Part 20 (1/2)

'Hi,' she said, looking at him through her eyelashes like a coy teenager.

'Hi,' he said, holding out the baguette like a lethal weapon. 'You free tonight?'

She smiled shyly. 'I don't know,' she said. 'I'll have to check my diary.'

'How are things?'

'Okay. I've been busy looking for office jobs something to use my computer skills but I've not found anything. What have you been up to? Caught this Spider yet?'

But before Steve could answer, his father emerged from the back of the shop. 'h.e.l.lo, son,' he said, a smirk on his lips. Steve hated it when he called him that. 'Fancy a drink after work?'

Steve looked at Robbie and saw the over-eager expression on his face. He was trying too hard. Suddenly Steve felt powerful, in control. At last after all these years it seemed he held some sway over the man who had blighted his childhood and his mother's life. He smiled at him but there was no affection in his eyes. Only contempt. 'Not today. I'll be busy.' He looked at Joanne and winked. 'I'll pick you up at eight. Okay?'

Joanne glanced at Robbie and felt herself blus.h.i.+ng as Steve strutted out of the shop with his baguette.

'You want to watch him, you know, love,' Robbie whispered in Joanne's ear. 'I know he's my son but ...'

But Joanne ignored her boss and began to clean the counter furiously.

Some people just wouldn't be told.

The village of Littlebury on the coast between Tradmouth and Plymouth was a magnet for tourists in the summer months, its main attractions being its fine beaches and Monks Island with its famous Art Deco hotel joined to the mainland by a strip of sand when the tide went out. Littlebury itself had spread over the years and bungalows had sprouted like mushrooms around its fringes. Belsinger School stood a mile to the east of the village at the end of a long, winding drive and, as he drove there, Wesley felt a thrill of excitement the antic.i.p.ation of the hunter who knew he was on the right trail. For three former pupils of the same exclusive boarding school to be killed by the same murderer could hardly be a coincidence. The school had to be the link. The three men had become involved with the killer because of their school connection. The old school tie had become a noose.

Gerry Heffernan gave a low whistle as Wesley turned the car into the drive leading to the school. The sign set beside the elegant Georgian lodge was written in gold letters on a black background and it informed them that they had arrived at Belsinger School, established 1854. Headmaster Dr Oliver Wynn.

They had telephoned ahead and Dr Wynn was expecting them. But they'd given no hint as to why they wanted to see him so, hopefully, he'd be quite unprepared. Which is exactly how Gerry Heffernan liked his witnesses to be.

The boys at Belsinger wore striped blazers and, it being summer term, straw boaters seemed to be de rigueur. Masters wore gowns and, as Wesley and Heffernan got out of their car, a gaggle of boys doffed their boaters to a pa.s.sing teacher.

'Like stepping back in time, isn't it?' Heffernan whispered loudly.

Wesley didn't answer. Gerry was right. They could have been back in the days when establishments such as Belsinger trained up Queen Victoria's ruling cla.s.ses to organise the British Empire with effortless efficiency.

He stood for a few moments studying the school itself. The lodge at the gates had led him to expect a monument to Georgian cla.s.sicism but Belsinger School was housed in a much older building. The Elizabethan entrance was rather magnificent; built with all the confidence and swagger of the Renaissance nouveau riche on the make. The wing to the left looked older and more ecclesiastical, its arched windows filled with delicate tracery which Wesley knew was of a much earlier date. This had been an important building in medieval times and Wesley was curious about its history. No doubt Dr Wynn would be able to enlighten him. It would be a good topic to introduce if the conversation showed any sign of flagging they might get more out of the man if they put him at his ease.

Heffernan was glad of Wesley's presence. At least, as an old boy of a famous private school in Dulwich, he knew how to behave in such establishments. He said a polite 'excuse me' to a pa.s.sing boy and asked to be directed to the headmaster's study. The boy duly obliged and ten minutes later they were waiting outside the head's study like a pair of recalcitrant schoolboys. Dr Wynn was keeping them waiting. And Gerry Heffernan didn't like to be kept waiting.

But just as he was about to approach the severe looking secretary in half-moon gla.s.ses who acted as guardian of Dr Wynn's gate, the intercom on her desk buzzed. She looked at the two policemen disapprovingly and told them they could go in. The headmaster would see them now.

Wesley put a warning hand on his boss's sleeve. No wisecracks. No ruffling of feathers. Dr Wynn would need to be treated with the respect he was accustomed to if they were to get the most out of him. Heffernan understood. He'd leave this one to Wesley who seemed to be at home in this sort of atmosphere.

Dr Wynn was a tall, thin man with a beak of a nose a Ronald Searle headmaster from central casting. He stood up to shake their hands politely and invited them to sit. Heffernan, who looked as though he'd been expecting six of the best, obeyed without a word.

'I understand from my secretary that you want to talk to me regarding a murder enquiry. Is that right?' He instinctively looked at Wesley for the answer to his question.

'Yes. We're actually investigating two murders possibly three. All identical. You'll have heard about the murders of Charles Marrick and Simon Tench in the Tradmouth area?' He wasn't sure whether Wynn would follow news of gruesome murders. He looked the sort who was still coming to terms with reports from the Punic Wars.

