The Funeral Boat (34 page)

A shout went up from the cordoned-off battlefield. ‘Hey, get out of here … you could get hurt. Get back.’

The crowd parted to reveal Gwen Wentwood running between two ranks of hefty Vikings, their swords raised in mid-air, blank expressions of amazement on their faces.

‘Stop her … police,’ shouted Wesley.

It was Odin who took the initiative. He placed himself in Gwen’s path, shield raised. ‘Well, come on, lads, you heard … stop her,’ he yelled to his bewildered Vikings.

But Odin’s crew had lost its fighting edge when it had lost the services of Jock Palister and Darren. The chartered accountants, civil servants and computer professionals who were left lacked the ruthlessness necessary for victory against a desperate opponent. Gwen was too quick for Thor’s Hammers. She weaved her way past them and doubled back. Some of the watching crowd thought it part of the performance and the laughter and applause began. Odin threw down his shield and snatched at Gwen’ s arm, catching her off balance. But Gwen had been trained for just such a situation; she brought Odin down swiftly and efficiently, leaving him sprawled on the parched grass of the arena. Then she ran on, disappearing through the puzzled crowd, which parted to let her through. Odin staggered to his feet, red-faced, and brushed grass from his tunic.

Wesley stopped. They had lost her. He looked at Rachel, breathless by his side, as Gerry Heffernan and Steve drew level with them.

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‘Where did she go, Wes? The way she brought that Odin down … like something from a self-defence course. She’s good, I’ll give her that.’

‘I remember her saying she’d been in the army … obviously not forgotten what she’d been taught,’ said Wesley, looking around, trying to locate the sunhat among the sea of heads. ‘Radio whoever’s on duty at the entrance,’ he said to Steve. ‘Tell them to stop a woman driving a blue Volvo.’

But it was too late. Steve reported back that a woman had indeed passed through the entrance driving a blue Volvo. She had driven through at speed, demolished the crash barrier and was last seen heading out of Tradmouth on the Neston road.

‘I think I can guess where she’s going,’ said Wesley quietly as Gerry Heffernan scratched his head in stunned silence.

Gwen Wentwood’s hands shook as she grasped the steering wheel. Not much farther now. In a few minutes it would be over. She stared ahead, her eyes seeing the narrow lane, darkened by the high hedgerows, but her mind on Christopher … and the happiness, the life, that one woman had denied them.

When Christopher had come to the army camp that day to install some new software on the computers, she, Sergeant Price, had fallen in love with him almost at first sight. He had been so good-looking, so gentle. She had been the one to make the first move, of course. She had asked him out for a drink in a pub near the barracks, her heart beating, fearful of rejection. But he had accepted, and over the following months the relationship had bloomed and strengthened. He was sensitive, considerate; not like the men she had known before. Then she had again taken the lead, suggested marriage, and he had seemed as keen on the idea as she was … had even introduced her to his sister, Ursula. But there had been something there, beneath the surface … something that, in her happiness, she had chosen to ignore.

The fact that Christopher didn’t want to sleep with her had amused her at first. She had thought it rather sweet, rather old-fashioned … a refreshing change from the other men she had known, whose aim had been to inveigle or bully their way into her bed at the first opportunity. When Christopher had said he wanted to wait until they were married she had merely thought he had rare moral values. It was on their wedding night that she had learned the truth.

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But she loved him … loved him with an almost maternal devo-tion. She soothed him when he awoke, screaming at night, sweating with fear and sobbing with despair. Christopher Wentwood had become her life, and when she left the army he became the focus of all her hopes, ambitions and emotions. She was in her thirties and longed so much for children, Christopher’s children; children an impotent husband couldn’t give her. Slowly, over the first months of their marriage, she had learned the whole story. Christopher Wentwood was a damaged man. The impotence was only one symptom. Then came the periods in the psychiatric unit, the hours with psychiatrists and counsellors, the inability to cope with the job in a multinational company. Owen had thought it best if they spent the money she had inherited from her grandmother on moving to a less stressful environment - to Devon, where Ursula was building up a successful pottery business, where Christopher had been brought up. She had found Waters House. It needed renovation, but a bit of do-it-yourself would be good therapy for Christopher. And the consultancy was doing all right. Problems aside, he was good at his job.

