Part 11 (1/2)

The pathologist gave him a rueful smile. 'Sorry, Wesley. I'll get round to them as soon as I can. In the meantime, I'll book this PM for tomorrow morning. That suit you?'

The chief inspector grunted in the affirmative as they left Colin to his work and made a swift tour of the small house.

Gerry Heffernan broke the silence when they'd reached the living room again. 'Tell you what, Wes, you go and have a word with the wife ...'

'Widow,' Wesley corrected automatically. Meeting Emma Tench wasn't something he was looking forward to. But he had no choice. He needed to find out what she knew. To gather any clues he could about the dead man's background or a.s.sociates that might lead him to the killer. Unless, of course, the attacks were random. That was a possibility that couldn't be ruled out.

Gerry Heffernan had picked up a DVD that had been lying on the coffee table. The case bore the words 'House Hunters our episode' in neatly printed letters. He dropped it into a plastic evidence bag and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

The two men parted at the front door. Gerry Heffernan cadged a lift back to the police station in a patrol car, leaving Wesley to face Simon Tench's widow. The nearest cottage stood about fifty yards away and Wesley walked up its crazy-paved path, bordered with an untidy array of bright flowers an English cottage garden, in stark contrast to the minimalism of the Tenches' home. The paintwork of the front door was faded green and there were old-fas.h.i.+oned net curtains at the small, leaded windows. This was an old person's house, Wesley guessed. But he had learned long ago never to underestimate the powers of observation of the average senior citizen. They had time to take in details unnoticed by the young with their hectic, overstretched lives. Perhaps he would be on to a winner here. He certainly hoped so.

Rachel Tracey answered his knock on the door and gave him a shy smile as she stood aside to let him into the tiny, dark hallway.

'She's very upset,' was the first thing she said. 'But she's a sensible woman ... a good witness. Not that she's been able to tell me anything much. When she left the house to go to work she says Simon was upset about some foal dying, but apart from that everything seemed normal.' She leaned forward. 'I think she suspects it was suicide.' She said the words almost in a whisper.

Wesley raised his eyebrows. 'Really? Was he depressed then or ... ?'

Rachel shook her head. 'She didn't mention anything like that. But she said he was sensitive ... took the death of any animals in his care very hard. She said he found professional detachment far more difficult than she does. She hasn't talked about suicide in so many words but I can tell it's on her mind.'

'Well, I can put her mind at rest then. There's no sign of a weapon and, unless it's a remarkable coincidence, it looks identical to Charles Marrick's murder.'

Rachel looked surprised. 'Are you sure?'

Wesley didn't answer. 'Is she up to having a word with me?'

Rachel nodded and put a hand on his arm. 'I knew him slightly, you know. Met him at a Young Farmers' do and he's been to my parents' farm to treat the beasts. He was a really nice bloke. Everyone liked him.'

Wesley didn't reply. She led him through into a small cluttered living room, all faded chintz and old hunting prints. A young woman in a pale blue nurse's uniform with a bloodstained hem, was seated next to an elderly lady with white hair, bent back and sharp pale blue eyes. The old woman's liver-spotted hand was resting on her companion's a gesture of comfort.

'This is Detective Inspector Peterson, Emma,' Rachel said gently. 'He'd like to ask you some questions if that's all right.'

The young woman gave a weak smile and nodded, giving Wesley a long, a.s.sessing look.

Wesley addressed the elderly lady. 'Do you mind if I sit down, Mrs ... er ... ?' He knew manners counted a lot for her generation.

'Mrs Crimmond. Please do.' The voice was clear and decisive. 'Where are you from?'

Wesley considered the question for a moment. 'Originally from London but I studied at Exeter University. My wife's from Devon and we moved here a few years ago.' He looked into her eyes and knew that he hadn't answered the question satisfactorily. 'My parents are from Trinidad. They came here to study medicine. My sister's a doctor too. She works as a GP in Neston.'

The old lady nodded, satisfied at last. Some would have taken the implication of her questioning as slightly racist, but Wesley guessed that Mrs Crimmond was of an age when she could disregard political correctness in order to ascertain exactly who she was dealing with.

Wesley turned to Emma and gave her a sympathetic smile. 'I'm very sorry for your loss, Mrs Tench. I'm afraid we have to ask you some questions. Are you feeling up to ...'

Emma Tench looked sh.e.l.l-shocked as she drew her hand away from the old lady's and nodded her a.s.sent. She'd answer any questions he wanted. But it was clear from her expression she didn't expect the first one he asked.

'Did you or your husband ever have any dealings with a man called Charles Marrick?'

Emma's mouth fell open for a moment. Then she took a deep, shuddering breath. 'I knew him. He was a patient of mine. He was rushed in with a burst appendix last year. I saw it on the news that he'd been found murdered. But what's that got to do with Simon?'

There was a long silence while Wesley decided how much to reveal to her. She was a sensible woman, he thought. And a discreet phone call to the hospital earlier had confirmed that she'd been on duty and was therefore in possession of an unbreakable alibi. He decided to take the risk.

'There are certain similarities between Mr Marrick's death and that of your husband. We think there might be some connection.'

Emma Tench closed her eyes. Wesley could hear her breathing against the background of muted birdsong that seeped in through Mrs Crimmond's old, ill-fitting windows.

