Part 23 (1/2)

Gerry Heffernan had had enough. He was growing impatient. Being a naturally inquisitive person himself, he found it hard to believe that in the cloistered world of Belsinger School, the entire staff wouldn't have known if something serious had happened. He said as much to Hedge, rather too brutally in Wesley's opinion.

Hedge looked hurt. 'I can a.s.sure you, Chief Inspector, that I'm telling the truth. Whatever it was was hushed up suppressed very effectively. Only a handful of people knew and they weren't telling. But I did overhear Stanley speaking on the telephone once. He mentioned a girl. No name. He just referred to ”the girl in question”. Please believe me, I've told you all I know.'

When they took Hedge back to the dig Wesley didn't stick around to say h.e.l.lo to Neil. It was high time they had another word with Mortimer Dean.

Helen Spilling's part-time job at Morbooks was perfect. Interesting and relatively undemanding, it fitted in perfectly with the school run. Mr Dean somehow she'd never felt it appropriate to call him by his first name was a bit of an old woman but that wasn't a problem. She'd had far worse bosses in her time.

When she arrived at the shop for her usual Friday afternoon s.h.i.+ft, Helen was surprised to find the door locked. Mr Dean must have shut up at lunchtime to visit the warehouse, she thought, taking the keys from her handbag. But he was bound to be back soon and in the meantime she'd make herself a cup of tea in the kitchen at the back of the shop.

As she let herself in she noticed that the open sign was lying on the mat, which was unusual: Mr Dean was so pedantic about that sort of thing and he always turned the sign to closed if he had to shut the shop for any reason, even if he slipped out for a few moments to buy a paper or a sandwich. Helen felt a little uneasy but she told herself she was being stupid. Everybody makes mistakes sometimes even Mr Dean and the sign had probably fallen off as he shut the door behind him.

When Helen slipped behind the counter, she noticed that the till was open and empty just as Mr Dean left it when he shut up the shop last thing at night. But the shop would surely have been open that morning, she thought. If he was shutting for any reason, he would surely have let her know.

She stared at the till for a while. Mr Dean took the float upstairs every night just to be on the safe side because there was so much crime about these days. If she was to open up the shop, she needed some change and the cash box was kept in the top right-hand drawer in the dresser. She was sure that Mr Dean wouldn't mind if she went up to the flat to get it. Besides, he might be ill and in need of help.

Helen turned the sign on the door to closed and flicked up the latch. If she was upstairs she didn't want anybody roaming around the shop unsupervised. Only the other week somebody had pinched an expensive book a guide to the Bible strangely enough. The thief had obviously glossed over the Thou Shalt Not Steal part.

The door at the bottom of the stairs stood open. Mr Dean never left it open and Helen suddenly felt apprehensive. She'd never considered herself a nervous or imaginative sort of person but she felt something was wrong. She took a deep breath and began to climb the stairs leading up to Mortimer Dean's flat.

In the silence every sound seemed to be amplified, especially the buzzing of the bluebottle that dive-bombed her head and then flew round in circles, preparing for another attack. Helen's hand was shaking as she pushed open the flat door and called out Mr Dean's name. Feebly at first then a little louder. But there was no answer. Only silence and the relentless buzzing of the bluebottle, louder now as though the original insect had been joined by its friends. As she crossed the threshold, she saw Mortimer Dean lying slumped on the sofa. A gla.s.s had fallen on to the carpet by his feet. A whisky gla.s.s Mr Dean's favourite tipple was a decent single malt.

She stared at the man in horror. There was no question about it. Mortimer Dean was dead.

Wesley Peterson and Gerry Heffernan all dressed up in overalls and plastic gloves, just in case stood together, staring at the body of Mortimer Dean.

'Natural causes?' Heffernan suggested hopefully. With their current workload, the last thing he wanted was another suspicious death on his hands.

'Who knows?' Wesley answered, studying Dean's face. The dead man looked rather surprised. His mouth was open and his eyes stared into s.p.a.ce.

'Well it certainly isn't our Spider,' Heffernan said with what sounded like relief. 'Not a drop of blood to be seen.' He glanced round. 'Is someone taking a statement from the la.s.s who found him?'

Wesley answered in the affirmative. Everything was being dealt with. They were just waiting for Colin Bowman to arrive. He'd been in the middle of a postmortem on a suicide victim when they'd called. He hadn't sounded his usual cheerful self..

