The Funeral Boat (8 page)

‘I don’t know what that’s got to do with me.’ Maggie looked at Neil with contempt. She had once been pretty; Neil could tell that. She wore a shabby frock which needed a whirl round a washing machine, and disintegrating slippers which appeared to be held together by dirt. Her face was lined with the hopelessness that resulted from years of struggle against financial ruin. But her voice was accentless, educated. Neil suspected that at some point she had made a social descent and, by her resentful expression, had lived to regret it.

He carried on regardless, hoping his enthusiasm for his subject would be at least mildly infectious. ‘We’re on the brink of a big discovery in Neston. We think the first Saxon church there - a rninster - was burned down in a Viking raid. Your skeleton was buried inside a boat, which is a Viking custom. I know Neston’s ten miles away, but if we could establish a link…’ He didn’t bother finishing his sentence but he detected a flicker of interest in Maggie’s eyes. ‘I just wondered if I could have a look inside your house, see if there are any clues to how old it is. If it’s not convenient…’

‘No, it’s not convenient,’ she said with some hostility, as if she suspected Neil of planning to nick the family silver. He decided that persistence wouldn’t succeed and
hanged the subject. ‘Have

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you ever heard any stories about the place?’ Sometimes local legends held a kernel of truth.

Maggie shrugged her shoulders and the neckline of her dress fell back to reveal a washed-out bra strap. ‘There’s only that story about the stones. Someone in the village told me about it. Probably a load of rubbish,’ she added dismissively.

‘What stones?’

Sensing that she wouldn’t get rid of Neil until she had made a token effort to satisfy his curiosity, she led him round to the back of the building without a word, glancing back nervously at the house, and began to march up a scrubby sloping field, Neil following a few feet behind. They reached a stream, just a trickle in the summer heat. She pointed downwards. ‘Those stones there … the red ones. See?’

‘What about them?’

‘Well, an old woman in the village told me this field was known as Blood Field: she said those stones in the stream were stained with blood.’

‘Yes,’ said Neil, growing impatient. ‘But when? What happened here?’

‘How should I know? You’d better ask her. It was that old biddy who used to run the post office. She lives in that little pink house by the church. I don’t remember what she said except … ‘

‘What?’

‘Except I think she said something about Danes.’

Maggie led the way back to the farm and stood, arms folded, seeing Neil off the premises with obvious relief. As he climbed into the Mini, he glanced back quickly at the house and saw a dark shape flit across one of the upstairs windows.

Neil wasn’t the only one who took it into his head to slip away from his duties that sunny lunch-time. Gerry Heffernan rolled up his shirtsleeves to reveal a couple of large, nautical tattoos, left his office on the first floor of Tradmouth police station, and lumbered through the crowded narrow streets of the town towards cobbled Baynard’s Quay.

The holidaymakers were out in force, swarming around the quay, strolling up and down between the small defensive castle at one end and the Tradmouth Arms at the other. Children perched on the edge of the quaysiqe with crabbing lines, squealing with

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delight as their clawed prisoners made their bid for freedom, scrabbling sideways towards the water. Parents sat on benches enjoying the view across the river and a drink from the Tradmouth Arms until their offspring tired of their captive crustaceans and threw them back into the river, no worse for their ordeal.

Some holidaymakers turned and stared as Gerry Heffernan let himself into his whitewashed cottage at the end of the quay. He resisted the temptation to make some witty comment in retaliation and closed the front door behind him.

Since the death of Kathy, his wife, three years before, Heffernan had become used to returning to a silent, empty home. But the raucous rock music blaring from the living room told him that his son had returned to the fold. For a few weeks, at least, Gerry Heffernan’s quiet and lonely domestic routine would be completely disrupted … which didn’t upset him overmuch.

Sam Heffernan looked up guiltily as his father entered the room. ‘Dad. I wasn’t expecting you back till tonight.’

‘Thought I’d call in and see if you’d arrived. How are you, son.’

Sam stood up and gave his father a tentative hug. He was taller than his dad. And dark, having inherited Kathy’s good looks. ‘Good to see you, Dad. How are you keeping? Sorry I’ve not been in touch much this term, but you know how it is.’ He shrugged.

