The Funeral Boat (31 page)

Heffeman produced a photograph of Ingeborg and placed it on the table in front of Wexer. ‘Is this her? Is this the au pair who stayed on your farm twenty years ago?’

Wexer shrugged. ‘No idea. They all look alike to me, these Scandinavian girls.’ He leered.

Wesley looked away in disgust. He could quite imagine Dan Wexer thinking he was the Lord’s gift to the opposite sex and claiming the young au pair’s body as his by right. In his arrogance he had goaded his father. But as for it being murder, he wasn’t so sure.

‘Aren’t you going to charge me with murder, then?’

‘In a word, Mr. Wexer, no. At least not based on what you’ve told me. You’re free to go now, but we might have to ask you some more questions.’

Wexer looked at Gerry Heffeman, surprised. ‘But I came here to confess to killing my father … ‘

Heffeman stood up and strode from the room with Wesley in his wake, Wexer’s protestations of guilt ringing in their ears.

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‘What do you think, sir?’ asked Wesley when they were back in the office. ‘

‘I think he’s playing games … trying to distract us from the real murder he’s committed. 1mean, why bring his father’s death up now? I don’t believe all this about his conscience, do you? From what he’s said it sounds like an accident. 1 think it’s all a smokescreen.’

‘But if he’s confessed, then that takes away the motive for silencing Ingeborg, surely?’

‘A double bluff?’ Heffernan sounded unsure of his ground.

Rachel and Trish returned to the office, crestfallen. They’d got nothing out of Jen Wexer. She vehemently denied being the mystery woman on the videos, claiming that she wouldn’t be seen dead in a hat like that. She denied all know ledge of Ingeborg Larsen and said that her husband’s guilt about his father’s death had been preying on his mind since Pete’s attack on him - he saw family history repeating itself. He wanted to get his own gnawing feelings of guilt off his chest.

‘We know where they are, Wes,’ said Heffernan, trying to be cheerful. ‘We can pull ‘em in any time. Let’s get home, eh?’ He grinned mischievously. ‘I’m off out tonight with my lad, Sam. I’m going to watch him at work. Wish me luck.’

‘They’ll have him up there dancing in a horned helmet,’ said Rachel when the inspector had disappeared from view. She looked at Wesley shyly. ‘You don’t feel like coming with me to have a look … purely in the line of duty, of course.’

‘Sorry, Rach. Pam’s expecting me home.’

Rachel watched sadly as Wesley left the office.

The morning streets were filled with the scent of the flowers tumbling from tubs and window boxes as Wesley walked to work the next day. It was too early for the tourists to be out and about, so he strolled down the steep, narrow thoroughfares towards the heart of the town and hardly saw a soul. He enjoyed this walk in the fine weather - the exercise; the opportunity to think. And he had a lot to think about.

The previous night he had begun to read Pam’s translation of the Anglo-Saxon documents … her tale of murder dating back a thousand years. He had read about Brother Edwin and the terrible events that had plagued the district in 997. He had read of Edwin’ s discovery that his father was dead and that the man who had

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allegedly killed him had been taken in by his mother, injured, and had become her lover. Then that morning, over his cornflakes, he had read of the incensed Edwin about to kill the interloper to avenge his dead father. But then Wesley had looked at the kitchen clock and realised that if he read on he would be late for work. But he could guess what the end of the story would be: the brutal blow, then the burial with full Viking rites at the bottom of the field. As he had left the house he had stuffed the notebook pages into his jacket pocket. If he had a spare moment during the day, he would finish the story: it would give him a welcome break from modern police work.

Thoughts of Longhouse Cottage spread and connected with other thoughts. The house above the smallholding, Waters House: once home to Jock and Maggie Palister in more prosperous days and, long before that, home to Jeremiah Peacock - collector, antiquary and local busybody. Peacock had robbed Olaf’ s grave of the sword and shield that were to see him safe to Valhalla; had dug up Edwin’s mother’s hidden hoard of silver and had somehow filched the precious casket containing Edwin’s writings and had consigned them to the neglected attic of his pet museum. Somehow Wesley felt he wouldn’t have liked Jeremiah Peacock very much.

Then the sight of a rusty blue Fiat chugging past him down Market Street prodded his memory. An image flashed through his mind - a white jacket with a pink ticket attached. Wesley quickened his steps. It was starting to fit together.