He bent down and picked up the whisky gla.s.s that lay on the floor by Dean's feet. Wesley suspected that it had probably fallen out of his hand. He brought it up to his nose and sniffed it. Then he handed it to Gerry Heffernan.

'Does that smell a bit strange to you, Gerry?'

Heffernan sniffed at it and shrugged. 'Might be worth getting it tested, seeing as our friend here had connections with the three victims.'

Wesley dropped the gla.s.s into an evidence bag.

'I must say I can't see anything suspicious, Wes. He could have had a heart attack or ...'

But Wesley wasn't listening. He was making his way to the small kitchen which lay through an arch off the living room. A few seconds later he emerged holding another gla.s.s in his gloved hand. 'This was on the draining board. Someone had washed it up. I wonder if Mr Dean was entertaining a visitor when he died.'

'It might just be a gla.s.s he used earlier and washed up.'

Wesley looked at the gla.s.s in his hand. Gerry Heffernan could be right. But he'd get it checked for prints just the same. You never know your luck. He suddenly remembered something he'd been meaning to tell the boss; something Dean's death had driven out of his head. 'By the way, Gerry, when we called in at the station Rachel spoke to me. She'd been to Belsinger and got a list of former pupils. And guess who was on it.'

'Surprise me.' Heffernan wasn't in the mood for guessing games.

'Barty Carter. He wasn't in Tavistock House and I think he was in the year above Marrick and co. but he was there all right. Funny he never mentioned that he'd known Simon Tench from school.'

'Perhaps he didn't. I remember at school we didn't really mix with people who weren't in our year.'

Wesley felt rather deflated. But he had to acknowledge the boss was right. Maybe Barty Carter hadn't even recognised Tench. 'I've told Rachel to check it out anyway.'

'Let's just hope the b.u.g.g.e.r's got rid of his shotgun,' Heffernan muttered under his breath.

Wesley suddenly felt uneasy. Carter was volatile, unpredictable. What if he'd put Rachel in danger by telling her to go there again? But he told himself that Rachel knew what she was doing. She'd be okay. 'If he was at Belsinger, Carter might be able to throw some light on this girl Hedge was talking about.'

'Girl?'

'The girl who may or may not have been connected with the serious incident Hedge mentioned. The one Marrick might have been involved in.'

'It's all so vague, Wes. They'd obviously not discovered the joys of gossip at Belsinger.'

Wesley grinned. 'All male community. Positively monastic.'

'I thought they were usually the worst,' said Heffernan absentmindedly, picking up a pile of mail that lay on Dean's sideboard. The dead had no privacy.

Wesley wandered over to the computer desk that stood in the corner of the room. Dean's computer wasn't the latest model but it was sufficiently up to date to satisfy the technical needs of the average person. Wesley switched it on and, with a few clicks of the mouse, Mortimer Dean's e-mails appeared on the screen.

'He sent a rather interesting e-mail yesterday,' Wesley said, making himself comfortable by the computer.

Heffernan looked wary. He'd never managed to get along with a computer in his life. If he touched one either the screen turned blue or the whole thing blew up. 'How do you mean, interesting?'

Wesley began to read. 'Frankie, I really must see you. The police have been asking questions. I know it might be difficult for you but is there a way we can meet? I'm afraid things have got out of hand again. I know it seems strange that our roles are reversed now but I'm genuinely frightened for our friend and I don't know what to do about it. Yours ever, Mortimer Dean.'

There was a sharp intake of breath. Then the DCI asked the inevitable question. 'Who's Frankie and who's our friend?'

Wesley noted down the e-mail address. 'We can get this traced. But Frankie can't be far away if he wants them to meet.'

'Not necessarily. He says it might be difficult.'

Wesley had to acknowledge that Heffernan might be right. Frankie, whoever he or was it she? was, might be miles away.

They heard voices on the stairs interspersed with inappropriately hearty laughter. Colin Bowman had arrived.

And when he examined Mortimer Dean's body he announced that he couldn't say for certain how he died until he conducted the postmortem. But his first instincts were that he had ingested some sort of poison.

It was possible they might have another murder on their hands.

Rachel felt nervous as she drove out to see Barty Carter. She'd spoken to her mother the night before and received the farming community's verdict on the man, which wasn't good. But Rachel felt sorry for him, her pity mingled with just a hint of admiration for the way he'd stuck it out on the smallholding. He'd had problems but he hadn't given up.