The Funeral Boat (6 page)

‘So he’s old?’

‘I think so, yes. Look at his teeth. He’s not had the pleasures of 1 modem refined diet … and no dental work. I’d say he’s very )ld. Certainly over seventy years, so you won’t have to start an

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investigation into how he died. I’ve let the coroner know. But as to exactly how old he is, we’ll have to wait for the result of Neil’ s radiocarbon dating of the bit of bone he took … he said it could take months.’

‘Yes. Unfortunately it does. So can we be sure this isn’t Jock Palister?’

‘Absolutely sure, I’d say. Once we get the results of Neil’s test even Gerry won’t be able to argue with science.’

‘I wouldn’t bank on it: said Wesley with a grin. ‘Well, thanks very much, Colin. I’d better get back to Gerry now … break the bad news.’

‘Oh, there’s one more thing, Wesley. I found this fused to the inside of one of the ribs. It’s possible he was wearing it around his neck on a leather thong: the leather rotted and it fell through. That’s my guess anyway.’ He passed Wesley a stainless-steel dish. In it was a small amulet with a hole at the top from which it could be suspended on a chain or leather strip. It was in the shape of a stylised hammer. Wesley had seen something like it before.

‘I think I know what this is. It’s Thor’s Hammer. Pagan Vikings used to wear them around their necks for luck. May I take it to show Neil?’

‘Of course.’ Colin Bt’)wman raised a hand in farewell. ‘I hope Gerry doesn’t take the news too badly.’

Wesley put his new-found treasure in a plastic exhibit bag and walked out through the swing-doors into the bright light of day, wondering how he was going ‘to break it to his boss that Jock Palister wasn’t lying, silent and dead, on a mortuary trolley.

Gerry Heffeman sat at his cluttered desk, head in hands, contemplating the wickedness of the world. He raised his head and shouted through to the main office. ‘Get us a coffee will you, Rach. I’m spitting feathers ‘ere.’

Rachel looked up from her paperwork, seething. Why did he always expect her to provide the refreshments? Why not Steve? Gerry Heffeman was a good boss but there were times when she suspected that the concept of feminism had never entered his benighted world.

Then she had an idea. She looked across at WPC Trish Walton, who was on secondment to CID. Trish was earnestly typing information into a computer. She looked awkward and self-conscious

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in her everyday clothes, hving been used to wearing a uniform to work. ‘Trish,’ said Rachel smoothly, ‘the inspector wants a coffee. Could you, er…’

Trish jumped up without a word and went to the coffee machine outside the office while Rachel sat back, feeling triumphant. Delegation was a wonderful thing … and it was something she would have to get used to if she was going to make Chief Constable.

She saw that Steve was watching her. ‘I don’t know what you’re looking so smug about, Rach. I’ve had a call from a farm worker: a 10siah Beaumont. 10siah … what kind of a name is that?’ He smirked.

Rachel gave him a withering look. ‘What did he want?’

Steve sat back, teasing. Dark-haired and in his mid-twenties, he was good-looking and he knew it. If he hadn’t tried so hard to emulate the tough cops he’d seen on television Rachel might have considered him attractive. But as it was he had absorbed all the undesirable features of his fictitious heroes - their insensitivity; their dim view of racial minorities; their predatory attitude to women. Steve Carstairs longed for the mean streets of some grimy metropolis, but stayed in Tradmouth because his mother did his washing.

‘Well, come on, Steve. What did he say?’ Rachel asked impatiently.

‘He’s found a car abandoned.’

‘The one that was stolen from Wexer’s Farm? The Land Rover?’

‘No. A white car … foreign number plates.’

‘Have you told Traffic?’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth she made the connection. Her mind had been so occupied with the farm raids that she had almost forgotten Barbara Questid’s visit and the missing Danish woman. Hadn’t Ingeborg Larsen driven a white car? She stood up, went over to the cabinet and drew out a wafer-thin file.

‘What was the make of the car?’ she asked, scanning Barbara’s ,tatement.

‘I thought you said we should tell Traffic … get it moved.’

‘No. Hang on, Steve. I’ve got an idea. What was the make?’

‘Don’t know. He didn’t say. Why?’

‘What about the nationality?’

