The Funeral Boat (32 page)

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Gerry Heffeman left the interview room quite crestfallen. He had been so sure that Daniel Wexer had been involved, but he had been wrong. But at least they had unravelled the case. What with the farm robberies and Dan Wexer’ s shooting being cleared up, not to mention the truth behind Jos Wexer’s accident twenty years back, it looked as if, for once, they were on a winning streak. Gerry resolved to stand his team a drink tonight to celebrate - he might even get his Sam to do his Viking act by way of entertain-ment.

Heffeman hung back, smiling to himself in antICIpation, as Wesley hammered on the front door of Waters House. Although there were two vehicles parked outside - a small red van and a shiny blue Volvo - there was no answer .

. ‘Wentwood’s daughter, Ursula, has a studio in the coach house,’ said Wesley. ‘We’ll try there.’

They walked the short distance to the two-storey coach house. Next to the huge double doors was a smaller door, leading to what had been, in more prosperous days, the coachman’s residence. Wesley rang the tarnished brass doorbell.

He didn’t recognise the woman who opened the door. She was tall with long dark hair and pale green eyes. Her hands, he noticed, were grey with dried clay. She looked at Wesley warily, as if he were about to begin a sales pitch for double glazing. When he produced his warrant card, her face became a mask of indifference, only the eyes betraying concern.

She introduced herself as Ursula Wentwood and led them throllgh a tastefully minimalist living room - a contrast to the shabbiness of the main house - into a huge, bright pottery, created by knocking down the walls of a series of large workshops behind the coach house. The walls were sparse white-painted brick, and the place was filled with racks of grey, half-finished pots. A large, modem kiln stood in the far corner, and the wall near the door was filled with shelf upon shelf of vivid pottery. On a shelf above a clay-shrouded sink on the far wall stood a collection of battered bottles and cans of fierce-looking cleaners and chemicals.

Gerry Heffernan studied his surroundings, spotting the brightly coloured finished products, ‘Nice stuff,’ he commented casually. ‘Colourful. ‘

Ursula, having other things on her mind, made no answer.

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Gwen Wentwood was perched on a stool near the sink. She stood up and walked over to Wesley, looking at Heffernan with curiosity.

‘Sergeant, I believe my husband went down this morning to identify his father’s body. Has he been in touch with you?’ Gwen Wentwood sounded anxious.

‘I think it would be the coroner’s people who would deal with all that, Mrs Wentwood. We’re here about something else entirely. I believe you know a Mrs Mildred Tensby.’ He turned to Ursula. ‘She used to be a housekeeper for your family when you lived at Honeysuckle House.’

‘Yes,’ said Ursula, tentative. ‘We’ve known Millie for years. Why? What’s happened to her?’

‘She’s confessed to the murder of a Ms Ingeborg Larsen.’

Ursula gasped and put her hand to her mouth.

‘You remember 1ngeborg Larsen?’

‘Yes,’ Ursula said quietly. ‘She was responsible for my mother’s death.’

Gwen turned to her sister-in-law, a look of horror on her face.

‘Can you tell us the whole story, Miss Wentwood? From the beginning,’ Wesley suggested quietly.

Ursula sighed. ‘We had an au pair by the name of Ingeborg.’ She said the name bitterly, almost spat it. ‘She had an affair with our father and he consequently left our mother. Our mother killed herself. End of story. I don’t know who was more cut up about it all, us or Millie. She certainly took it hard … she’d known Mum for years, was devoted to her.’

‘Did you know Ingeborg was in Tradmouth?’ asked Wesley.

Ursula thought for a moment. ‘Millie works in the dry cleaner’s. 1ngeborg brought something in for cleaning and Millie came up here and told us. She said she’d deal with her. I thought - so did Christopher - that she was just going to give her a piece of her mind … tell her what trouble she’d caused. I never thought she’d…’

‘Yes. It all makes sense now,’ said Gwen eagerly. ‘Millie” said justice would be done…’

Heffernan leapt on this. ‘So you knew what she planned to do?’

‘Oh, no … of course we didn’t. How could we?’

‘Were those her exact words … justice would be done?’ asked Wesley, deep in thought.

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‘I can’t remember. Does it matter?’

‘When was this? When did she say it?’

‘I can’t remember.’ Gwen was beginning to panic.

