Part 18 (2/2)

But Lenny didn't answer the question. 'If you listened to me, you'd learn the truth about what happened here. I feel this is a site of great evil, Dr Watson. Great evil.'

The last letter had spoken of evil. As Neil took a deep breath he felt his hands sweating. 'Look, Lenny, I've been getting some strange letters. You don't know anything about them, do you?'

Lenny stared at him for a few seconds before stalking away, weaving his way past the open trenches. As he watched Lenny's receding back, Neil didn't hear Diane approaching. He felt a gentle pressure on his arm and swung round.

'Diane, you gave me a shock.'

'Sorry. Trouble with Lenny?'

'You could say that.'

'I ... I was wondering if you fancied a trip to Veland Abbey. It's open to the public and I thought we could take the trainees. It'd help to put this site in context.'

It was an excellent idea. And one that Neil hadn't thought of. 'Sure. Great,' he said, pulling himself together. 'We can arrange it over the next few days. Just don't put me in a car with Lenny.' He came to a sudden decision. 'I've been getting some weird letters and I think Lenny might have sent them.'

Diane suddenly looked wary. 'Lenny? Why should he ... ?'

'I don't know. He seems like a bit of a nutter, that's all.'

'Maybe you're right,' she said quickly. 'Look, I'd better get back to the trench.'

Neil watched her as she hurried away. She was really quite attractive.

Celia Dawn's sullen daughter opened the door to the little pink house. As soon as she opened her mouth to say that her mother wasn't there she was on the Daisy Lady again Rachel knew that she had made the earlier call. However, when Rachel challenged her, the girl denied all knowledge. But she wasn't a good liar.

Rachel found Celia on the deck of Daisy Lady, sitting in the same place, almost as if she hadn't moved since Rachel's last visit. She looked nervous as she invited Rachel aboard like a woman with something to hide.

There was no point wasting time. Rachel came straight to the point and told her about her daughter's phone call, asking her bluntly whether she'd been telling the truth about her whereabouts on the day of Charles Marrick's murder.

'The little b.i.t.c.h,' were the woman's first words. 'She never misses a chance to make trouble for me.' She thought for a few moments, choosing her words carefully. 'She's got the wrong end of the stick. It was all quite innocent.'

'What was?' Rachel could see that Celia's face had turned red beneath her make-up. She had been found out and she wasn't pleased. 'I think you'd better tell me what happened.'

'I didn't exactly lie to you ...'

'Just left things out.'

'I can't see that it's important.'

Rachel said nothing. The tactic worked and the silence encouraged Celia to talk.

'Okay. Charlie came here to the boat around eleven thirty that morning. We ... Just for old times' sake. It was all over but ...'

'Obviously.' Rachel immediately regretted her sarcasm. She had to keep the woman on side.

'No, honestly, it was. But ... Anyway, I told him I was meeting the girls at two and that he'd have to go.'

'The girls? I presume you mean Annette and Betina?'

She nodded.

'So you and Marrick went to bed and ...'

'He was hungry. I keep some ready meals in my little freezer here Winterlea's gourmet range. I put one in the microwave for him after we'd ...'

Rachel suddenly remembered something. 'It wasn't quail and garlic potatoes by any chance, was it?'

Celia's eyes widened, as if Rachel had performed some remarkable mind-reading trick. 'How did you know?'

'The stomach contents at the postmortem,' she replied brutally and watched Celia wince. 'What time did Marrick leave?'

'Not long after one o'clock. He didn't want to b.u.mp into his wife, did he?'

'No, I don't suppose he did.' Rachel looked at the bruises on Celia's face, just visible beneath the blusher and eye shadow. 'What about those bruises? Did he do that?'

'No,' she said defensively. 'I walked into a cupboard door. That's the truth.

Rachel didn't believe her but she let it go for now. 'Do you know a man called Simon Tench? He was a vet?'

Celia shook her head, avoiding Rachel's eyes.

'I'll have to ask you to make a statement.'

The woman nodded meekly. But Rachel suspected that this new version of events might prove to be as unreliable as Celia's original statement. In other words, a pack of lies.

The traffic on the M6 was dreadful as it always was during the working day and it was four o'clock by the time Wesley Peterson and Gerry Heffernan hit the Chester suburbs. Wesley had entered the address of Ches.h.i.+re police headquarters into his sat nav and he was rather surprised when the disembodied female voice directed him to an ugly high-rise block, at odds with the city's historical image, not far from the Roodee racecourse and the elegant castle which housed the law courts.

They were expected, which was good. As was the tea they were offered in the office of the detective inspector who had conducted the initial investigation into the death of Christopher Grisham. The DI, whose name was John Heath, was on the defensive at first and Wesley sensed he was embarra.s.sed about his swift conclusion that Grisham had died by his own hand. But then all the evidence had pointed that way and the coroner had seemed happy with the verdict. It was only the news of the similar deaths over two hundred miles away in Devon that had made DI John Heath reconsider his first a.s.sumption.

Some men would have become obstructive when their bubble of professional pride had been p.r.i.c.ked but Heath seemed to take it philosophically. He was a big man, overweight, bald and nearing retirement. And he knew Gerry Heffernan's cousin, Howard, which endeared him at once to the DCI.

Heath said it would be easier to walk to Christopher Grisham's flat than to travel by car. He'd lived right in the centre, in one of the main streets given over to pedestrians. Wesley had never visited Chester before and he was glad to combine duty with a spot of sightseeing. He knew Chester was a walled city and that the walls were more intact than those of his old university city, Exeter: perhaps when the day's work was over, he could persuade Gerry Heffernan to indulge in some impromptu tourism.

John Heath led them through the streets, past the Grosvenor Museum and into wide thoroughfares thronging with shoppers. Wesley studied the buildings as they walked. Lofty, half-timbered shops rose up either side of the street magpie black and white. Many had covered galleries on the first floor revealing a second tier of shops behind their bal.u.s.trades. These were the famous Rows, unique to the city a masterly method of medieval s.p.a.ce-saving.

'So where did the victim live?' Wesley asked, wondering how much further they had to go.

'Right in the heart of things. Just coming up to our right. He had a flat in the Rows ... top floor above an antique shop.'

Heath turned sharp right, weaving his way through a group of j.a.panese tourists, and led them up a narrow flight of steps to a wide walkway with a wooden balcony on one side and a row of small shops on the other. To the left of an expensive-looking antique shop was a door. Heath took a key from his pocket and placed it in the lock.

'The landlord's had a firm of cleaners in to get rid of the worst of it,' he said, wrinkling his nose. 'Grisham's stuff's still in here. His relatives haven't cleared it out yet. The rent was paid a couple of months in advance so the landlord's not in much of a hurry.'

'You wouldn't pay a few months' rent in advance if you planned to kill yourself,' Wesley observed.

'It might have been a spur of the moment decision.' There was a hint of resentment in Heath's reply, as though he thought that Wesley was being too clever by half.

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