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Steve shrugged. ‘He just said foreign.’

‘I’d like to have a look at this car. Where is it?’

Steve reluctantly parted with the information, wondering why Rachel was so interested in an abandoned car. Before he could enquire further, Rachel was marching towards Gerry Heffeman’s office with a determined expression on her face.

Trish Walton had been pleased to get out of the office. She hadn’t realised that she would encounter so much paper working with CID: somehow she had seen it as more glamorous than being in uniform, and form-filling was hardly Trish’s idea of glamour.

Rachel had had the choice of taking Steve or Trish to look at the car. She had chosen the latter, as she found that Steve’s macho posturings got in the way of his judgement. Besides, she thought it was about time Trish saw some action other than that provided by a flickering computer screen.

They found the white car easily enough. It was unlocked, and it was a tribute to the honesty of the local citizens - or the isolation of that particular lane - that the bag and coat Josiah Beaumont had described were still there on the back seat.

Rachel walked around the car, deep in thought. ‘Well, Trish, have you noticed anything out of the ordinary?’ she asked, testing the novice.

‘There are no skid marks. But there’s a bit of a bump at the back. Look.’

Rachel walked round to the back of the car. ‘Well spotted. The rear light’s broken. It looks as though something’s bumped into it from behind. But the damage isn’t enough to stop anyone driving the car, is it?’

Trish shook her head. ‘And if the driver had to abandon the car, why did they leave the things on the back seat?’

Rachel stood looking at the vehicle for a few moments. The nationality sticker on the back bore the letters DK … Denmark presumably. She thought of Ingeborg Larsen as she pulled on a pair of disposable plastic gloves. Things were not right here … not right at all. ‘

She opened the car door slowly and put her head inside. ‘Trish,’ she called, ‘come here. Can you smell something?’ Rachel stood to one side as Trish poked her head into the car.

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‘Yes. A sort of hospital smell … I don’t know what it is. Any ideas?’

Rachel opened the back door of the car and took the bag out carefully. She carried it round to the bonnet of the car and opened it, her heart beating quickly as she examined the contents. Trish hovered just behind, straining to look.

‘There’s everything in there,’ Trish exclaimed. ‘Her purse, her passport … look, there’s her make-up. Is there a name?’

Rachel flicked open the passport … a Danish passport. She knew what the name would be. ‘See if you can find anything in the front, will you, Trish. Any note or … ‘

‘Do you think it could be suicide, then?’

Rachel didn’t answer but continued to examine the contents of the bag. A minute later Trish emerged from the car waving a plastic exhibit bag containing something white.

‘I’ve found this. It’s a pad of gauze or something … doesn’t half stink. ‘

Rachel looked at the object and reached for her mobile phone. Things weren’t looking too good for Ingeborg Larsen.

Pam Peterson stood in the hall and listened. Silence. Michael was still asleep. She went into the living room, opened the sideboard drawer and stared at the yellow leaflet inside. Why not? She had six more weeks before she returned to work after her maternity leave. This was the perfect opportunity to get out and try something new - meet new people, broaden her horizons.

A wail from upstairs told her that Michael was awake. She fetched the baby down and placed him in his car seat. She would drive over to Neston now and arrange things.

Parking proved difficult owing to the determined invasion of tourists eager to sample the delights of the picturesque town of Neston, eight miles downriver from Tradmouth, with its Elizabethan houses, castle and assorted New Age emporia. But she found a space and headed for the community centre, Michael’s push-chair whizzing before her like a tank to clear the way.

The community centre prided itself on being wheelchair-and push-chair-friendly. As Pam pushed Michael’s conveyance up the wooden ramp into the half-timbered building on the High Street, she saw more people milling around with yellow leaflets in their

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hands - young people with ears and noses burdened by dangling metalwork; the earnest middle-aged dressed in a vaguely ethnic manner, the prosperous retired; a fair cross-section of Neston residents. She felt a fresh wave of determination.

The girl manning the rickety reception desk looked up. Her nose was decorated by a jangling ring, while her mousey hair, arranged in tiny plaits, matched her long, dull garments. Pam, dressed simply in a checked summer dress, felt at a sartorial disadvantage. She explained what she was there for.

