Part 7 (1/2)

It was Petronella who stood there framed in the doorway, fidgeting nervously with a strand of hair. 'Who are you calling?'

'None of your b.l.o.o.d.y business.'

'Betina. That's one of the cronies you told the police you were with when Charlie died, isn't it?'

Annette felt a tear tickle her cheek. 'I expected a bit of loyalty from my own daughter.'

Petronella snorted. 'You mean the same sort of loyalty you gave to me when you left me in that hospital?'

As Petronella shot out into the hall, Annette threw the telephone across the room. If all else failed, she might have to break the habit of a lifetime and tell the truth.

She wished at that moment that she hadn't summoned Petronella but she'd needed someone and her daughter was her own flesh and blood. That was why she hadn't smothered Petronella at birth. That was why she'd left her there in the warm safe hospital.

But she hadn't known then that your sins always come back to haunt you.

CHAPTER 4.

The second letter should have been delivered that day. Neil Watson would find it at his flat when he arrived home and the writer wondered whether reading it would make him feel sad ... or angry. Or just curious. Or perhaps the subject of blood would frighten him.

The writer began to type. The story had to be told. Little by little. Until everything was clear.

I saw you on the television around the same time as I learned what had happened to Brother William. I knew then that you were the one to help me. It was meant.

I could tell you all about the ruins at Stow Barton and what happened there in 1535 but I'm sure you'd prefer to find out for yourself. Think of it as a kind of game. The blood game. I've made my first move and you've not responded. But I'm near you. I could reach out and touch you. I could even make you bleed.

There was more to say. There had to be more. But it could wait for a while.

Perhaps this was a dangerous game. Perhaps it would be best to stay silent. It wasn't too late to stop. The writer stared at the words on the computer screen and considered the question.

According to the kitchen staff at Le Pet.i.t Poisson, Fabrice Colbert had returned to terrorise them at approximately four fifteen on the day of Charles Marrick's murder. He had just had time to kill Marrick but not much time. He had come into the kitchen with a carrier bag bearing the logo of a Neston health food shop so it seemed he'd been telling the truth about the shopping trip. But of course nothing was certain. He was still very much in the frame.

Wesley sat at his desk considering what he knew so far. Marrick had enemies and common sense told him that one of these enemies had killed him. He had cheated Colbert and, no doubt, he had cheated others. And his widow hardly seemed to regret his pa.s.sing. Perhaps there was a lover somewhere with good reason to get rid of Marrick. And Annette's alibi hadn't been checked out thoroughly yet. He'd send Rachel off to interview the ladies who lunched. She would be bound to give an honest and unbiased opinion ... or maybe not unbiased.

His thoughts were interrupted by Lee Parsons, a new DC who looked so young, he was frequently asked to prove his age in pubs.

'Sir,' Parsons said nervously. 'A report's just come in from Forensics. You asked for a match between the blood on the knife found on that Carl Pinney and the blood of Charles Marrick. There's a match. They're the same.'

Wesley's heart began to beat a little faster. 'What about the knife itself?'

'Available anywhere supermarkets and ...'

'Not an expensive chef's knife then?'

Parsons shook his head.

Wesley thanked the young DC and hurried to Gerry Heffernan's office. He'd want to know right away.

This could change everything.

Neil Watson opened the door of his flat, yearning for a hot shower to wash away the dirt of a day's digging. But when he saw the letter lying on his doormat, he felt the blood drain from his face. He recognised it at once. It was exactly like the other one. He stared at it for a while before bending down to pick it up and tearing the envelope open.

He read the letter inside. There was no actual threat this time, just strange stuff about monks. And blood. Monks swimming through rivers of blood. The whole thing was bizarre. And unnerving in view of what they'd just found at the dig.

He'd show it to Wesley as soon as possible. He needed someone to share it with. Living alone, these things preyed on the mind. And the images in the letters disturbed him.

He considered the ident.i.ty of the writer. Lenny fitted the bill, showing off his knowledge, trying to get one up on the professionals. But it was going to be hard to find out for sure without a confrontation and Neil hated confrontations unless they were of the professional variety with developers or the local planning department. Besides, there was no evidence it was Lenny just a hunch and maybe prejudice against the c.o.c.ky man's arrogance.

He was re-reading the letter, trying to make some sense of it, when his mobile phone began to ring.

After a short conversation, he stood for a moment, feeling rather flattered. They wanted him again, the TV company. They wanted him to give an update on the dig on the local news programme. The feedback from their viewers had been good and there was a lot of interest in history at the moment.

Then suddenly apprehension crept in, taking over what should have been a moment of professional triumph. There was always the possibility that one of those interested viewers might be his letter writer.

If he made another appearance on TV, he would be sticking his head above the parapet again. And people who did that put themselves in danger.

First thing the next morning, Rachel Tracey asked the question that was on all their minds. 'This Darren Collins's prints were found in Annette Marrick's bedroom but where is he now?'

Gerry Heffernan shrugged his shoulders. 'That's the six million dollar question, love. When we find that out, we might be nearer to cracking the case.'

Rachel decided to forgive her boss the 'love' just this once. He was under pressure after all.

Wesley Peterson considered the six million dollar question for a few moments. 'Of course all it really indicates is that Collins has been in the Marricks' bedroom at some stage. It doesn't prove he was there when Marrick died. He could be a handyman who did some work there.'

Heffernan grunted. Trust Wesley to put a dampener on things. Not that he wasn't right. Collins might be their man. But on the other hand, he might not.

The picture of Collins, taken so many years ago, had been pinned up on the notice board along with the crime scene pictures and the names and photographs of all the people involved in the case the possible suspects and those whose paths, through no fault of their own, had crossed Charles Marrick's near the fatal time. Wesley walked over to the board and began to examine the faces, one by one.

After a couple of minutes, he turned to the DCI. 'Gerry, have a look at this. Tell me if you think I'm mad.'

He pointed to the picture of Collins then to another photograph. Heffernan frowned and peered from one image to the other.

'Nah, Wes. Couldn't be. Anyway, he hasn't got a tattoo.'

'Tattoos can be removed.'

'No. You're barking up the wrong tree there.'

'Fingerprints would settle it.'

Heffernan laughed. 'Rather you than me, mate. We'd have every lawyer from here to Timbuktu on our backs if we tried that one.'

Wesley smiled. A secretive smile. 'He doesn't necessarily have to know.'

Gerry Heffernan pretended to look shocked. 'Wesley Peterson wash your mouth out with soap and water. Have you never read the Police and Criminal Evidence Act?' A grin spread across his chubby face. 'When shall we do it then?'