Then one night, a year ago, sitting by the fire drinking wine with Ursula when Christopher was out with a client, Owen had discovered the ultimate truth behind her husband’s problems. As a child of ten he had discovered his mother dead in a fume-filled car.

. Ursula had been thirteen at the time. She had known the reason for his mother’s desperate action: a carefree, laughing young woman called Ingeborg Larsen, just five years older than herself. Christopher’s grim discovery had scarred him, and throughout his youth he had been strange, withdrawn. Owen was the first girl in his life. Ursula said he should never have married - it wasn’t fair on Owen. But Owen disagreed. Her love for him would conquer all … eventually. He was everything to her - husband; child. Since she had found out the truth, she had come, over those months, to hate the woman who had brought Christopher to this … who had absconded with his father as some sort of adventure and caused his mother such despair that she chose to end her life.

There is no justice, she thought. The girl caused untold damage :0 two generations, denied Owen the children she craved. And she lad laughed. Ursula had told her that Ingeborg had laughed when

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she announced she was going off with their father. It was that laugh, that mockery of her beloved Christopher’s feelings, that had sealed Ingeborg Larsen’s fate.

When Millie had called that day to say that Ingeborg was back in Tradmouth, Gwen had sought her out. She had the address and description from Millie, so she wasn’t difficult to find. Gwen hadn’t confronted her: she had other plans. She followed her, and when the time was right, when they were on a quiet road with nobody else about, she rammed Ingeborg’s car to make her stop. Gwen had not planned to kill her right away. She would make her suffer … make her repent. She had found the chloroform in Ursula’s pottery, a solvent standing innocently on a shelf. She had used it on Ingeborg and bundled her into the boot of the Volvo, taking her to the disused folly. She fed her, never speaking, and used Christopher’s sleeping tablets to keep her unconscious. Then, early that morning, the unconscious Ingeborg had made another journey - her last. And all the time, Gwen never told her why she was being kept prisoner. But she would tell her soon. When Ingeborg Larsen had come round, when she was about to die, Gwen would tell her why.

It was lucky she had taken the phone call from Sven. He had known what had happened all those years ago. And he feared that Tngeborg would make contact with Harry Wentwood, her old lover - since her divorce, according to Sven, she had mentioned him several times. But Sven hadn’t wished to share his sister’s secrets - secrets than hardly reflected well on her character - with the police. He had looked the name Wentwood up in the hotel phone book and telephoned the house, hoping to deal with things alone.

It was Gwen who had arranged to meet him, pretending she was Ursula. She had told Sven that she knew where Ingeborg was and she had met him in Tradmouth. She had hopped aboard his boat, having no firm plans, knowing only that this man knew of the link between her husband’s family and Ingeborg and could lead the police to her. When she saw the dinghy bobbing behind the boat she knew it would be easy. She had knocked him out with a fire extinguisher, had spread fuel over the boat and set it alight. Then she had leapt onto the dinghy and had steered towards the shore; the blood on her hands was soon washed off in the sea. She had landed in a cove near Stoke Beeching, set the dinghy adrift and made her way home as though nothing had happened.

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Millie had been wonderful - she had tried to take the blame, thinking it was one of the children, Christopher or Ursula, who had finally avenged their mother. And Gwen was happy to let her take the blame. As long as Christopher was free from suspicion, as long as he was there with her, in her arms … safe.

Gwen drove along the lane automatiCally, noting Honeysuckle House on her right. She wondered why Ingeborg had called there - the scene of her misdeeds - that day. Had she hoped to see Harry Wentwood, to take up again where she had left off? Had she intended to make some sort of apology? Or had she just felt curious?

Gwen looked in the mirror. There was a police car in the distance, gaining speed, following her. She put her foot to the floor. They wouldn’t catch her. She would go away, go away with Christopher and look after him … but not before she had dealt with Ingeborg Larsen.

The car gained speed, lurching around blind corners, the police car no longer in sight. Faster … faster … her hands tightened on the steering wheel, her right foot pressing harder on the pedal.

There was a thundering crash as she met the tractor. Then all was silence except for the bees buzzing in the high, imposing hedgerows.

Rachel rracey leaned on the steering wheel and stared at the scene of devastation before her. ‘Oh my God,’ she muttered. ‘Oh my God.’

