Part 10 (2/2)

He was dead, staring with horrified eyes at the ceiling, and even Emma's medical training couldn't bring him back to life. She sank to the floor, her skirt touching the pool of blood on the bare wooden boards, and screamed.

Wesley Peterson took his wife's hand tentatively, as though he feared that she would s.n.a.t.c.h it away. 'I'm so sorry about this.'

Pam let him hold on to her hand for a few seconds then she withdrew it. She kept telling herself that being married to a policeman meant that he could be called away at inconvenient moments; that she should be glad he wasn't in the pub with his mates or spending time with another woman or like some husbands in the bookie's gambling their meagre savings on the favourite in the three thirty at Newton Abbot. Wesley was only doing his job. And, besides, it was all her mother's fault that she wasn't waking up in a hotel bed with crisp white sheets and having a leisurely shower and a full English breakfast. It was Della who had ruined their anniversary ... but she still felt a little resentful that Wesley wouldn't be there for Sunday lunch.

'It sounds similar to that murder in Rhode,' said Wesley, hoping that if he confided in her a little, made a point of sharing that part of his life, she might come to understand.

'It'll be a serial killer then,' Pam said flippantly. 'In which case I won't be seeing you for a while. You'd better leave a photograph so the kids don't forget what their dad looks like.' She saw the hurt expression on Wesley's face and immediately regretted her words. It isn't his fault, she told herself, repeating it in her head like a mantra. It isn't his fault. She remembered what had happened last time she'd felt this pent-up fury. And she recalled her fall from grace with shrivelling embarra.s.sment ... tainted with a frisson of excitement.

'I'd better go,' Wesley said, kissing her forehead with a tenderness that surprised her.

She put her hand on his arm. 'I almost forgot. Neil called yesterday. He's had another letter. I promised to tell you but with my mother and everything, it went completely out of my mind.'

'Did he leave the letter?'

She nodded. 'I put it in the drawer so the kids couldn't get at it.' She opened the drawer and handed it over. 'It's all about monks and blood. Pretty revolting.'

Wesley read it with a frown. The mention of the blood made him uncomfortable. Could the writer have known about Charles Marrick's death? Is that what the letters were about? He put it carefully into his pocket. 'I'll give him a call when I've got a moment,' he said.

He left the house just as little Amelia began to cry for attention. He felt bad about leaving. But he had no choice so he climbed into his car and started the engine. It was time to face the reality of violent death.

He was to meet Gerry Heffernan at the murder scene and when he arrived there he found him pacing up and down like a caged animal outside the confines of the police tape that hung around the boundaries of the cottage's small, gravelled, front garden. Wesley parked some way away, by the entrance to a field full of Friesians, and the chief inspector greeted him with a gruff 'Hi'. He wasn't a morning person.

'So what have we got?' Wesley asked.

'A nurse came off night duty and found her husband lying dead in the lounge.'

Heffernan paused. And Wesley knew there was more ... something that the DCI the man with the strongest stomach at Tradmouth nick found disturbing.

'Trouble is,' he continued. 'I know the victim. Well, I don't know him exactly I've never met him but I know of him. He's our Sam's new boss.'

'A vet?'

'Yeah. One of the partners in the practice. Name of Simon Tench. Our Sam's mentioned him quite a bit. He took him round with him to the farms ... showing him the ropes. Our Sam liked him. He's going to be gutted.'

Wesley nodded, unable to think of anything suitable to say.

'There's no sign of a break-in or anything missing so it's not a robbery gone wrong. And there's another thing, Wes.'

'What?'

'The MO. It's exactly the same as the other one ... Charles Marrick.'

'You've been in?'

'Took a peep. I tell you, Wes, it's exactly the same. Two wounds in the neck. No defensive wounds. Bled to death. It can't be a coincidence. We're looking for the same killer. I'd put money on it.'

Wesley raised his eyebrows. 'A dodgy wine merchant and a popular local vet. What can they have in common?'

'Search me.'

Wesley felt in his pocket. 'Neil had another letter blood and monks again. Could there be a connection?'

He handed the letter to Heffernan who scanned it quickly. 'No harm in sending it to the lab, I suppose.' He looked up and saw the police photographer emerging from the front door. 'I suppose we should take a look. The wife's being comforted by a neighbour. Rachel's with her and Colin's inside doing his bit. He'll be demanding overtime at this rate.'

Wesley followed Heffernan to the front gate where both men donned white overalls.

As they entered the house Wesley looked around. The front door led straight on to the living room. Cream walls, wood flooring, pale modern furniture. This was a rented property designed to appeal to the young professional market. Neutral. Inoffensive. Apart from the blood.

Neither man spoke and even the normally jocular Colin Bowman looked subdued. The body of Simon Tench sat slumped in the cream armchair, now stained a deep rusty red. Blood had gushed from two wounds on his neck and splashed on to the walls and the low white ceiling before running down on to the chair and the stripped wooden floor.

Wesley put his hand to his mouth. The smell of blood was strong here and a couple of flies were buzzing around in search of sustenance.

'Nasty,' was the first word Colin greeted them with. 'I met him recently, you know, at a Rotary Club do. He seemed a really nice chap and I know his wife from the hospital. Where is she now, by the way?'

'Being looked after by a neighbour,' Wesley answered quietly, staring at the dead man's face which bore an expression of horrified surprise.

'They got married eighteen months ago and rented this place,' Heffernan said. 'They were looking for somewhere to buy. In fact they were on that property programme on the telly House Hunters. He was full of it, our Sam said ... being on telly like that.'

'So Sam reckoned he was a nice bloke ... not the type to have enemies?' Wesley said quietly, almost whispering in the presence of the dead.

'Oh aye. Opposite to that Charles Marrick.'

The pathologist looked up. 'Bad business, Wesley. Terrible.'

'Would you say Tench and Marrick were killed by the same person?'

Colin nodded. 'It looks that way. But why?'

The two policemen looked at each other. They didn't have an answer for that question. Yet.

'How long has he been dead?'

Colin took a deep breath and looked at his watch. Normally he kept a professional distance from his cadavers ... it went with the job. But standing there next to the corpse of Simon Tench, he seemed genuinely upset. 'It's only an estimate but I reckon about twelve to sixteen hours. So that means he died yesterday evening ... any time between seven and eleven. Maybe I'll have a better idea when I've done the PM.' He looked at Gerry Heffernan. 'That boy ... the one you arrested I presume he's still in custody?'

'Afraid not, Colin. He tried to mug DC Carstairs but unhappily our Steve took it upon himself to punch the little b.u.g.g.e.r in the cells. Place crawling with solicitors they move like arthritic snails when you're buying and selling your house but, boy, do they s.h.i.+ft when the likes of Pinney snaps his dirty little fingers. The little toe-rag knows his rights. He was released the next day.'

Colin Bowman gave Heffernan a meaningful look as if to say 'If you'd held on to him, Simon Trench might still be alive'. Heffernan couldn't think of anything to say. He was thinking the same himself. And he was blaming Steve Carstairs for making it so easy for Carl Pinney. He'd played right into his hands.

'I suppose we'd better pick him up again,' said Heffernan with a sigh.

'There's no sign of a struggle. If Pinney had attacked him ...'

'Perhaps he'd fallen asleep in the chair. Perhaps he didn't have a chance to fight his killer off. We'll have to see if anything's missing.'

Wesley nodded in agreement then he suddenly remembered something. 'Colin, have you had a chance to look at those bones from the wood yet?'

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