The Funeral Boat (35 page)

‘No, sir,’ said Rachel. ‘She’s breathing and there’s a strong pulse. The ambulance is on its way.’

‘I heard about the Wentwood woman. Terrible business. Died instantly, the paramedics said. I got the shock of my life when I saw her in that hat and those dark glasses, just like on the videos, Wes. I’d never have thought it was her. I had the brother and sister down for it if Millie turned out to be telling porkies. So she bumped Sven Larsen off and all, did she?’

‘That’s right. She mentioned when I first saw her that she’d been in the army. She obviously put all her training to good - or should I say bad - use.’

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‘I never thought to find Ingeborg alive … not in a million

years. Well done, Wes. But why did Christopher Wentwood’s

missus do all this?’ Heffeman asked, puzzled.

‘Love,’ said Wesley, simply. ‘Her husband found his mother’s

body here. That must have left him badly traumatised, and Gwen

watched him suffer for years as a result. When Ingeborg arrived

on the scene she took his revenge for him. But that’s only a guess . . I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the whole truth.’

Gerry Heffeman fell uncharacteristically silent as the paramedics arrived and lifted Ingeborg Larsen gently out of the boat.

He questioned them quietly about her condition and watched as

she was taken to the waiting ambulance. After a while he spoke to

Wesley almost in a whisper. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

Heffernan walked out through the splintery wooden doors and

down the track to the waiting patrol car. Wesley walked beside

him, subdued, with Rachel following closely behind. Heffernan

turned to her. ‘Rach … will yougo and break the news to Gwen

Wentwood’s husband? I know you’re good at that sort of thing.’

Rachel nodded, tight-lipped. She might be good at breaking bad

news but she still hated the very thought of it. As she headed

towards her car, Heffernan put a hand on his sergeant’s shoulder.

‘Wes, the paramedics said she’s been drugged but she’s already

showing signs of coming round. We’ll get her interviewed as soon

as she’s conscious then we’ll head for the Tradmouth Arms.’

Wesley nodded. A quiet pint in the Tradmouth Arms was just

what he needed.

Ingeborg Larsen was fit enough to talk after a couple of hours. Wesley listened as she gave the account of her terrifying ordeal to Rachel.

He could tell Rachel was still upset by the news she had had to take to the Wentwoods. Outside, in the grey hospital corridor, she had told Wesley how Christopher Wentwood had broken down in tears, how he had curled up into the foetal position while his sister held him, rocking him, whispering words of comfort. Rachel had left them with a young and sympathetic wpc. It was one of the worst jobs she’d ever had to do, she added bitterly.

When she was told of her brother’s death, Ingeborg wept, and Wesley watched her beautiful face, the fair skin pale and drawn and wet with tears, the area around her delicate nose red and

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blistered from the chloroform pad. When she lay back, exhausted, on the hospital pillows, her statement made, Wesley decided he had had enough of death and pain. He needed the normality of the Tradmouth Arms … and then he needed Pam, and his son. He needed to return to the sunshine.

Gerry Heffeman was waiting for him in the pub, a full pint sitting on the table, bought in anticipation of his arrival.

‘Come on, Wes. Sit down. I think we should be celebrating … the farm robberies are all cleared up, and the Larsen case. I rang the Copenhagen police when I got back to the station.’ He smiled modestly. ‘I think they were impressed by our efficiency.’ He winked conspiratorially. ‘And the Super’s very impressed by your contribution.’ He paused to take a long, thirsty drink. ‘I went to see Stan lenkins at home last night … they’ve let him out of hospital for good behaviour. It’s my guess he’ll decide to retire at long last, Wes. I think his little trouble might be the last straw.’

‘What exactly was his little trouble?’ asked Wesley.

‘He was a martyr to his piles was Stan,’ said Heffernan, shaking his head. ‘And there’s a lot of sitting down in the police these days … all this paperwork they make us do.’ He gave a wicked smile and Wesley looked at his boss with curiosity. ‘I don’t want to say too much yet but the Super’s been hinting at a few changes in CID if Stan leaves. Could be good news for both of us.’ He paused, a sly grin on his face. ‘But don’t say anything. I don’t want the Super to think I can’t keep my mouth shut.’

Wesley opened his mouth to speak but ‘no sound came out.