Wesley put a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘You call the ambulance. ‘

He left Rachel in the driving seat, glancing back with concern, and ran to the blue car. Gwen Wentwood, blood obscuring her features, lay like a rag doll halfway through the windscreen. She hadn’t been wearing a seat belt.

‘She was tearing down the lane, there was no way she could have stopped … she swerved then she hit me: came a shaky voice from the cab of the tractor. ‘There was nothing I could do.’ J osiah Beaumont clutched the tractor’s wheel as if for comfort.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Wesley gently. ‘My colleague has called an ambulance. Just take it easy. Can you get down?’

Wesley helped Josiah down from,his tractor, which hadn’t been too badly damaged, considering. Gwen’s car had swerved, giving

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the tractor a glancing blow, but the hedgerow had taken the main impact.

‘Is she dead, then?’ asked Josiah, his voice trembling with shock.

‘I’m afraid so. Come on. Let’s get you back to the car.’

Josiah seemed to be in a trance as Wesley led him to the police car. He climbed into the back seat, and Rachel turned and smiled with professional sympathy, having conquered her initial distress.

Wesley knew the farm worker was in shock, but he had an important question to ask - a question than couldn’t wait. If Josiah Beaumont had been living and working in these parts for many years, he might just be able to help. ‘Do you remember a woman called Mary Wentwood, who committed suicide about twenty years ago?’

Josiah looked up, surprised. ‘Aye, I do. Why?’

‘Do you know exactly where she killed herself? I know it was some sort of outbuilding on land belonging to Honeysuckle House, but where exactly? Do you know?’ asked Wesley anxiously.

‘Aye. It don’t belong to Honeysuckle House now … the new folk there sold that bit of land but the place isn’t used no more. Why?’

‘Can you direct us to it?’

Before Josiah could answer the sound of urgent sirens heralded the arrival of the ambulance. As Josiah was swathed in a blanket and led away firmly but gently by a pretty ambulancewoman, he turned to Wesley. ‘Straight on for quarter of a mile … you’ll see atrack on your right. It’s at the bottom … can’t miss it.’

Wesley signalled Rachel out of the driving seat of the police car. ‘I’ll drive. You look all in, Rach.’

‘Where are we going exactly?’ she asked as he negotiated his way past Josiah’s abandoned tractor.

‘Hopefully to find Ingeborg Larsen. Radio the boss, will you … tell him what’s happened. I just hope we’re not too late.’

They ran towards the wooden building, which stood silent and brooding. There was no sign of life.

‘We’re too late,’ said Rachel quietly.

But Wesley pushed at the double doors. They had been shut firmly but not locked. They opened slowly, scraping on the

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ground, dislodging the strips of sheeting that had been piled up against them in preparation. Wesley stood for a moment as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. Although a space had been cleared in the middle of the floor, the edges of the garage were stacked with ladders, sacks and boxes, filthy and dust-covered. Only the sheeting looked clean, freshly imported onto the scene.

Wesley could just about make out a shape at the far end of the garage. A small wooden rowing boat, old and probably unsea-worthy, lay pushed up against the wall. He rushed forward, his eyes fixed on the prone, bound figure inside the boat. He bent down.

‘Rachel,’ he said softly. She ran over the rough earth floor to join him and stared at the still, silent woman.

Ingeborg Larsen lay unconscious, curled up on the floor of the boat, bound and gagged. The outbuilding had been cleared to make room for a car but the boat, awkward to move, had been pushed to the end to provide an improvised deathbed. The old sheets had been intended to seal the place so that the lethal fumes did not escape. Ingeborg had been sentenced to die in the same manner as Mary Wentwood. Gwen Wentwood had been on her way to carry out the execution.

Rachelleaned across, putting her fingers gently on Ingeborg’s neck to feel for a pulse.

‘She’s alive,’ she whispered, relieved.

The sound of police car sirens and vehicles screeching to a halt outside would have been enough to waken the deepest sleeper. Gerry Heffernan was the first to burst in on the scene. ‘What’s up, Wes? Have you found her?’ He stopped and stared at the woman lying in the boat. ‘Pretty, isn’t she?’ he commented, in Rachel’s opinion unnecessarily. ‘She’s dead, I take it?’