves. ‘Something I should know about?’

‘I can’t tell yet. I’ll let you know.’

Gerry Heffeman, who was watching the proceedings with

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interest, looked round. The Palisters had returned to the house: there was nobody apart from the two attendant constables to hear his next question. ‘Is there any chance it could be Jock Palister, Colin? Any chance at all? He disappeared three years ago.’

Colin Bowman looked down into the trench. ‘Did he have a dentist?’

Heffernan looked puzzled. ‘No idea.’

‘It’s just that our friend here didn’t seem to have one … couple of missing teeth but absolutely no dental work that I can see. And I reckon he was over six foot. How tall was this Jock Palister?’

Gerry Heffernan looked crestfallen. He had to admit defeat. ‘About five foot eight … five foot nine.’

‘Sorry, Gerry. It’s not him’. He turned to Wesley. ‘When you’ve got him out of the ground, I’ll have a proper look at him down at the mortuary. Come down for a cup of tea … I’ve found this rather good Darjeeling.’ Colin Bowman always managed to make his place of work sound positively cosy, more like a tea room than a place of death.