'How exactly?' It was Mrs Crimmond who asked the question, c.o.c.king her grey head to one side like a curious bird.

'As I said, there are, er ... certain similarities.' He turned back to Emma. 'Can you think of any link at all, however tenuous, between Mr Marrick and your husband?'

Emma looked up. 'Only what I've already told you ... that I nursed him once.' She paused. 'I didn't like him much and I can a.s.sure you he had nothing in common with Simon. Nothing at all.' There was another long silence then Emma spoke again. 'I was scared Simon might have killed himself, you know. He felt things very deeply and he lost a valuable foal yesterday. It wasn't his fault but he was the type who always blamed himself. I thought ...'

Wesley could see tears welling up in her eyes. He reached out and touched her arm gently. 'We're pretty sure he didn't take his own life, Mrs Tench ... Emma.'

She began to cry, taking in great, gulping breaths. Rachel rushed to her side and put her arms around her while Mrs Crimmond clucked comfortingly, stroking her hair as if calming an animal. Wesley guessed there was some relief in her tears relief that Simon hadn't chosen to abandon her. Suicide, he knew, was the hardest thing for relatives to come to terms with that a loved one could choose death over a life spent in their company. But Wesley was certain Simon Tench hadn't chosen his exit from this world. Someone else had chosen it for him.

'Are you feeling up to giving DS Tracey here a statement?' he asked when the sobs had subsided a little.

Emma nodded. 'There's nothing much I can tell you but ...'

Wesley thanked her and asked Mrs Crimmond if he could have a word in private. The old lady led the way into the kitchen, shuffling along in a pair of men's slippers, supported by a stick.

'It's so terrible,' she said once they were alone. 'I've become quite fond of Simon and Emma, you know. I know they only rented the cottage and they were looking for somewhere to buy but it's nice having a young couple next door. And they're thoughtful ... not like some. Emma does bits of shopping for me and ...'

'I know, Mrs Crimmond. It must be a terrible shock for you.' He knew he had to come to the point before she rambled on for hours about the virtues of her late neighbour and his wife. He smiled encouragingly. 'It would help us catch whoever was responsible for Simon's death if you could recall anything unusual you heard or saw last night. Anything at all.'

Mrs Crimmond sat herself down heavily on a folding stool that stood next to the sink. 'I've been thinking but I'm afraid I can't help you. I saw nothing and I heard nothing. But then I am a little bit deaf.'

'You didn't look out of the window and see a car outside at any point in the evening?'

The old lady looked at him sharply. 'Do you think I wouldn't have mentioned it if I had? There's a pa.s.sing place down the lane. If someone wanted to visit next door un.o.bserved they could have parked there.'

Wesley made a mental note to get uniform to check the side of the road there for tyre marks. The Tenches' cottage was fairly isolated, well on the outskirts of the village. If someone had murder on their mind, it would be easy to park well away from the house and walk.

'I don't spend all my life spying on my neighbours, you know.' The old lady sounded quite offended. 'I have better things to do. I've joined the silver surfers at the library and last night I sent some e-mails before watching a repeat of Inspector Morgan on the television. I need the volume on quite loud so I wouldn't have heard any sounds outside, I'm afraid.'

Wesley forced himself to smile. It was just his luck to find a silver surfer who had abandoned the pleasures of net curtain surveillance for high technology.

Simon Tench was a popular and blameless man who, as far as anyone knew, hadn't an enemy in the world. But someone had killed him. And the last thing Wesley Peterson and Gerry Heffernan needed was a motiveless crime. They were always the most difficult kind to solve.

As they returned to Tradmouth police station, Heffernan made a call on his mobile. Carl Pinney was to be picked up and brought in again. He'd be summoning his solicitor, of course, but that wouldn't stop them. He'd been in possession of the knife that had killed Charlie Marrick and he'd been on the loose when Tench was killed. At the moment he was number one on their list of suspects, even though Wesley wasn't convinced the murders were his style at all. As to their number two, Fabrice Colbert might have had a grudge against Marrick but there was absolutely nothing to connect him to Simon Tench ... yet.

Gerry Heffernan felt in his pocket. 'I found a DVD of that property programme at the Tenches' place. Thought it might be worth having a look at it.'

Wesley said nothing. He couldn't really see how the Tenches' half hour of fame would be relevant. Unless the killer had seen it and chosen Tench as his next victim for some twisted and unfathomable reason. But then Charlie Marrick, as far as they knew, had never made it on to TV.

'I'm going to ask someone to have a word with the owner of the horse Tench treated,' Wesley said. 'There might be some sort of bad feeling there or ...'

Heffernan shook his head. 'Sam didn't say anything about the owner taking it badly. These things happen. But I'll ask him ... get the details.'

Wesley said nothing. It was a long shot. And probably irrelevant. He pulled into the police station car park and suddenly remembered Neil Watson's strange anonymous letters and their mention of blood. The murders of Charles Marrick and Simon Tench and now the discovery of the bones in the woodland next to Sunacres Holiday Park had driven Neil's little problem from his mind. But he wanted to have a closer look at those letters when he had a moment. With their mention of blood, they might have some connection to the case. But on the other hand, they might be completely irrelevant. Another long shot.