Part 16 (2/2)

He caught Petronella's eye and she looked away. It was hard to judge what she was thinking.

Heffernan looked at Annette and came straight to the point. 'Look, love, sorry to bother you and all that, but we need to have a look through your husband's things. Okay?'

Annette could hardly say no. Instead she gave a vague wave of her right arm and told him to help himself.

'Where do we start?' asked Wesley as they made their way upstairs.

Gerry Heffernan didn't answer. He made straight for the smallest of Foxglove House's five bedrooms the one that Charles Marrick had used as a study c.u.m office. It had been searched already of course. But then the search had been for clues to a motive for Charles's murder. Now they were looking for his past. Something anything that would link him to Simon Tench and Christopher Grisham.

But if Charles Marrick had kept anything relating to his distant past, he hadn't kept it here. There was, however, a lot of material relating to his business that might be of some interest to the fraud squad. They left everything as they found it and shut the door behind them.

Annette was waiting for them in the hall when they came down the stairs. 'Find anything?' she said. She sounded casual but Wesley could detect a note of nervousness in her voice.

'Where would Charles have been likely to keep any mementoes of his school or university days?' Wesley asked.

'He wouldn't,' Annette said quickly. 'Charlie hadn't a sentimental bone in his body. He never talked about the past.'

'Did he go to school round here?'

'I think so but I couldn't tell you where. Like I said, he never talked about it.'

'University?'

'Do me a favour. Charlie was a businessman. Wheeler dealer. He wouldn't have wasted his time at university.'

Wesley who had enjoyed three years studying archaeology at Exeter University and had emerged from the shades of academe with a first cla.s.s honours degree looked suitably chastened.

'Thanks, love. We'll be in touch,' said Gerry Heffernan, making it sound more of a threat than a promise.

'Where to now?' Heffernan asked as he climbed into the pa.s.senger seat of Wesley's car.

'I think we might have more luck at Simon Tench's place,' Wesley replied as he started the engine.

Rachel hadn't heard of Barty Carter through the farming community's normally efficient grapevine. He probably kept himself to himself, rather than co-operating with his farming neighbours as her parents did. He was a city boy, an outsider, which meant he'd have been treated with suspicion anyway.

She decided to do the driving. She'd never really trusted Steve Carstairs behind the wheel or anywhere else come to that. He drove like he lived too fast and without much thought to the consequences of his actions.

'So where are we off to?' he asked as he sprawled in the pa.s.senger seat, taking up every available inch of s.p.a.ce.

'Smallholding. Bloke called Barty Carter who's got form for affray. He had a row with our second victim, Simon Tench. About the only enemy Simon had in the world, that anyone knows of.'

Steve was silent for a few moments. Then he said 'Sometimes it's your friends you have to worry about more.'

Rachel glanced at him, surprised. 'That's very philosophical of you, Steve. What do you mean by that?'

Steve's face reddened. He wasn't sure what he'd meant. It had just sounded good.

'I hear there's a new woman in your life.'

There was a long silence. Then Steve cleared his throat. 'She's called Joanne works with my dad. But it's early days.'

'How are you getting on with your dad?' she asked, taking advantage of this new openness.

'Okay.'

Rachel suspected that that was all the information she was going to get out of him for the moment so she concentrated on her driving. But when her mobile rang, she brought the car to a halt in a lay-by. She said h.e.l.lo then fell silent for a while before saying 'Who is that?' before the caller hung up.

'Well?' said Steve, sensing excitement.

Rachel turned to him. 'That was a woman wouldn't give her name. She said if I wanted to know who Charlie Marrick was with on the day he died, I should ask Celia Dawn.'

'You want to do it now?'

'Better get this visit to Carter out of the way first.'

They found Barty Carter's smallholding down a narrow lane off the main road to Neston. The metal gate was coming away from its hinges and a flaking sign gave the name of the property as Windy Edge and warned trespa.s.sers to keep out.

Even though Rachel had lived on a farm for most of her life, she had never smelled anything like the stench that greeted them as they got out of the car.

Rachel wrinkled her nose. 'There's no excuse for a smell like that not if the stock's looked after properly.'

'I'll take your word for it,' Steve answered. He could hear the grunting coming from a rickety wooden shed to their left. Ahead of them stood the house. Filthy windows, flaking paintwork. No mod cons. The place was a dump.

'Wonder where he is.' Rachel began to walk towards the pig shed, her hand to her nose. The grunting of the animals sounded half-hearted and miserable, as though the effort was too much for them. She felt angry. And her anger increased as she pushed the shed door open.

The place was covered in slurry, as though it hadn't been mucked out for a few days. The creatures looked dispirited on their spa.r.s.e, filthy straw. One thin animal, alone in a corner pen, lay on the ground, a hopeless look in its little eyes. It looked ill. Or perhaps it had just lost interest in life.

'We should call the RSPCA,' Rachel announced, her eyes alight with righteous fury. 'This isn't on.'

Steve said nothing. He had covered his face with his sleeve against the stench.

'Let's get out of here,' Rachel said.

Steve followed her out into what pa.s.sed for fresh air. But as soon as they stepped outside, they saw a tall, slim figure standing in front of them, dressed in an ancient waxed jacket and tweed cap, legs slightly bent like a cowboy preparing for a shootout in front of the saloon. He was carrying a shotgun. And it was pointed straight at Steve Carstairs's head.

Rachel's heart missed a beat. But she took a deep breath and held up her warrant card like a magic s.h.i.+eld. 'Police. DS Tracey and DC Carstairs, Tradmouth CID. If I were you, I'd put that thing down.'

The man hesitated for a few moments, his eyes nervous, flicking from one to the other, a.s.sessing the opposition.

'You heard what I said,' Rachel said, trying to keep the terror she felt out of her voice. She lowered her left hand slowly and felt in her jacket pocket for her mobile phone. If she called out the Armed Response Unit they'd be there within fifteen minutes. But that would probably be too late.

It seemed like a long time before the shotgun was lowered slowly. 'What do you want?' the man called out. He was surprisingly well spoken, posh even. Somehow Rachel had expected a voice more fitting to his thuggish behaviour. But then thuggishness often didn't confine itself to the lower social cla.s.ses.

'Are you Barty Carter?'

The answer was a curt nod.

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