Part 21 (1/2)

He paused to give the man a chance to reply but Dean remained silent.

'Were the three victims friendly at all? Did they ever hang round together?'

'Children's friends.h.i.+ps can ebb and flow, Inspector. Today's bosom friend is tomorrow's casual acquaintance and vice versa. I really can't be sure whether this particular trio were friendly at any particular time.'

Wesley was sure he was lying. He knew all right. But for some reason he didn't want to say. And Wesley wondered why.

Gerry Heffernan was growing impatient. 'Look, we're trying to find out who killed your former pupils. What are you trying to hide? Are you s.h.i.+elding someone? Another of your ex-pupils maybe?'

Wesley watched the man's face but he was giving nothing away. However, he suspected Gerry had touched a nerve. There was no doubt Dean was hiding something. But what and why, he had no idea.

Then he had a sudden thought. 'The last headmaster is he still alive?'

'No. He pa.s.sed away shortly after he retired.'

'How did he die?'

This time Dean's face clouded. He swallowed hard. 'I'm afraid Mr Hadderson took his own life. He cut his throat.'

Gerry Heffernan caught Wesley's eye. 'Did he have any family?'

Dean shook his head. 'No. He never married.'

'Brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces?'

Another shake of the head. 'Not that I know of.'

It was Wesley who asked the next question. 'Any lovers, male or female? Any close friends?'

Dean's face reddened. 'I ... Well there was Norman Hedge.'

'Lover or friend?'

'That really isn't for me to say,' Dean replied, coy as a maiden aunt.

'Dr Wynn mentioned a Mr Hedge who taught history. He said he was taking part in a local excavation.' He looked Dean in the eye. 'I presume this is the same Mr Hedge?'

'That'll be Norman. Yes.' He looked worried. 'If you think he might be a suspect, you're mistaken. Norman wouldn't hurt a fly. He ...'

'That's as may be, Mr Dean,' said Wesley smoothly. 'But we still need to speak to him.' He caught Gerry Heffernan's eye. They'd learned all they could for now and pressing Dean further might be counterproductive. They'd call back soon. Besides, Wesley wanted to look at the postmortem report on Belsinger's former headmaster, Stanley Hadderson. He was wondering if there might have been more to the apparent suicide than met the eye. If the wounds on his throat were the same as those on the recent victims, it would open up a whole new set of possibilities.

Wesley took his leave, saying they'd call again, but trying to make the words sound as unthreatening as possible. If they were to get the full story out of Mortimer Dean, they needed him in a co-operative frame of mind.

But as soon as they'd left the shop, Dean turned the sign hanging on the door round to 'closed' and rushed to the back office.

He took a deep breath before switching on his computer. Like the police, he needed to know the truth.

CHAPTER 10.

When I discovered the truth about Brother William it just seemed right to link it to my own story. We're the same, Brother William and I.

Perhaps I'm growing tired of this blood game. But I can't tell you what it all means. You'll have to find that out for yourself, Neil. Think of it as a test.

It was time to go back ... and to pick up the local evening paper on the way. The writer needed to find out how much the police knew. With DNA testing available, they could do wonders these days and it surely wouldn't be long before they discovered his ident.i.ty.

But would they make the connection? Probably not. The only way they could find out the truth was if a confession was made.

Perhaps I shouldn't tell. Perhaps it would bring nothing but misery. But I know I can't keep it a secret much longer. I know I deserve punishment for what I did. Maybe I deserve death.

The urge to tell the truth was overwhelming. But why Neil Watson had been selected as Father Confessor, the writer wasn't sure. Perhaps he'd just looked as though he might understand.

Wesley arrived home at seven thirty and Pam rushed to greet him as soon as she heard his key in the door. She'd had a tough day at school. And besides, she hadn't seen her husband since he'd set off early the day before, bound for Chester and a night at some anonymous small hotel. Pam was surprised at how much she had missed him. She wanted to see him almost as much as she had back in those heady days when they'd first met.

As soon as he walked in through the door, he kissed her and asked how the children were. They were fine, she said. No problems. They were both in bed. Michael was reading and Amelia had fallen asleep immediately, exhausted by her day at the nursery. As if on cue, Michael appeared at the top of the stairs, a book clutched in his hand. Could Daddy read some of it with him?

Wesley ignored his growling stomach and hurried upstairs to do his fatherly duty and when he came down half an hour later, he found Pam slumped in front of the television, watching a cookery programme, too tired to do anything but lift her head and tell him that his dinner was in the microwave and suggest that he bring it in on a tray so they could catch up.

With the TV chefs chattering in the background, Pam launched into an account of the h.e.l.lish couple of days she'd had while he'd been away. Her mother had deigned to stay last night but she'd expected to be waited on hand and foot and hadn't seemed in the least bit repentant about letting them down on the night of their anniversary. At work the headmistress was being a b.i.t.c.h to one of the cla.s.sroom a.s.sistants, one of the other teachers was on the point of a nervous breakdown, and to top this she was going to have to spend most of next weekend doing pointless paperwork. Wesley put his arm around her. He sympathised the police force was exactly the same. Perhaps, he said whimsically, there'd be a revolution soon towering bonfires of forms and paperwork on the corner of each street. Beacons of freedom.

Wesley's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice coming from the television. He'd been about to go to the kitchen to fetch his dinner but instead he shuffled forward in his seat and searched for the remote control to increase the volume.

Fabrice Colbert was setting fire to something rich and creamy in a frying pan after pouring brandy all over it. It was a theatrical performance that had little to do with the kind of cooking that goes on in ninety-nine per cent of homes. But that was what Colbert's diners paid good money for.

'Wish you could cook like that.' Pam reached across and gave her husband a playful push.

'Mmm.' Wesley listened for a few moments to Colbert's or rather Collins's mock French accent and gave a derisory snort. 'Do you know his real name's Darren Collins and he's as French as I am? Comes from London. It's all an act.'

Pam raised her eyebrows in disbelief then she started to laugh. 'You'd never guess. He's got it off pat, hasn't he?'

Wesley had seen more than enough of Darren Collins over the past week or so and he was about to turn down the volume when something on the screen caught his eye. Behind the chef there was a banner anonouncing 'The Best Food Show fifteenth to the nineteenth of June. Chester Pavilion'. His heart started beating more rapidly. Christopher Grisham had died on the sixteenth of June. Collins had been in Chester when he died. In fact he hadn't a believable alibi for any of the Spider murders. And a chef of his ability would know all about hemlock if only to recognise the leaves of the wild variety and know that it wasn't wise to add them to a salad.

'What's the matter?' Pam asked.

He stood up. 'I've got to ring Gerry.'

'Are you two joined at the hip or something? You see him all day.'

Wesley realised that this would have to be done tactfully. 'I won't be long and I promise I'll try to make it to Maritia's next Sunday for lunch. That friend of Mark's will be there, won't he ... Jonathan?'

Pam recognised a repentant husband when she saw one but this wasn't what she wanted to hear.

'I'll have a lot of work to do for Monday,' Pam said quickly. 'I'm sure Maritia won't mind if we can't make it. She'll understand.'

Wesley shrugged. Pam had a point.