Bjorn Sorensen rang at half past nine, at the exact moment Gerry Heffernan chose to roll into the office and regale his team with loud tales of his adventures of the previous night. His Sam’s Viking exploits during an unsuspecting woman’s fortieth birthday celebrations caused hoots of hilarity throughout the CID office.

Wesley picked the phone up, covering the mouthpiece and pleading for silence. His colleagues obliged, even Steve, and went about their work. Gerry Heffernan came over and sat on the edge of Wesley’s desk expectaI\tly.

‘I spent last night going through Ingeborg’s papers,’ Bjorn began. ‘I found two letters concerning her stay in Devon. The first from an au pair agency in Exeter saying they were arranging things, and the second from the mother of the family she stayed with saying that she was looking forward to seeing her.’

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Wesley did his best not to sound impatient. ‘What was the family’s name?’ he asked.

As Bjom Sorensen answered his question, Wesley allowed himself a smile of satisfaction.

Trish Walton rushed up to his desk just as he was replacing the receiver. ‘There’s a Constable Cawthome just arrived to see you, Sarge. Sergeant Naseby’s sending him up.’

No sooner were the words out of Trish’ s mouth than Constable Cawthome appeared in the doorway. ‘I’m after a DS Peterson. Is he about?’

Constable Cawthome was a big man in his late fifties, slow in his movements with silver-grey hair. A pair of spectacles sat perilously on the end of his nose, and he possessed the world-weary look of one who had lived through halcyon days - when the local constable could dispense wisdom and a night in the cells to members of a community whose worst misdemeanour was a spot of light poaching - but who was now witnessing a downward spiral into crime, misery and wickedness for which he was quite unprepared. Constable Cawthome was looking retirement in the face with eager anticipation.

Wesley stood up and introduced himself and Cawthome looked at him with barely disguised curiosity. ‘I’ve heard all about you,’ he announced. ‘Liking it down here, then, are you?’

Wesley nodded, wishing Cawthome would come to the point.

‘I found that file ’” Honeysuckle House. 1 had a young constable with me at the time - probationer, wet behind the ears. It was his first suicide, poor lad, and I don’t think he forgot about it in a hurry.’ He handed Wesley a musty-smelling file. ‘Before the days of the great god computer, it was … 1 don’t reckon these floppy disk things’lllast like good old paper.’

‘I think Inspector Heffeman would agree with you there,’ said Wesley as he opened the file and flicked through the reports. ‘So what happened up at Honeysuckle House? Did you ever find out why the woman killed herself?’

‘Oh, yes. The housekeeper there was only too ready to tell us. It seems this poor lady’s husband was having it off - if you’ll pardon the expression - with this young girl. He said he was leaving his family for her … crazy about her, he was. Anyway, the wife went into this outhouse on the edge of their land where they kept a tractor and a couple of old rowing boats, parked her car inside,

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took a few sleeping pills and left the car engine running. When they found her she was dead, poor woman … and her with a couple of kiddies and all. Tragic.’

‘Do you know what happened to the husband? Did he go off with the girl?’

‘I don’t know. If he had any decency about him he’d have left well alone. But then people don’t have much decency about them, do they? If they did we’d all be made redundant,’ Cawthome pronounced philosophically.

‘This young girl … was she foreign?’

Cawthome thought for a moment. ‘Can’t really say. I never saw her.’

‘And you don’t know her name?’

‘I think the husband wanted her kept out of it. Her name was never mentioned. Why? What’s the case being reopened for after all these years? Cut and dried it was. Suicide.’

‘It’s a long story,’ said Wesley. ‘It’s in connection with a recent murder and a woman’s disappearance.’ He thought Cawthome deserved some sort of explanation for his efforts.

He opened the file and saw the name of the principal witness - the housekeeper, whose words showed that she was consumed by a wave of vengeful fury against the young girl who had so cheerfully broken up a happy family and caused the suicide of a woman she described as being a lovely lady, a perfect wife and mother.

And Wesley knew where that housekeeper was now. Her name, according to the files, was Mrs Mildred Tensby. Last time Wesley had seen her she had been coming out of Waters House; but the time before that, she had been working behind the counter of Pilington’s Dry Cleaners.

Wesley thanked Constable Cawthome, who reluctantly returned to keeping law and order in the large seaside town of Morbay. Just as the picture was starting to emerge from the fogs of time and deception, it looked as if fate had dealt them another suspect.