‘Can I see Millie?’ asked Ursula, unexpectedly.

‘I don’t see why not,’ said Heffeman. ‘Want a lift down now?’

‘No thank you, Inspector. My van’s outside. I’ll drive myself.’

Ursula Wentwood gave her sister-in-law a withering look as she brushed past.

Jock Palister was starting to treat the cells at Tradmouth police station as home. The food wasn’t as good as Maggie’s, admittedly, and the custody sergeant’s tea was a little on the weak side, but they were keeping him entertained. They had even laid on a couple of officers who had come all the way from Sussex Constabulary that afternoon to ask him a few pertinent questions about raids on farms in their area earlier in the year.

It was the young, flash DC with the big mouth who led him to the interview room - Carstairs, Steve Carstairs. Jock had the impression he enjoyed his work, enjoyed mouthing off at villains … probably putting the boot in too if he thought he could get away with it. Typical copper. Not like that posh young black one and Gerry Heffernan, the scruffy Scouser: Jock couldn’t make those two out. At least he knew where he was with the likes of Steve Carstairs: the kind of copper he knew and despised.

Steve led Jock on down the corridor, standing to one side to let an attractive dark-haired woman past, glancing down appreciatively at her legs. She was being taken to one of the other interview rooms by Trish Walton. She disappeared inside and closed the door.

Jock gave Steve a nudge. ‘I’m not the only one who lives up that way you should be pulling in, you know. Her that’s just passed … the one with dark hair. Lives up at Waters House. Ask her about the goings-on there. I got fed up staying cooped up at Maggie’s place so I took it into my head one night to go for a walk. I hopped over the wall to myoId place - Waters House - to the woods. I reckoned nobody’d be out there at that time so I went to look at the old folly … the place where I used to keep all my booze and that. When I got there it was locked … bloody great padlock on the door. Then I heard sounds, like moans coming from inside. I don’t know what was going on in there but I

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scarpered bloody quick, if you know what I mean. You ask her about the folly. Okay?’

Steve rolled his eyes and pushed Jock into the interview room where the officers from Sussex were waiting. Then he hung around for a few minutes, waiting for Trish Walton to emerge. He didn’t have to wait long. As she closed the interview room door behind her, Steve grabbed her arm and took her to one side, putting his face close to hers.

‘That woman, the one you’ve just taken into Interview Room Two … what’s her name?’

‘It’s Ursula Wentwood. She lives up at Waters House. Why?’

‘Where’s the boss? I’ve got something important to tell him.’

The two sober-suited officers from Sussex watched with considerable interest as Gerry Heffernan asked Jock Palister to repeat what he’djust told DC Carstairs.

Jock was only too pleased to provide it all. Strange moans … orgies, most like. Then he decided to embellish the story: screams, terrifying, bloodcurdling screams - a feature of Jock’s narrative certainly added for dramatic effect. He went through it all with relish; after all, it was nothing they could fit him up for. As far as any untoward events at Waters House were concerned, his conscience was as clear as the stream than ran past Longhouse Cottage.

Gerry Heffernan said nothing as he and Wesley marched back to the CID office. It was Wesley who broke the silence.

‘Do you believe Jock, sir?’

‘Knowing Jock, he’s probably making it up, having a laugh at our expense … or they might hold wild orgies up at Waters House. You never know these days.’

‘Do you know what I think, sir?’

‘What do you think, Wes? I’m past thinking. I just want to get Millie Tensby charged and then go home.’

‘I think Ingeborg Larsen’s still alive.’

Gerry Heffernan stopped and stared at his sergeant. ‘You what?’

‘She’s still alive. But 1 don’t know how long she’ll stay that way.’

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997

AD

My mother had fallen against her loom and now it fell, broken

to the ground, the weights shattered. Olafwent to her… I

think he went to help her. Then I saw the axe… Olaf’s axe.

One of his weapons of war that he used to kill my people.

How could I have let him live, the man who caused my

gentlefather’s death and made a whore of my mother? I was

a man of God, never a man of violence and death, but I could

not leave this unavenged.

From the chronicle of Brother Edwin

‘What do you mean … alive? She’s dead. Mildred Tensby said she killed her.’ Gerry Heffernan looked at his sergeant, exasperated. Why did Wesley have to complicate things?

‘Do you believe her?’