Gerry Heffernan knew how it was all right. He had been young himself once, as he kept reminding everyone at the police station. He knew the pull of booze and members of the opposite sex as well as any. But alas, unlike Sam and Wesley, Gerry Heffernan hadn’t had the advantages of a university education. At the age of sixteen he had joined the merchant navy and gone to sea . .He had worked his way up to first officer when disaster had struck and he had developed appendicitis as his ship passed by the Devon coast. He had been winched off by helicopter and taken to Tradmouth Hospital, where he had fallen heavily for Kathy, his nurse. He had then forsaken his native Liverpool, staye

‘I see you’ve had something to eat,’ Heffernan said, noticing the fall-out of a ham sandwich on a discarded plate. ‘Made any plans for this holiday yet?, he asked, trying not to sound like the heavy-handed father.

‘I’m a bit short of readies, Dad. I was thinking of getting a job.’

‘Well, there’s lots of seasonal work about.’

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Sam made no comment. He didn’t tell his father he’d been thinking along completely different lines. A job in a cafe or hotel would hardly make a dent in his student loan. There were more lucrative options.

He thought it wise to change the subject. He stood up, walked over to the fireplace and lifted a picture postcard of a white wooden colonial church. ‘Nice card, Dad. New England, is it? Have you been keeping something from me? Who’s Susan?’

Gerry Heffernan reddened. ‘Er … she’s, er, a lady I know. I met her not long ago when her next-door neighbour was murdered.’

Sam Heffernan watched his father squirm, trying to maintain a serious expression. ‘Am I going to meet her?’

‘She’s gone over to the States for a month to see her sister. She’s American but she’s lived over here for years.’ Gerry Heffernan felt like a naughty adolescent being interrogated for staying out late by a censorious parent.

Sam continued, enjoying the reversal of roles. ‘What’s she like?’

‘She’s a very nice lady. And we’re just friends. She’s a widow and … ‘

‘You don’t have to explain to me, Dad,’ said Sam graciously. ‘I just wanted to make sure her intentions were honourable.’ His face broke into a wide grin. ‘You can tell me all about it tonight. ‘

Gerry Heffernan thought it politic to make for the kitchen, where he made himself a swift cheese-and-pickle sandwich and pointedly washed the dishes. Then he left Sam searching through the job adverts in the local paper and returned to the police station.

When his father was safely out of the house, Samput his feet up on the coffee table and ringed an advert, smiling to himself. He would phone later … discreetly. This was one job he didn’t want his dad to know about.

Wesley Peterson sat at his desk, shuffling papers absent-mindedly as he waited for the phone call. The Copenhagen police had said they’d get back to him as soon as they’d managed to contact Sven Larsen, Ingeborg’ s next of kin. That had been three hours ago.

The telephone rang and Wesley grabbed at it eagerly. He heard Neil’s voice, bubbling with enthusiasm.

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‘Sorry, Neil, I’m expecting an important call. Can you make it quick.’ Wesley tried not to sound too dismissive.

‘Yeah. Meet me at Stoke Beeching church tonight at five thirty. That quick enough for you?’ The line went dead. Wesley, who had planned to get home early that evening - work permitting - was intrigued, if a little peeved by Neil’s presumption. And he had forgotten to mention the hammer-shaped amulet Col in Bowman had found in the bones, which he now had safely in his pocket. But it could wait until they met at Stoke Beeching.

Gerry Heffeman appeared at the office door. ‘Hi, Wes. Any word from Copenhagen?’

‘Not yet. Still waiting. I presume Mr Larsen will speak English,’ he said warily.

‘I’d get your Danish phrase book out if I were you,’ said Heffeman mischievously, before he disappeared into his office.

Rachel, who was staring at her computer screen, deep in thought, looked up. ‘Wesley, does the name Laurence Proudy mean anything to you? It seems very familiar.’

Wesley shook his head. ‘Sorry. Of course, his name might have cropped up before my time … I’ve not been here a year yet.’

‘Seems longer,’ muttered Steve resentfully as he sorted through house-to-house statements. Wesley ignored him … as usual.

