Part 8 (1/2)

'He mentioned something.'

'I found another one when I got home last night. I tried to ring Wes but I couldn't get through.'

'My fault. I was on the phone most of the evening trying to persuade my mum to babysit tonight. She kept coming up with excuses. Have you brought the letter with you?'

He had stuffed the plastic freezer bag containing the letter into the inside pocket of the combat jacket he was wearing. He handed it over and Pam read it in silence.

'Well? What do you think?'

She considered her answer. 'I don't really know. Whoever's written it seems to have a thing about monks ... and blood.'

'A weirdo.'

She shook her head. 'It's literate ... well thought out. The subject's important to him ... or her.'

'Think it could be a woman?' Neil sounded incredulous. He'd always thought of his tormentor as a man ... as one man in particular. Lenny. He told Pam about Lenny and his strange view of the world.

'I wouldn't jump to conclusions if I were you,' she said after considering the facts. 'Does your site have any connection with monks?'

'It does as a matter of fact. It was owned by Veland Abbey.'

'And blood-letting?'

Neil pondered the question. 'Monasteries often sent monks to outlying houses to be bled ... a sort of holiday, just like it says in the letters. Stow Barton might well fit the bill but that's only one possibility among several and I need to be sure before I say anything ... especially as it's going to be all over the TV. I don't want to make a fool of myself professionally.' He felt his cheeks redden. 'The TV people want me to do another slot on the local news. They say there's been a lot of interest.'

'Good.'

A silence fell between them, an amicable silence between old friends. After a while Neil spoke. 'There could be some evidence for the blood-letting theory. We found a metal object, very corroded but it might be a lancet I've sent it for x-ray. And there's a pit on the edge of the site with a dark deposit inside. I've done some research myself and found out that in York barbers who did blood letting got into trouble for dumping blood in the streets. They had to get rid of it somewhere, didn't they?'

'A blood pit?'

'I've sent samples off to the lab in Exeter and if the material in the pit does turn out to contain human blood ...'

'The monks went there for their holidays.'

She handed the letter back but he returned it to her, asking her to give it to Wesley. Then, after an awkward pause, he looked her in the eye. 'You've not seen that Jonathan again have you?' he asked in a low whisper, glancing at the playing children.

Pam shook her head vigorously. She never wanted to see Jonathan again in her life. Her whole being shrivelled with embarra.s.sment at the very thought of her brief lapse from the straight and narrow.

Neil took her hand and squeezed it. 'Give Wes my regards, won't you?'

He gave Pam a swift kiss on the cheek and left.

Carl Pinney lounged on the sagging Draylon sofa and grinned unpleasantly. Up till now he had enquired about Steve Carstairs's whereabouts, peppering the conversation liberally with references to 'his brief'.

Both Wesley and Heffernan could have cheerfully punched the smirk off his pale, spotty face. But that wasn't what they were there for. They knew they mustn't rise to the bait.

Attack is probably the best form of defence and at that moment Wesley reckoned they needed all the defence against the likes of Carl Pinney and his 'brief' that they could get. 'We sent the knife you used in the attack on DC Carstairs to the lab for tests.'

The expression of contempt on Pinney's face said 'So what?', but Wesley let the concept of the forensic tests sink in for half a minute before he spoke again.

Pinney scratched his crotch in a virtuoso display of boredom and contempt. Then he yawned and slouched back on the sofa, closing his eyes.

'The tests confirmed that your knife killed a man called Charles Marrick in Rhode, near Tradmouth. Someone stabbed him in the neck and he bled to death.'

Wesley watched Pinney's face carefully. But his expression still gave nothing away. The only thing he saw was what had always been there. Studied boredom and utter contempt for the police.

It was Gerry Heffernan who spoke next. 'What happened, Carl? Did you go to the house to rob Marrick? Did you threaten him ... ask for money? Then things got out of hand, didn't they, Carl? You lashed out and stabbed him in the neck and he started to bleed. The bleeding wouldn't stop and you got scared, didn't you? You did a runner back to Morbay and ...'

Pinney snorted. 'How did I get out to Rhode? It's miles away. And I ain't got wheels, have I? Use your b.l.o.o.d.y brains. I found the knife, didn't I?'

'We've only got your word for that,' said Wesley leaning forward. 'And I'm sure lots of your friends have access to cars ... or aren't afraid to pinch them. Let's face it, Carl, in the exalted circles you mix in, nicking cars is a skill learned in primary school.'

'Reading, writing, arithmetic ... taking without consent,' Heffernan said. 'All part of the curriculum on the Winterham Estate, isn't it, Carl? The excuse that you don't have a car hardly applies around here, does it? If you want one you just smash the driver's window, hotwire the thing and Bob's your uncle.'

Carl Pinney looked from one man to the other, quite unconcerned. 'You can't prove nothing.'

'What was it like, killing a man? How did it feel, Carl? Why don't you tell us?' Wesley watched his eyes and saw a flicker of something that looked like excitement. 'I bet it was good killing that rich bloke. Watching him bleed to death ... seeing the fear in his eyes when he saw your knife.'

The two policemen watched for a reaction. But Carl pressed his lips tightly together. He was staying silent. They couldn't prove he didn't find that knife just like he said. They couldn't prove anything.

'We'll need the clothes you were wearing on the night of Charles Marrick's murder.'

'They've been washed, haven't they?'

'What about your shoes?'

'Chucked 'em out, didn't I?'

'Why?'

'They got a hole in. Mum put 'em in the rubbish.'

'That's very convenient.'

Pinney shrugged his shoulders.

'Did Marrick offend you in some way, Carl? Did he deserve all he got? Or did he have cash that you needed for drugs? Did he refuse to give you any?'

Carl Pinney s.h.i.+fted his body until he was sitting up, stiff and straight. He looked Wesley in the eye. 'No f.u.c.king comment,' he spat before folding his arms across his chest and slumping back.

While Wesley and Heffernan were encountering the low life on the Winterham Estate, Rachel Tracey and Trish Walton were living the high kind in their quest to confirm Annette Marrick's alibi. First of all they'd called at Betina's an exclusive little boutique on Foss Street set amongst the art galleries, bistros and expensive gift shops. Foss Street was narrow, quaint and pedestrianised. And it was where the well heeled shopped.

Rachel had hovered outside the shop for a while, looking in the window, coveting a saggy handbag made of leather soft as silk. But she had never spent a three figure sum on a handbag in her life and her thrifty upbringing on the farm ensured that she didn't consider the option seriously now. Besides, the rent on the cottage she shared with Trish was due ... and the electricity bill.

She tore her eyes away from the temptations of the window as Trish opened the shop door. A bell jangled somewhere in the back and a woman appeared. She was stick thin and her leathery skin suggested that she'd spent too much time on sunbeds over the years. Her coa.r.s.e, dead straight, blonde hair was a couple of shades lighter than Rachel's own. But then Rachel didn't have to resort to the bottle. It was hard to guess her age, but there was no doubt that she was older than she'd like to be.

She looked at the two policewomen enquiringly with a smile that bordered on the obsequious. But the smile disappeared when they introduced themselves, asked her if she was Betina Betis and said they'd be grateful for a word in private.