But Wynn leaned forward, a gleam in his eye. 'The Spider, you mean. What's that got to do with me?'

'We have reason to believe the victims were old boys of this school.'

Wynn slumped back in his chair. He looked genuinely shocked. 'Good Lord. Of course I only took up this post three years ago so I wouldn't know the boys involved. Are you quite sure about this?'

'We'd be grateful if we could take a look at your records. And we'd like to talk to any teachers who might have known the victims if we may.'

'But surely this can't have anything to do with Belsinger ...'

'It's the only link we've found between the victims. Charles Marrick and Simon Tench both attended this school.' He paused, watching the headmaster's face. 'And so did a third victim. Christopher Grisham. He was murdered up in Chester a few weeks ago. Identical MO.'

The headmaster fell silent for a while, lost for words for once. Then he looked up at Wesley, his lips pressed together in a stubborn line. 'I really fail to see what this can have to do with the school, Inspector. If these three former pupils remained in contact after they'd left Belsinger and became involved in something unsavoury, the school can hardly be held to blame.'

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. The headmaster certainly had a point. Only there was no reason whatsoever to suppose the three victims had remained in contact. Charles Marrick and Simon Tench seemed to have very little in common. And there was no indication that Marrick and Grisham had been in touch recently, if ever.

'Are there any teachers here who would have known the victims? They probably would have been pupils here between 1989 and 1994.'

Dr Wynn thought for a few moments. 'There's Mr Foley Physics. And Mr Vaughan Music. Mr Hedge would have taught them history, no doubt. He retired recently but he still does some supply work for us filling in for absent staff. I believe he's on some archaeological dig at the moment out at Stow Barton.

Wesley looked at Heffernan who was sitting silently beside him. This was Neil's training excavation. He thought of the anonymous letters his friend had received and felt a thrill of excitement. He wanted to speak to Mr Hedge, sooner rather than later.

He gave the headmaster a businesslike smile. 'This is a boarding school. Presumably there are housemasters and ...'

'Of course.'

'Would you mind looking at your records to see if these boys were in the same house? And if so, which one.'

Wynn gave Wesley a curious look. He had hardly expected this young black policeman to be so au fait with the life of a public school. But then he was well spoken and he exuded a certain air of quiet confidence so perhaps he had gone through the system himself. Although he rather baulked at the idea of any old Belsingians entering the police force at any rank below that of chief constable. 'Of course. I'll ask my secretary to look at our records.'

He lifted the telephone receiver and made the request. As they had time to fill, Wesley asked the question that had been on his mind since he'd first seen the school.

'How old is the building?'

Wynn looked rather gratified that he'd noticed the architectural gem that had become his fiefdom. 'The earliest parts date back to the thirteen century,' he began proudly. 'It was an abbey prior to the Dissolution. A house of Augustinian Canons. Monks Island was a part of the abbey property. Henry VIII sold the land and buildings off to one of his cronies, of course, after which it became a private house. When the family in question died out it became a school in the nineteenth century.'

Heffernan sat there in silence, listening to all this. As Wesley seemed to have established a rapport with the man, he was quite happy to leave all the talking to him. In fact he was rather glad of the break.

After ten minutes of historical chat, Dr Wynn's secretary produced the records for each victim with remarkable efficiency, along with tea in bone china cups.

Simon Tench and Christopher Grisham had been model pupils. Grisham was a talented artist while Tench was academically bright, especially at science and mathematics. Only Marrick had let the side down. Reading between the lines, he'd held the post of School Bully. Always in trouble with masters. Always at the headmaster's door for something or other. Like Tench he hadn't stayed on in the sixth form. But, unlike Tench, he hadn't gone to take his A Levels elsewhere and then on to university he'd joined the vulgar world of commerce and made his fortune. Something Belsinger probably wouldn't choose to record in gold letters on their venerable oak honours boards.

But Wesley noted one thing with great interest. Charles Marrick, Simon Tench and Christopher Grisham had all been in Tavistock House under the guardians.h.i.+p of housemaster, Mr Dean. And, according to Dr Wynn, Mr Dean had retired three years ago to run a bookshop in Morbay.

As they took their leave of the headmaster, Wesley warned him that they might need to visit the school again. But in the meantime he wanted to speak to Mr Dean. If he had been in loco parentis to the three victims for several years, it was likely he'd know their secrets. Or at least have his suspicions about what they were trying to hide.

Parents might not know everything their offspring get up to. But a housemaster used to dealing with adolescent boys was bound to know all the tricks. Or at least that's what Wesley was pinning his hopes on as they drove away from the school.

Carl Pinney had received the sentence of a hundred hours' community service for mugging DC Steve Carstairs. But, just as he thought it was safe to return to the Winterham Estate, Lee Parsons and Paul Johnson ruined his day. They were waiting for him outside Morbay Magistrates' Court.

'This is police hara.s.sment,' Carl protested as he was led towards the patrol car. 'I want my brief.'

'All in good time,' said DC Johnson patiently. 'We've sent someone to search your house.'