The telephone rang on Wesley’s desk. The Copenhagen police officer’s command of English was truly breathtaking. Tradmouth CID would have been hard put to come up with two words of Danish between them. Sven Larsen, it appeared, was Ingeborg’s brother. And as soon as he had heard the news of his sister’s disappearance, he had packed his bags and made for the airport. He would be arriving in Tradmouth the following day. Stunned by this development, Wesley put the phone down and broke the news to the inspector.

‘Let’s just hope he doesn’t get in our way. Anything else?’

‘I suppose he’ll be able to give us more information when he arrives. He might know what his sister got up to when she was over here last … who she knew, that sort of thing. The police there have told him to report to us.’

‘I don’t like this, Wes, I really don’t. A woman goes missing … chloroformed … no ransom note or anything to suggest that it’s a kidnapping. Hey, that’s a thought. Are her family million-aires or anything?’

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‘I thought of that. When 1 asked the Danish police they said they were just an ordinary middle-class family … nothing too grand. Ingeborg’s divorced and she’s a college lecturer. I asked about the ex-husband too, of course, but he’s in the clear. He was taking a party of students on a trip to some museum on the day Ingeborg disappeared and hasn’t left the country for months. The Copenhagen police said he seemed quite concerned … asked them to keep him informed of developments.’

‘So that’s a couple of possibilities out of the window. How easy is it to get hold of chloroform?’

‘It’s also known as trichloromethane and it’s pretty common. It’s used as a cleaner … a solvent.’

Heffernan looked impressed. ‘How did you know all that?’

Wesley shrugged modestly. ‘Something 1 picked up in school chemistry lessons. Knew it’d come in handy some day.’

Heffernan sat and thought for a while. ‘Know what, Wes? I think she saw something she shouldn’t. Do you think her disappearance could be linked to the farm raids? If she saw them get away … or if she saw them watching a place and got their car number, or…’

Wesley had to acknowledge that it was certainly a possibility. ‘But why burden themselves with a hostage? Why not just kill her if they wanted to shut her up?’

‘They didn’t kill Daniel Wexer . ‘.’ just shot to scare him probably. Perhaps they’re just holding her till after they do an important job. Perhaps killing’s not their style.’

‘We can but hope,’ said Wesley cynically. His years in the Met hadn’t rendered him optimistic about the humanitarian urges of the average armed robber.

Gerry Heffernan announced that they should all get off at a reasonable time that evening because the following day would be a long one. And they couldn’t really do any more until they had a full picture of Ingeborg’s life ˇ.. and perhaps even that wouldn’t help them much.

Wesley looked at his watch, knowing he should head for home. But then Pam wouldn’t be expecting him just yet, and Neil’s brief conversation had sounded intriguing. He didn’t hesitate long before getting into his car and pointing it towards Stoke Beeching.

Stoke Beeching was a pretty village half a mile from the sea. Its

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narrow streets were lined with pastel-washed cottages, some thatched, others with window boxes brimming with tumbling flowers. The pub next to the church was a low, white building boasting a fine floral display. The church itselflooked ancient, its graveyard a haven of peace and twittering birds. The only sight that jarred was the cars belonging to the visitors eager to experience a real Devon village. The vehicles were parked all along the narrow streets, spoiling the very beauty that had brought them to the spot in the first place.

Neil was waiting in the churchyard, loitering around the newly mown graves, reading the headstones. An elderly man with a pair of shears trimmed the grass round the graves nearer the church and watched the long-haired scruffy young man and his smart black companion as if they were bound to be up to no good. When Wesley handed over the plastic bag containing the tiny hammer amulet, the man looked even more alarmed, suspecting that the drug-ridden horrors he witnessed nightly on his TV screen had at last reached Stoke Beeching churchyard.

Neillooked at the plastic-shrouded object with admiration. ‘It’s brilliant … and it confirms what we suspected. A Viking burial … quite amazing in this part of the country. Nice one, Wes.’

‘Don’t thank me; thank Colin Bowman. He found it stuck to one of the ribs.’

Neil took the plastic bag and put the prize in his pocket. Then he led the way to a small pink-washed house, just over the road from the church. ‘I don’t know this woman’s name,’ he said casually. ‘She was just described to me as the old biddy who used to run the post office.’

‘Great,’ said Wesley. ‘Are you sure she’ll let us in?’ He knew how security-conscious old people were in these lawless times.