Heffeman thought for a moment. ‘Aye. I do. She hated Ingeborg for what she did all those years ago … and Ingeborg had treated it all as a great joke. She’d show no remorse for all the grief she’d caused. When Millie had the chance to teach her a lesson she took it … and things probably escalated when Sven arrived.’

‘Do you think she’s physically strong enough?’

‘Don’t let Rach hear you say that. She reckons women can do anything men can. And in this case she’s probably right. Tensby’s a big woman .. , and anger makes some people capable of anything. And she’s confessed. I wouldn’t take what Jock says too seriously, Wes. He’s just trying to stir it. There’s nothing Jock Palister would like better than to think of the local constabulary

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running round like a bunch of headless chickens because of some fairytale he’d made up.’

‘But I’m sure Millie Tensby’s not the woman on the videos. Our mystery woman seems slimmer … younger.’

‘You can never tell with those surveillance videos - the quality’s awful. I’ve looked at them again and it could be Millie … or someone totally unconnected with the case,’ Heffeman added mischievously. ‘I’m going out for me lunch. Coming, Wes? Fancy a pint at the Fisherman’s Arms and one of Maisie’ s hotpots?’

‘Er … no, sir. I’ve got a pile of paperwork to catch up on. I’d better just grab a sandwich.’

Heffeman looked disappointed, like a little boy whose friend had just refused to come out to play. ‘Suit yourself. Don’t say you weren’t asked.’ The inspector almost collided with Steve Carstairs as he lumbered out of the office in search of refreshment.

Steve spotted Wesley and made straight for his desk. ‘Can I have a word, Sarge?’

Wesley looked up. ‘Sure. What is it?’

‘It’s Jock Palister again. When I was taking him back to the cell after the blokes from Sussex hadˇ finished with him, he kept rabbiting on about Waters House. He kept asking if we’d looked in the folly yet.’

‘Is that it?’

‘That’s it. And he kept laughing. What is a folly anyway?’

‘It can be anything … a small castle, a Greek temple, a mock ruin. The Victorians used to build them to liven up their gardens.’

Steve shook his head in disbelief.

Wesley looked around the office. Rachel was sitting at her desk typing a report, and other members of the team were drifting off in a quest for midday sustenance. He looked at the large notice-board that covered half of the far wall. Ingeborg’s enlarged image hung there, smiling, beautiful, full of life. Surely, Wesley thought, her body wasn’t caught in weeds, nibbled by fish and decom-posing at the bottom of the river.

‘I’m going down to have another word with Jock,’ he said to Steve before marching resolutely through the swing-doors and down the stairs to the cells.

Steve watched him with a sly grin. It would give him great satisfaction to see Wesley Peterson slip up badly.

*

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Gerry Heffernan had still not returned from his long celebratory lunch in the Fisherman’s Arms when Wesley set off for Waters House. Rachel Tracey sat in the passenger seat beside him, her short linen skirt riding up and revealing a portion of suntanned leg. Wesley concentrated on his driving.

‘Are you sure about this, Wesley?’

‘No. But I’m not willing to take the risk. If this woman’s still alive then I doubt she will be for much longer.’

Rachel sat back and watched the beauties of the South Devon scenery flash past the window. The words wild, goose and chase sprang to mind … but, all things considered, she thought Wesley had a point. If Jock was telling the truth and Wesiey was right, then they had a chance of saving a woman’s life. If he was just giving them the runaround, then there was no harm done.

Wesley brought the car to a halt at the end of the drive leading to Waters House, near the spot where Harry Wentwood had parked when he had kept watch on his estranged family. Rachel followed Wesley up the uneven drive, wishing she’d worn sensible shoes. As they neared the house they kept to the trees. Wesley didn’t want to be seen.

Jock Palister had given detailed directions to the folly. When he and Maggie had lived at Waters House in happier days, he had used it to store bottles of booze gleaned from trips to the Continent - gallons of the stuff, he had said with pride. The folly was situated well away from Waters House in the overgrown woods, and Jock was adamant that when he’d wandered there that night he’d heard moans coming from inside the locked building. Wesley left the drive and followed Jock’s instructions, walking down the overgrown pathway, wide enough to allow a car to pass, past rambling bushes and trees that provided welcome cover. The sprouting vegetation on the path was flattened here and there as though a vehicle had used it recently.