‘I haven’t got your good manners, Wes,’ observed Gerry Heffeman as he opened the glass door of Pilington’ s Dry C:leaners. ‘I don’t believe in going round the houses.’ He went up :0 the counter and stood there until the woman behind it had ;erved her last customer.

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‘Right, love. Mrs Tensby, is it?’ Heffernan produced his warrant card and the woman nodded, terror on her plain, doughy face. ‘We’re making enquiries into the disappearance of a Danish woman … Ingeborg Larsen. I believe you told my colleague here that she came in to have a jacket cleaned.’

The woman looked at Wesley and swallowed nervously. ‘That’s right.’

‘When was this?’

‘Friday night … latish. She picked it up on Saturday.’

‘We have reason to believe you knew Ms Larsen when she lived nearby about twenty years ago. You were housekeeper to a family who lived in Honeysuckle House near Neston. Am I right?’

There was no use denying it. Mildred Tensby nodded, wary.

‘Did Ingeborg Larsen live with the family as an au pair?’ asked Wesley confidently. He already knew the answer. Bjorn Sorensen had told him earlierˇ that morning. Ingeborg had stayed at Honeysuckle House with a couple called Wentwood and their two children.

‘Yes.’ Mildred Tensby pressed her lips together in disapproval. ‘Why?’

‘Ms Larsen’s brother, Sven, was found murdered recently,’ Wesley began formally. ‘And we have reason to believe that Ms Larsen herself has been the victim of an abduction. Do you know anything about it?’

At that moment the bell on the shop door jangled and an elderly lady entered, bearing a winter coat crammed into a large carrier bag. Gerry Heffernan turned. ‘Sorry, love, shop’s shut. Come back later, eh?’ The woman, confused, obeyed without a word, and the inspector refocused his gaze on Mildred Tensby. ‘Well?’

‘I did it. I killed Ingeborg Latsen. And her brother … I killed him too.’ She looked at the officers defiantly, challenging them to disbelieve her.

‘First Christopher Wentwood’s father turns up dead in a hotel room and now all this. They say the past catches up with you eventually, don’t they,’ said Wesley philosophically as they pulled up outside Waters House.

They hadn’t got much out of Mildred Tensby. She had given

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them a statement of the bald facts and refused to elaborate further. She had been deeply attached to the Wentwood family and had witnessed the carefree young au pair, Ingeborg, tearing the happy fam-ily apart with no hint of regret. Things had started well: the girl was happy,. willing … and beautiful. But then Harry Wentwood had become infatuated with her … obsessed. She had gone along with it, enjoying Harry’s attentions as if the whole thing were a joke. Then Harry announced he was leaving the family … moving in with Ingeborg. The pair disappeared to some unspecified love-nest leaving Mary Wentwood distraught and in financial difficulties.

Mildred Tensby, the faithful housekeeper, had comforted Mary; had listened to her woes and witnessed her slide into the despair of depression. Then Mary had ended her life. At this point in her statement, Mildred had broken down in tears.

Harry Wentwood returned when he heard of his wife’s death, sold Honeysuckle House and took the children to begin a new life in London. Ingeborg was no longer on the scene, having returned home to Denmark, the adventure over. The grand passion hadn’t lasted long after all. The children, Christopher and Ursula, never forgave their father, and left home at the earliest opportunity, cutting off all communication with Harry. It was when Harry knew that he was dying that he made one last, desperate attempt to be reconciled with his children. He hadn’t succeeded. Christopher and Ursula had wanted nothing to do with him and he had returned to the Tower Hotel to die alone.

Mildred claimed she had discovered where Ingeborg was staying when she had left her white jacket, soiled during the long journey from Denmark, to be cleaned. Ingeborg hadn’t recognised the former housekeeper of Honeysuckle House, but Mildred had recognised her all right - she would hardly have forgotten her, even after all these years. Monday had been Mildred’s day off work. She had followed Ingeborg Larsen on the day she disappeared, had tricked her into opening her car door and had managed to abduct her and murder her. She had thrown the body into the River Trad at high tide. When Sven had arrived he phoned her, as Ingeborg had mentioned her name. She arranged to meet him on the yacht he had hired, where she killed him before setting the vessel alight. She had smiled in satisfaction at this point. Mary Wentwood and her children had been avenged, she said. She didn’t mind how long she spent in prison. It had been worth it.