Part 19 (1/2)

Wesley had to concede that Heath was right. The fact that the dead man paid his rent up front had been no reason to set alarm bells ringing. Unlike two virtually identical deaths in another part of the country.

They walked up a flight of carpeted stairs. The carpet was new and the paint was fresh. As they entered the flat Wesley saw that this was no cheap rented h.e.l.l-hole the walls in the wide hallway were pristine cream and the floor was solid oak. And the art work on the walls must have come from one of the exclusive galleries they'd pa.s.sed on the way there.

Wesley pushed open the door to the living room. The sofa had been taken away and the carpet had been ripped up. 'This was where he was found?'

'That's right. Not a pretty sight. The constable who found him was sick.' Heath took a deep breath. 'The blood had seeped through and stained the ceiling of the shop below. They dialled nine nine nine when they saw it and a patrol car came round and the lads got the key off the landlord. There was no sign of anyone else being involved.'

'Have you spoken to Grisham's friends and family?'

'Yes. They said he never seemed the type. But then people surprise you, don't they?'

'He wasn't the type. He was murdered.'

Heath looked doubtful. Although he had alerted them to the similarities to the two Devon murders, Wesley felt that there was still a small sliver of doubt there. He wasn't one hundred per cent convinced that such an obvious suicide could possibly be murder.

'Didn't you think the use of hemlock was a bit strange?' Wesley asked. 'Wouldn't pills and booze be a more likely method of doing away with yourself?'

Heath looked smug as he strolled over to the bookshelves. 'See for yourself lots of books of herbalism and the use of plants in medicine. Seemed to be his thing.' He picked out a book and pa.s.sed it to Wesley. 'And there was this life of Socrates. One of our DSs noticed it he's a graduate ... cla.s.sics. He said this Socrates bloke topped himself by drinking hemlock.'

Wesley nodded. He might have come to the same conclusion himself.

Gerry Heffernan had begun to snoop round, opening drawers and cupboards. He took a pile of photograph alb.u.ms out of the top drawer of a sleek, birch sideboard and began to flick through it.

'Did Grisham have a girlfriend?' Wesley asked.

'Yes. But apparently it was cooling off before he died. Might have been why he killed himself. It all seemed to fit at the time.' It seemed that Heath was making excuses for his initial lack of suspicion. But Wesley had some sympathy for him. Hindsight was a wonderful thing.

'Where is she now?'

'Germany. She got a job there and went out shortly after we spoke to her. Forget what part she went to could have been Munich ... or was it Frankfurt? She got a job in some big hotel.'

'What was her name?'

'Jenny. Jenny Pringle. Nice girl. She hadn't been going out with Grisham that long but she was really shocked about what happened.'

'Did she live here with him?'

Heath shook his head. 'No, she worked in a hotel in the centre. Lived in.'

'You interviewed her yourself, I take it?' Heffernan spoke for the first time since they'd entered the flat.

'Yes. But as I said, she couldn't tell me anything much except that things between her and Grisham were cooling off. And she seemed to think Grisham might have been having some trouble at work.'

'We'd like to speak to her. Have you got an address?'

'I must have it back at the office but I don't honestly think she'll be able to tell you much. She hadn't seen him for a few days and when we called her to tell her he was dead she told us they'd rowed about her going off to Germany. She said her career was important to her. Her number was in his address book that's how we got in touch with her.'

'So it all seemed straightforward? Man having troubles at work then his girlfriend announces she's going abroad.'

'You've got it in one. There's no way we suspected murder.'

'You checked the girlfriend's alibi?'

'What do you think we are? The Keystone Cops?'

Wesley could tell that his question had hit a sensitive spot. Which wasn't what he'd intended.

Before he could say anything Heffernan stepped in. 'Come on, John, we've got to ask.'

Heath took a deep breath. Maybe he had been too touchy. But on the other hand he had two detectives from another force there, questioning his professional competence. 'Of course we checked it. She was working at the hotel. They were busy and she was working an extra s.h.i.+ft at the time the pathologist reckons he died.'

Wesley smiled. It was time good relations were re-established. 'Can you tell us about his working life?'

'He worked in an art gallery. The Potterton Gallery in Bridge Street. He was a partner in the business.'

'But there was trouble at work?'

'The gallery isn't doing well. The other partners said they should all chip in a bit of extra capital but Grisham said it was throwing good money after bad.'

'So his partners would have a motive for getting rid of him?'

'I suppose so. His life was insured and they benefit. It might even save the gallery. But both partners have cast-iron alibis. One was in the States and the other was at the hospital. His wife had their first baby the night Grisham died.'

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. It was time to move on. Heffernan produced photographs of some of the Tradmouth dramatis personae: Fabrice Colbert, Annette Marrick, Emma Tench, Carl Pinney, Barty Carter. Heath looked at them blankly ... except the picture of Fabrice Colbert or Darren Collins: he recognised him from the television.

John Heath stood awkwardly near the door with his hands in his pockets while the two Devon detectives made a search of the flat. He wasn't sure what they were looking for and he doubted if they'd find it. Someone had gone through Grisham's things already and found no suicide note or any other clue to his death.

But fifteen minutes later, Gerry Heffernan gave a shout of triumph. 'Wes, come and look at this.'

Wesley, who had been examining Grisham's bank statements and finding nothing of much interest, hurried over to the sideboard where the DCI had spread out a school photograph. Around twenty boys, sitting neatly in rows in garish striped blazers.

'Recognise anyone?'

Wesley stared for a few moments. One adolescent boy looked much like another in his opinion. But when Heffernan turned the photograph over all was revealed. The boys' names were neatly printed on the back. And there they were. Christopher Grisham, Simon Tench and Charles Marrick.

'Belsinger School. That's that posh boarding school near Littlebury, isn't it?'

'You're dead right, Gerry,' Wesley said with a grin.

His mobile phone rang and after a short conversation he turned to the DCI again, resisting the urge to punch the air. John Heath probably thought he was c.o.c.ky enough already.

'That was Trish. She's just visited St Peter's School in Morbay. They said Simon Tench only joined the school in the sixth form. He'd been to a boarding school before that because his mother was dead and his father was working away. When his father returned to Devon, he sent Simon to a day school so they could be together. St Peter's didn't have the name of his former school to hand but they're going to dig through their records and let Trish know.'

'I think we've just saved them a job. It's Belsinger.' Heffernan chuckled.

'And Rachel's found out where Marrick ate his quail and garlic spuds. He had an intimate lunch with Celia Dawn on the day he died. Rachel's double-checking her alibi.'

'You two seem happy,' said John Heath, curious.

Heffernan caught Wesley's eye and grinned. 'Tell you what, John, we'll buy you a drink. We're celebrating.'