Part 30 (1/2)

He'd been kind, Mr Dean. He'd carried her back home and told her father some story about an accident. She could tell by the look in her father's eyes that he didn't quite believe it but he was in no position to argue. And since her mother's death in a road accident, she had never been able to talk to him about anything deeper than trivialities so she kept her silence. Even when she was sent away to live with her aunt 'because it would be better', she'd never told. She'd been ashamed and nursed the secret that had festered inside her soul, unseen and suppressed. But when she'd met Chris Grisham up in Chester, the horror of that night had flooded back.

She'd been calling herself Jenny Pringle by then she'd adopted her aunt's surname and her father had always called her Jenny so Chris had had no idea who she was and at first she hadn't recognised him either. It was only when they got talking, trading their backgrounds, that he told her he'd been at Belsinger. Then the memory came back to her slowly, seeping like blood from a wound. She recalled his face much younger then and ridden with acne. But she'd said nothing. She let it carry on and when he became impatient with her refusal to sleep with him, she finished it, saying she'd rather be friends. She even told him that she thought she preferred women and he had made a coa.r.s.e joke but accepted it. You win some, you lose some.

She had had to use all her self-control to keep up the act, the pretence. And although he seemed quite amiable, she couldn't allow herself to see him as a human being. He was one of the boys who'd destroyed her life, left her emotionally paralysed; unable to form relations.h.i.+ps with men like the women around her did. She was petrified of physical contact. Dead to love. And she'd wanted him to die. To be helpless as she had been helpless. He had to know what it was like what he'd done to her.

The first time had been hard. She had made the hemlock she knew all about preparing herbs from her aunt who'd been keen on that sort of thing. She'd found the plant growing wild by a riverbank and had chopped up the leaves, put them in a blender and covered the pulp with best malt whisky the kind Chris liked before straining it and rebottling the poisoned drink. She knew it would paralyse him. She knew she'd be able to reveal her ident.i.ty and tell him what he'd done to her as he lay there helpless. And when she'd pierced his throat with the knife, he had had to lie there just as she had lain there on the sand, while his life blood drained away. It had been sweet, that first death. And the others had been easier almost enjoyable. She had become Nemesis. The avenging angel.

She had called on the others on Charles Marrick and Simon Tench in her market research role, armed with official-looking clipboard and small sample bottles of adulterated whisky. Funny how men can never resist the flattery of being asked their opinion ... especially about something like a fine malt whisky. She flattered and joked and they had no idea who she was. It had been so easy. She was sorry about Mortimer Dean, but he'd known the truth and he couldn't be allowed to betray her.

Now it was over. She could hear the sea, pounding relentlessly against the rocks at the edge of the beach. She had brought death to her tormentors and now it was her turn. This was how it had to end.

She began to walk towards the sea, staring ahead. But suddenly she heard a shout above the noise of the gulls. Someone was calling her name, running towards her, getting closer. She began to move, her eyes still fixed ahead. They wouldn't take her alive.

But she couldn't resist looking round and she was relieved to see that he'd come alone. Steve Carstairs was getting nearer, his progress hampered by the soft sand. If she was going to do it, it had to be now before he could stop her. She began to run towards the waves. Then into the water, gasping as the cold waves. .h.i.t her warm flesh. She waded out, frustrated at the weight of sea slowing her steps. She was up to her shoulders. Her neck. She walked on. He wouldn't save her. It was over. It had to be.

She could still hear him shouting. He was in the water too, up to his waist now. The current knocked her off her feet and she let the water take her, going under for the first time then bobbing up for breath.

She turned towards the sh.o.r.e but she couldn't see Steve. Maybe he had given up she hoped he had. Suddenly she spotted his head and arms thras.h.i.+ng about in the water. Then he went under. And she did the same.

When she surfaced again there were sirens. Police cars on the beach. And figures in wet suits coming after her, swimming strongly.

The next thing she knew she felt rough hands on her body, dragging her up on to the sand as she fought, coughing and spluttering. They were pulling at her arms, hurting her. Just like those boys had hurt her years ago.

Her head began to spin as the effort of the fight became too much. Someone the woman called Trish she had seen once at Steve's flat was putting a blanket around her shoulders. And someone was shouting, asking where Steve was as she slumped back, shuddering, and vomited on to the damp, golden sand.

Gerry Heffernan and Wesley Peterson had hardly said a word on the journey back to Tradmouth. Both men felt numb, stunned. And both experienced a nagging guilt that in life they hadn't really liked Steve Carstairs. In death, they both knew, Steve would become a fallen comrade. A hero. De mortuis nil nisi bonum. n.o.body would ever speak ill of Steve again.