The girl looked her up and down. ‘Are you sure you want to take part in the re-enactment?’ she said, sounding genuinely concerned. ‘We need people to help with stalls and refreshments as well. Perhaps you’d rather … ‘

‘Oh, no. I fancied the re-enactment. I’m a teacher, you see … and it’s on the national curriculum. I’ll be doing that period of history with my class next term,’ she added. This explanation probably sounded a little feeble, but Pam felt she had to justify her decision somehow. ‘Er ’” can you tell me exactly what’s involved?’

‘Right, then,’ said the girl, clearly dubious about Pam’s suit-ability. ‘How much do you know about the Vikings?’

Gerry Heffernan stood next to Wesley, watching the scenes of crime officers go about their painstaking business examining the area around the white Opel. The car itself had been taken away on a low-loader for more detailed examination.

Rachel stood beside Wesley, Trish having been dispatched back to the office to continue her paperwork as soon as things hotted up.

‘So what do you think, Wes?’ asked Heffernan bluntly. ‘Have we got an abduction or what?’

‘Looks that way, sir. I mean, you don’t use a chloroform pad on someone to ask directions, do you? I’ve arranged for everyone who lives round about to be ‘interviewed, Someone might have seen something. ‘

‘Roads don’t come much quieter than this. Wonder what she was doing here.’

‘Her landlady said she was going into Neston on Monday, These lanes are used as a short cut by locals,’ said Rachel. She had been born and brought up in the district and knew the place better

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than most: ‘But she could have got lost … taken the wrong turning. It’s easily done.’

‘I think it’s time we went to see her landlady … found out more about this mysterious Danish woman. I think we’d be justified in searching her room, don’t you, Wes? You go with Rach.’

Wesley gave Rachel a smile. There was nobody he would rather take with him to search the room of a missing woman. Rachel’s powers of observation and common sense had often proved invaluable. And she was good with people, too: she would soon have the landlady giving her secret opinions about Ingeborg Larsen, and probably recounting her own life story too if they weren’t careful.

The SOCOs continued their search as Wesley and Rachel climbed into Wesley’s dark blue Ford and drove off towards Tradmouth, leaving Gerry Heffernan engaged in what he claimed to be his second-favourite occupation - watching other people working.

The sound of an inexperienced organist practising for some future wedding provided a dubious musical accompaniment for Neil Watson and his colleagues as they dug deeper into the foundations of Neston parish church. They were fenced off in the south-western corner of the impressive medieval building, trying to cause as little disruption as possible to visitors and worshippers as the life of the church carried on around them.

But by the time they had suffered Mendelssohn’s wedding march for the sixth time, Neil had had enough. Even his colleague Matt, who had fleetingly considered putting his relationship with Jane, the classy blonde squatting next to him in the trench, on a more permanent footing, had been quite put off the idea of marriage by the musical aversion therapy.

A shout from Neil made Matt look up from the fragment of old tiled floor he was starting to uncover. ‘Matt, Jane, come and have a look at this.’

Without a word they crossed over to the deeper trench where Neil was working. They could see that Neil’s eyes were shining with excitement as he pointed downwards with his trowel. ‘Look. Can you see the blackened section? And look there just below it where I’ve started to uncover the wall. That’s Saxon stonework. I’m sure of it.’

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Matt looked at Jane in a purely professional manner. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘This ties in with all the stories that are flying around this place,’ Jane answered, matter-of-fact. ‘At some point in its Saxon days Neston was attacked and the church burned to the ground. And we can all take a guess at who was resp01~sible, can’t we?’

Neil nodded. ‘I’ll say one thing for the Vikings - nobody could have accused them of being idle.’

Barbara Questid was nervous. Rachel could tell. When they had first entered the house - a large, three-storey villa reputedly built for a sea captain in the early nineteenth century - she had offered tea. But the offer was forgotten as soon as they announced the reason for their visit. Barbara stood in the hallway wringing her hands, muttering the words ‘that’s awful’ like a mantra. An elderly couple appeared at the top of the stairs - Ingeborg’ s fellow guests. As soon as Barbara spotted them her manner changed and an ingratiating smile appeared on her face which disappeared as soon as the newcomers were greeted and dispatched out of the house in the direction of the town centre.