‘Hello, you two … thought 1 might find the forces of oppres-sion in here.’ Neil Watson loomed over them, grinning. ‘How’s it going?’ He sat down heavily on the stool, nearly spilling his pint.

‘All the villains are locked up and crime has been forever driven from the land,’ announced Gerry Heffernan, as convincing as a politician making promises.

‘Good. You’re out of ajob, then, Wes. You can come and give us a hand. We’ve just been given permission for a dig at Longhouse Cottage. Not much funding as usual, but the powers that be think it could be an important site … and Carl Palister’s keen on the idea - in fact it was him who suggested it. Maggie’s tolerating the prospect; she said it was all right as long as we didn’t make too much mess. I told her she wouldn’t even know we were there.’ He smiled angelically.

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‘Been to the museum?’

‘Yeah. They were ecstatic about the casket … and the sword and shield. They’ve been X-rayed. You should see the workman-ship that went into … ‘

‘What did they say about the documents?’ asked Wesley before Neil got carried away.

‘They said it was a pity the originals couldn’t be found. I said they’d probably rotted in that attic years ago .. , or Jeremiah Peacock used them to light his fire or something. Just the sort of thing he would do.’ He snorted derisively. ‘But they were thrilled with the copies. Said they were a very important find.’

‘You’ve not read Pam’s translations yet, have you?’

‘Didp.’t have chance. I only saw the first bit about the raid on Neston.’

Wesley pulled the notebook from his pocket and began to read.

My mother cried as I carried him from the house. I dug his

grave in the bottom field, away from the house, and threw the

axe that had killed him into the pit. But my mother rushed

from the house in great distress and said he must be buried as

one of his kind. His gods were not our God and in Valhalla,

the hall of the slain, he would have need of certain things.

Olal was buried within an old fishing boat that was my

father’s with his sword and shield by him. My mother wept

most bitterly over his grave. I would she had wept thus over

my father’s.

He looked up at Neil. ‘Ring any bells?’

Neil nodded. ‘That’s it. It’s all there. The burial at Longhouse Cottage.’ He grinned like a satisfied cat. ‘And now we’ve got a name for our skeleton … Olaf.’ He slapped Wesley on the back and stood up. ‘I’d better be off. Things to do, site reports to write up … busy, busy, busy. Might see you in here later, eh?’ He disappeared through the pub door like a man in a hurry.

Gerry Heffeman drained his glass. ‘Well, as we’ve got everything cleared up bar the paperwork I’m off on my own little Viking raid.’ He grinned at Wesley, expecting some display of curiosity. ‘Do you remember ,Thor’s Hammers? Chap called Odin?’

‘Odin the tax inspector? Yes.’

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Heffeman pulled a green ticket from his inside pocket. ‘When PC Wallace was taking his statement about what happened at the Tradmouth fete, he gave him tickets for a do Thor’ s Hammers are organising tonight … sort of Viking social called an ‘Evening in Valhalla’. Look, it says here: ‘all the fun of a Viking feast in the hall of heroes’. I managed to get hold of some tickets. Rachel’s going with her Dave.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows at this piece of information, relieved that things between Rachel and her handsome Australian were settling down. There had been times in recent weeks when he had felt uncomfortable. He was a modest man - no Steve Carstairs, who thought every woman longed to get him beneath her duvet - but he had noticed Rachellooking at him in a certain way … and he hoped he had been mistaken. Such things could lead to bad feeling at best, disaster at worst. He had seen a lot of it in the Met.

‘I got two extra tickets for you and Pam and all,’ Gerry Heffeman continued, as Wesley pushed these inappropriate thoughts from his mind. He leaned forward, looking around as if he were afraid someone might be listening and taking notes, and handed the tickets over to Wesley furtively. ‘Can you get a baby-sitter? If you can’t make it 1 can give them to my Sam … if he’s not out somewhere pillaging.’

Wesley frowned. ‘It’s a bit difficult to get someone at such short notice. And Valhalla means the hall of the slain so, er … I think we’ll stay in with a bottle of wine and a video.’

When he had drained his glass, Wesley Peterson left his boss contemplating an evening of Viking revels and walked back home up the steep streets, trying to absorb the sunny, holiday atmosphere of the flower-laden town … and trying to forget about Gwen Wentwood’s limp, torn body and the lovely tear-stained face of Ingeborg Larsen.

