theory that he’s the one who found the body and made the anonymous phone call. We’ll see if he’s right.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know. But I suspect there might be some connection with a place called Earlsacre. He asked the woman who owned the
caravan park about it and we found a newspaper cutting about it under his mattress. It’s an historic garden that’s being restored.
Neil’s working on it.’
‘Is he indeed?’ said Rachel significantly. She had met Neil, had seen how Wesley’s old friend could reawaken his interest
in archaeological mysteries at the siren drop of a trowel. She didn’t see the appeal in dead dusty ruins herself, but Wesley
seemed to find them fascinating, so she tried to take a polite interest. ‘What do they need an archaeologist in a garden for?’
she asked, puzzled.
‘They’re excavating the seventeenth-century garden that’s buried under the present one. They’ve discovered lots of things
– paths, buildings, flower-beds … couple of skeletons.’ He grinned.
‘So I suppose you’ll be seizing every opportunity to get down there.’
‘Not at all. If I go to Earlsacre it’ll be strictly in the line of duty,’ Wesley said convincingly. ‘Apart from this afternoon,
of course.’
‘What’s happening this afternoon?’
‘Bob Naseby’s cricket match: the Divisional XI versus Earlsacre Village XI. He’s persuaded me to play, but when he sees how
bad I am he won’t ask me again,’ he said with fragile confidence.
‘Oh, Wesley, I’m surprised at you, I really am. You realise your weekends won’t be your own now?’
Wesley looked at her, unable to work out whether she was joking or not.
‘So you’re not coming down to cheer us on, then?’
Her lips tightened. ‘I lost a boyfriend to the cricket field once. Every spare moment he spent there. If it wasn’t interminable
matches it was practising in something called “the nets”. Just watch it, that’s all. Cricket’s an addiction like any other.’
‘I’ll remember.’ Their eyes met and Rachel began to smile. ‘How are things at the farm?’ Wesley asked. ‘How’s Dave?’
The smile disappeared. ‘Okay.’ She changed the subject, probably deliberately, Wesley thought, and waved a piece of paper
she was holding in front of his nose. ‘I was coming to show you this. There have been another two reports of an old man borrowing
money from tourists which they never see again … one in Morbay and one in Bloxham. Same description and same MO. I think he’s
almost certainly obtaining money by deception.’
‘That’s all we need.’
Gerry Heffernan lumbered out of his office. ‘Right, Wes. Let’s go and give Craig Kettering his wake-up call, shall we?’
Rachel touched Wesley’s hand gently. ‘See you later.’
‘See you later,’ mumbled Wesley as he watched Rachel Tracey walk back to her desk.
Still half asleep and dressed in a not-so-fetching ensemble of grubby off-white T-shirt and faded boxer shorts, Craig Kettering
opened the peeling front door of the large Edwardian terraced house wide to let the two officers in. He greeted Gerry Heffernan
with a grunt and looked Wesley up and down with curiosity before leading the way up the uncarpeted stairs to his small bed-sit
on the top floor. In the days when Morbay was the last word in seaside respectability the building would have housed a comfortably-off
bourgeois family complete with loyal servants and distinguished paterfamilias. But now, along with the seaside resort, it
had come down in the world and was divided into six non-too-salubrious bed-sits. The cream gloss paint on the banisters, once
crisp and clean, had been chipped away overthe years to reveal the dark wood beneath. The floors of the hallway and landings were covered in ancient linoleum, the pattern
of which was too worn or dirty to make out.
Craig’s bed-sit wasn’t much better than the rest of the house. A cheap, badly
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know. But I suspect there might be some connection with a place called Earlsacre. He asked the woman who owned the
caravan park about it and we found a newspaper cutting about it under his mattress. It’s an historic garden that’s being restored.
Neil’s working on it.’
‘Is he indeed?’ said Rachel significantly. She had met Neil, had seen how Wesley’s old friend could reawaken his interest
in archaeological mysteries at the siren drop of a trowel. She didn’t see the appeal in dead dusty ruins herself, but Wesley
seemed to find them fascinating, so she tried to take a polite interest. ‘What do they need an archaeologist in a garden for?’
she asked, puzzled.
‘They’re excavating the seventeenth-century garden that’s buried under the present one. They’ve discovered lots of things
– paths, buildings, flower-beds … couple of skeletons.’ He grinned.
‘So I suppose you’ll be seizing every opportunity to get down there.’
‘Not at all. If I go to Earlsacre it’ll be strictly in the line of duty,’ Wesley said convincingly. ‘Apart from this afternoon,
of course.’
‘What’s happening this afternoon?’
‘Bob Naseby’s cricket match: the Divisional XI versus Earlsacre Village XI. He’s persuaded me to play, but when he sees how
bad I am he won’t ask me again,’ he said with fragile confidence.
‘Oh, Wesley, I’m surprised at you, I really am. You realise your weekends won’t be your own now?’
Wesley looked at her, unable to work out whether she was joking or not.
‘So you’re not coming down to cheer us on, then?’
Her lips tightened. ‘I lost a boyfriend to the cricket field once. Every spare moment he spent there. If it wasn’t interminable
matches it was practising in something called “the nets”. Just watch it, that’s all. Cricket’s an addiction like any other.’
‘I’ll remember.’ Their eyes met and Rachel began to smile. ‘How are things at the farm?’ Wesley asked. ‘How’s Dave?’
The smile disappeared. ‘Okay.’ She changed the subject, probably deliberately, Wesley thought, and waved a piece of paper
she was holding in front of his nose. ‘I was coming to show you this. There have been another two reports of an old man borrowing
money from tourists which they never see again … one in Morbay and one in Bloxham. Same description and same MO. I think he’s
almost certainly obtaining money by deception.’
‘That’s all we need.’
Gerry Heffernan lumbered out of his office. ‘Right, Wes. Let’s go and give Craig Kettering his wake-up call, shall we?’
Rachel touched Wesley’s hand gently. ‘See you later.’
‘See you later,’ mumbled Wesley as he watched Rachel Tracey walk back to her desk.
Still half asleep and dressed in a not-so-fetching ensemble of grubby off-white T-shirt and faded boxer shorts, Craig Kettering
opened the peeling front door of the large Edwardian terraced house wide to let the two officers in. He greeted Gerry Heffernan
with a grunt and looked Wesley up and down with curiosity before leading the way up the uncarpeted stairs to his small bed-sit
on the top floor. In the days when Morbay was the last word in seaside respectability the building would have housed a comfortably-off
bourgeois family complete with loyal servants and distinguished paterfamilias. But now, along with the seaside resort, it
had come down in the world and was divided into six non-too-salubrious bed-sits. The cream gloss paint on the banisters, once
crisp and clean, had been chipped away overthe years to reveal the dark wood beneath. The floors of the hallway and landings were covered in ancient linoleum, the pattern
of which was too worn or dirty to make out.
Craig’s bed-sit wasn’t much better than the rest of the house. A cheap, badly
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