though
a hole’s been dug to dispose of something …some liquid or … It’s no casual rubbish pit … look at the stones around the edge.’
‘Any ideas about this dark deposit inside?’ Neil poked his trowel into the darker earth. ‘It’s not excrement. In fact I’ve
not seen anything like it before.’
Before Diane could reply, something made him look up, a movement caught out of the corner of his eye. Lenny was standing at
the edge of the trench, staring down at them. Neil was tempted to order him back to trench one but he stopped himself – this
man was paying for the privilege of taking part in the excavation. He couldn’t speak to him like a naughty schoolboy.
‘That’s where the blood drained away. I told you it was a ceremonial site, didn’t I?’ Lenny sounded smug. Norman and Muriel,
busy at the other end of the trench looked up at him, all ears.
Neil took a deep breath. The worst thing was that Lenny could be right. Tests could prove that the dark deposit was blood –
gallons of it, poured into the pit over a period of many years.
He counted to ten before he replied. ‘I’m going to send some soil samples for testing.’
‘Then maybe you’ll believe me.’ Lenny smirked down at Neil who was still on his knees. He looked triumphant. The man who was
about to be proved right.
‘Lenny, you didn’t send me a letter, did you?’ he asked as Lenny turned to go.
Lenny turned back to face him, his face expressionless. ‘A letter? Why should I send you a letter?’ he said quickly.
Norman, the retired schoolteacher, looked up from his digging, a worried expression on his gaunt face. ‘Is something wrong,
Dr Watson?’
Neil forced himself to smile. ‘No, Norman, it’s nothing. How are you getting on?’
As Norman gave a detailed description of his discoveries,Neil noticed him glance over at Lenny warily. Almost as if he was afraid.
The coffee at Le Petit Poisson had given Wesley Peterson an appetite so he picked up a sandwich from Burton’s Butties on the
way back to the police station.
As he entered the shop he almost collided with a fair-haired young woman who was carrying a large wicker basket filled with
sandwiches over her arm. She wore a name badge that said ‘Joanne’ and smiled shyly as he made his apologies.
He was served by a man wearing a man wearing a badge that told the world he was ‘Robbie – Manager’ – Steve’s father himself. Wesley
kept the conversation to a minimum, wondering whether Steve had mentioned that there was a black inspector in his department
who thought he was God’s gift to detection – and that would be the good version. Wesley left the sandwich shop with his tuna
mayonnaise baguette, as anonymously as he’d gone in.
When he got back to the station, climbing the stairs rather than taking the lift, he found a report on his desk. It was from
Colin Bowman and as soon as he’d read through it, he abandoned his lunch and made straight for Gerry Heffernan’s office. He’d
want to know about this.
The DCI’s office was glass fronted. A goldfish bowl for a publicity-shy goldfish. On several occasions Heffernan had threatened
to bring a set of net curtains to give him more privacy as he sat with his feet on his cluttered desk, contemplating the workings
of the criminal mind.
He looked up, saw Wesley approaching, and signalled him to come in. Wesley was clutching Colin’s report to his chest and he
placed it in front of his boss with a flourish.
‘Remember Socrates?’
‘Didn’t he play for Manchester United?’
‘The Greek philosopher.’
‘Bit before my time, Wes. What about him?’
‘He poisoned himself with hemlock.’
Heffernan sat back in his mock-leather executive swivel chair and it emitted a loud groan. ‘And?’ He wished Wesley would get
to the punch line.
‘Hemlock was found in Charles Marrick’s body.’
Heffernan sat for a few moments in stunned silence. ‘Hemlock? You mean he
a hole’s been dug to dispose of something …some liquid or … It’s no casual rubbish pit … look at the stones around the edge.’
‘Any ideas about this dark deposit inside?’ Neil poked his trowel into the darker earth. ‘It’s not excrement. In fact I’ve
not seen anything like it before.’
Before Diane could reply, something made him look up, a movement caught out of the corner of his eye. Lenny was standing at
the edge of the trench, staring down at them. Neil was tempted to order him back to trench one but he stopped himself – this
man was paying for the privilege of taking part in the excavation. He couldn’t speak to him like a naughty schoolboy.
‘That’s where the blood drained away. I told you it was a ceremonial site, didn’t I?’ Lenny sounded smug. Norman and Muriel,
busy at the other end of the trench looked up at him, all ears.
Neil took a deep breath. The worst thing was that Lenny could be right. Tests could prove that the dark deposit was blood –
gallons of it, poured into the pit over a period of many years.
He counted to ten before he replied. ‘I’m going to send some soil samples for testing.’
‘Then maybe you’ll believe me.’ Lenny smirked down at Neil who was still on his knees. He looked triumphant. The man who was
about to be proved right.
‘Lenny, you didn’t send me a letter, did you?’ he asked as Lenny turned to go.
Lenny turned back to face him, his face expressionless. ‘A letter? Why should I send you a letter?’ he said quickly.
Norman, the retired schoolteacher, looked up from his digging, a worried expression on his gaunt face. ‘Is something wrong,
Dr Watson?’
Neil forced himself to smile. ‘No, Norman, it’s nothing. How are you getting on?’
As Norman gave a detailed description of his discoveries,Neil noticed him glance over at Lenny warily. Almost as if he was afraid.
The coffee at Le Petit Poisson had given Wesley Peterson an appetite so he picked up a sandwich from Burton’s Butties on the
way back to the police station.
As he entered the shop he almost collided with a fair-haired young woman who was carrying a large wicker basket filled with
sandwiches over her arm. She wore a name badge that said ‘Joanne’ and smiled shyly as he made his apologies.
He was served by a man wearing a man wearing a badge that told the world he was ‘Robbie – Manager’ – Steve’s father himself. Wesley
kept the conversation to a minimum, wondering whether Steve had mentioned that there was a black inspector in his department
who thought he was God’s gift to detection – and that would be the good version. Wesley left the sandwich shop with his tuna
mayonnaise baguette, as anonymously as he’d gone in.
When he got back to the station, climbing the stairs rather than taking the lift, he found a report on his desk. It was from
Colin Bowman and as soon as he’d read through it, he abandoned his lunch and made straight for Gerry Heffernan’s office. He’d
want to know about this.
The DCI’s office was glass fronted. A goldfish bowl for a publicity-shy goldfish. On several occasions Heffernan had threatened
to bring a set of net curtains to give him more privacy as he sat with his feet on his cluttered desk, contemplating the workings
of the criminal mind.
He looked up, saw Wesley approaching, and signalled him to come in. Wesley was clutching Colin’s report to his chest and he
placed it in front of his boss with a flourish.
‘Remember Socrates?’
‘Didn’t he play for Manchester United?’
‘The Greek philosopher.’
‘Bit before my time, Wes. What about him?’
‘He poisoned himself with hemlock.’
Heffernan sat back in his mock-leather executive swivel chair and it emitted a loud groan. ‘And?’ He wished Wesley would get
to the punch line.
‘Hemlock was found in Charles Marrick’s body.’
Heffernan sat for a few moments in stunned silence. ‘Hemlock? You mean he
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