It was Heffernan who broke the stunned silence. 'Those currents are b.l.o.o.d.y lethal, Wes,' he said softly. 'He was an idiot to go in there. He didn't stand a chance.'

'She did.'

'She was b.l.o.o.d.y lucky for once in her life.'

'I doubt if she'd see it that way. She's got a life sentence ahead of her.'

'Or a spell at Her Majesty's pleasure in a secure psychiatric hospital. Under the circ.u.mstances ...'

Wesley shook his head. 'She planned it so carefully. There's no way any jury's going to believe a plea of insanity. And she killed Mortimer Dean just to cover her tracks.'

Gerry Heffernan didn't answer. Wesley, he knew, was probably right. 'Didn't you say you needed to see Neil?'

'Yes. It seems he's done our job for us. He's found out the truth about this skeleton business.' He gave Heffernan a brief outline of the facts.

The DCI gave a low whistle. 'That's a turn-up for the books. Fancy going to see him now?' he said like a parent trying to give a child a treat to distract him from something unpleasant.

But Wesley hardly felt in the mood for Neil at that moment. Steve filled his thoughts. Steve whom he had never really liked. Steve who'd given him a hard time. Steve whom Gerry had threatened to return to uniform as soon as the Spider case was over. He could hardly believe he was dead. That he wouldn't slouch into the CID office in that leather jacket like Jack the Lad, fancying himself.

'I'll have to go and break the news to his mum,' Heffernan said quietly. 'Say what a fine officer he was and that he'd died trying to rescue someone.' He sighed. 'Why is it I feel like such a hypocrite, Wes?'

'Can't you leave it to CS Nutter?'

'No, Wes. I've got to do it myself. He was part of my team. Why don't we see Neil first thing tomorrow, eh? See what he's got to say about those bones in the woods.'

'Barry Ickerman 'What?'

'The skeleton's name. Barry Ickerman. s.e.x offender of the parish of Luton or thereabouts.' He sighed. 'We've cleared up two cases today. Why is it I don't feel like celebrating?'

Gerry Heffernan touched his sleeve. He knew exactly what Wesley meant.

Wesley was silent as they drove out to Stow Barton the next morning with Heffernan by his side. He parked by the gate and both men made their way to the excavation. The first person they came across was Norman Hedge. He smiled nervously at Wesley who greeted him solemnly.

'Any progress, Inspector?'

The two policemen looked at each other. There was no harm in giving the man the bare facts. After all, he'd suffered at Charles Marrick's hands too. 'We've made an arrest, Mr Hedge. A young woman who used to live at Belsinger School. She was the daughter of the caretaker there a Janet Blincoe.'

Hedge looked surprised. 'I remember her. She was a nervous little thing terrified of her own shadow. She disappeared suddenly went to live with her aunt or something. Surely you've made a mistake.'

After a few rea.s.suring words, they went off in search of Neil. They found him talking to Lenny. Lenny looked bored: Neil's archaeological and historical findings were clearly still at odds with his imaginative version of what went on at Stow Barton. Blood rituals are far more compelling than the uncomplicated if old fas.h.i.+oned medical procedure of blood-letting. Who needs the facts to get in the way when you've already decided on the story? It was a good job Wesley was used to keeping an open mind or Carl Pinney would still have been behind bars for Charles Marrick's murder.

Neil spotted the two detectives and beckoned them into the site office. Wesley noticed that he looked pale and drawn. Not his usual self. He sat on a rickety office chair by a makes.h.i.+ft desk while Wesley and his boss perched on a pair of upturned milk crates.

'Are you okay?' Wesley sounded concerned. He'd rarely seen Neil so agitated, playing with a trowel that had been lying on the desk, turning it over and over in his fingers.

'Not really.'

'Sorry I couldn't see you yesterday but ...'

Neil looked up at him reproachfully.

'So what happened?'

'Diane tried to kill herself.'

'Is she ... ?'

'Still in hospital. But she'll be fine.'

Gerry Heffernan cleared his throat. 'Wes tells me you've found out who killed our skeleton in the woods. After my job, are you?' he said, his mind only half on the question. He knew he had to see Steve's mother and he wanted to do it sooner rather than later ... to get it over and done with. And there was his father too at Burton's b.u.t.ties. He'd almost forgotten about the father.

'So tell us about it,' Wesley said gently.

Neil scratched his head. 'Okay. Where do I start?'

'Try the beginning.'

'Well, Diane was just a kid at the time. She was on holiday at Sunacres and she was playing in the wood when this man tried to attack her. She had a penknife with her and lashed out, I suppose. It was an accident self-defence at worst.'

'She didn't tell anyone?'