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AD 997

My mother told me of her love for Olaf… that he was not the

man who killed my father. But it may be that she deceives

herself… as we all do. Hilda is gone, ] know not where, but

Ordgar saw her near to the shore in great distress. ] fear that

she has come to harm.] searchedfor her two days and nights

but could not find her. My mQther says] should let her go …

that her love for me was intemperate… that it consumed her

like afire. But] had great affection for her… and desire. ]

pray for her safety and her soul. Yet if she is gone it may be

for the best, and] shall henceforth dedicate my life to the

Lord. ] leave tomorrow for the abbey at Tavistock. ] will be of

use there. There is much rebuilding to be done, and a brother

who forms his letters well is always of use.

So ends this chronicle. ] shall leave it with my mother for

safekeeping along with the casket which might be of some

value to her. ] would not want the brothers of Tavistock to

know of these things. ] shall have a new beginning.

From the chronicle of Brother Edwin

Ten days later ‘He’s all yours,’ said Colin Bowman cheerfully as he handed Neil the large cardboard box. ‘I’ll be fascinated to hear what your bone specialist makes of him. It’s amazing what these experts can find out from a few teeth and bones.’

‘No doubt they’ll come up with his full life story … minus the saucy bits, of course.’

‘What saucy bits?’

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Neil swung round, nearly dropping his box in the process. Gerry Heffeman was standing in the doorway of the mortuary, grinning at him. Wesley stood behind him, serious.

‘We’ve come to pick up the report on Gwen Wentwood … tie up the case,’ said Wesley quietly. ‘Who have you got in the box, Neil?’

‘Olaf. He’s destined for stardom down at the university.’

‘Aren’t you going to bury the poor bugger?’ asked Heffeman bluntly.

‘Eventually. Don’t worry, he’ll get a decent burial. Though I can’t promise him the full Viking works this time.’ Neillooked at his watch. ‘Got time for a quick drink, Wes … you too, Gerry? I’ll tell you all about the casket and the things from Olaf’s grave going to Tradmouth Museum. Apparently the Peacock Museum has admitted that it hasn’t the facilities to look after anything of real historical importance and … ‘

‘I’m sorry, Neil, it’ll have to wait till another time. We’re meeting someone.’

Wesley wasn’t in the mood for amiable chat. He thanked Colin for the report and the two policemen left. Neil watched them go, slightly puzzled. There was something on Wesley’s mind … something that was bothering him.

The day was cooler. The height of the heat wave had passed, leaving the weather cloudy and unpredictable. The tourists glanced nervously at the sky as they toted their cagoul-stuffed bags around the town. Wesley and Heffeman walked in silence around to the hospital’s main entrance.

Ingeborg Larsen was waiting for them on the steps, her beauty restored, her blonde hair like a smooth, shiny helmet, her body lithe and slender. She smiled as they approached, a smile that dazzled - confident, self-assured. There was no sign of the ordeal she had suffered … not outwardly, at least. Inward scars, the invisible ones, heal slowly. A man emerged through the swing-doors behind her. He was tall, athletic-looking, with a small fair beard and a calm, patient manner.

‘Inspector Heffeman, Sergeant Peterson, I should like you to meet my husband … Bjom. We are - what is the word? - reconciled. We will try again.’ Her slight accent seemed to render her even more attractive. Wesley noticed Gerry Heffeman staring at her like an adoring puppy.

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‘That’s good,’ said Wesley gently. ‘I wish you both luck. 1 hope you’ll be able to put everything that’s happened over here behind you.’

‘I will try, Sergeant.’ she smiled at Wesley, a sparkling smile with a hint of a giggle, displaying a set of perfect white teeth.

‘That’s that,’ said Gerry Heffernan as Ingeborg Larsen climbed elegantly into Bjorn’s car and they drove off into the narrow, traffic-filled streets.

‘Ingeborg is the loveliest of the girls,’ Wesley muttered, staring after the car.

‘Pity,’ said Gerry Heffernan with a philosophical grin. ‘If she’d been ugly as sin it might have saved us a lot of work. ‘

They watched the car disappear around the corner; Ingeborg Larsen had left Tradmouth for the last time. There would be a new beginning.