surprising what they can do when you cross their palms with silver. I don’t really agree with private medicine but …’
‘Will you be there long?’
‘Well, they did all Pam’s bit last week, so I shouldn’t be long. They say there’s nothing to it – more embarrassing than anything else.’
‘Have they said anything yet? Any ideas?’
‘They did some tests and didn’t find anything wrong. She might have to have one of those laparoscopy operations. You know, when they stick a camera …’
‘I know.’ Heffernan had heard of the procedure but wasn’t well up on the detail. Nor did he want to be. ‘What’s that for exactly?’
Wesley, amazed at his boss’s sudden interest in gynaecology, explained in simple terms, the only kind he knew.
‘Only I’ve been trying to get in touch with Colin Bowman all morning but he’s out. Some meeting or other. Have a look at this, will you.’ Heffernan chucked the post-mortem report across the table. ‘Page five, last paragraph.’
Wesley read aloud. ‘ “Scarring of both fallopian tubes most likely caused by pelvic infection.” ’
‘Could that infection be caused by childbirth?’
‘Yes. And other things: abortion, sexually transmitted disease, all sorts of things. But certainly infection after childbirth.’
‘Is that the sort of thing they look for at the clinic? I mean, can that cause infertility?’
Wesley nodded. It was a subject Pam was always reading up on, almost to the point of obsession. ‘Is it important?’
‘No idea. Probably not.’ He stared at the report open on his desk. ‘But where’s this child Colin Bowman said she had? It must be somewhere. Get Rachel to run a check on all the hospitals and clinics in the areas she’s been known to live in, and all the adoption agencies; she obviously didn’t have a kid in tow in Morbay.’
Wesley nodded as the inspector sorted through the jumble on his chaotic desk and produced a piece of paper – the face of a man. They looked at the picture jointly created bythe regular police artist, a solemn, ponytailed young man, and Karen Giordino’s public-spirited neighbour. The face of a dark-haired man in his thirties with no distinguishing features. He looked disconcertingly ordinary – the elusive John.
‘Get it put in all the local rags. Someone’s bound to recognise him.’
Wesley nodded. It was easy to remain anonymous in the metropolis, but South Devon out of season … He said as much to the inspector.
‘Don’t you believe it. Maybe that was true a few years back but now there’s a floating population all round the coast … if you’ll pardon the pun. Lots of people coming and going. Doesn’t make life any easier.’
After a perfunctory knock, Steve Carstairs burst in. ‘Phone call for you, Sarge,’ he said sulkily. ‘A Neil Watson … says it’s urgent.’
Wesley excused himself and took the call. Neil sounded more annoyed than worried. It was one more delay for the dig, using up valuable time. Wesley promised to be round there as soon as he could. He returned to his boss.
‘Another skeleton, sir, at the dig in St Margaret’s Street. The archaeologist in charge is a friend of mine. He says it all looks contemporary with the site.’
‘We’ll still have to go through the motions. Do the necessary, will you. Get Dr Bowman to pronounce life extinct and all that. You’d best get up there but don’t be long.’
‘I’ll make sure everything’s done to Home Office regs, sir.’
Wesley left the room, trying hard not to show his enthusiasm for the task ahead. A bit of time spent with Neil on the dig would be a welcome diversion.
Heffernan heard the phone ringing in the outer office and once more Steve was the bearer of tidings, this time good.
‘There’s been a message from the PC posted at the dead girl’s flat, sir. A bloke arrived in a minicab and turned tail as soon as he saw him. He got the minicab’s number.’
‘Well, you know what to do,’ Heffernan
‘Will you be there long?’
‘Well, they did all Pam’s bit last week, so I shouldn’t be long. They say there’s nothing to it – more embarrassing than anything else.’
‘Have they said anything yet? Any ideas?’
‘They did some tests and didn’t find anything wrong. She might have to have one of those laparoscopy operations. You know, when they stick a camera …’
‘I know.’ Heffernan had heard of the procedure but wasn’t well up on the detail. Nor did he want to be. ‘What’s that for exactly?’
Wesley, amazed at his boss’s sudden interest in gynaecology, explained in simple terms, the only kind he knew.
‘Only I’ve been trying to get in touch with Colin Bowman all morning but he’s out. Some meeting or other. Have a look at this, will you.’ Heffernan chucked the post-mortem report across the table. ‘Page five, last paragraph.’
Wesley read aloud. ‘ “Scarring of both fallopian tubes most likely caused by pelvic infection.” ’
‘Could that infection be caused by childbirth?’
‘Yes. And other things: abortion, sexually transmitted disease, all sorts of things. But certainly infection after childbirth.’
‘Is that the sort of thing they look for at the clinic? I mean, can that cause infertility?’
Wesley nodded. It was a subject Pam was always reading up on, almost to the point of obsession. ‘Is it important?’
‘No idea. Probably not.’ He stared at the report open on his desk. ‘But where’s this child Colin Bowman said she had? It must be somewhere. Get Rachel to run a check on all the hospitals and clinics in the areas she’s been known to live in, and all the adoption agencies; she obviously didn’t have a kid in tow in Morbay.’
Wesley nodded as the inspector sorted through the jumble on his chaotic desk and produced a piece of paper – the face of a man. They looked at the picture jointly created bythe regular police artist, a solemn, ponytailed young man, and Karen Giordino’s public-spirited neighbour. The face of a dark-haired man in his thirties with no distinguishing features. He looked disconcertingly ordinary – the elusive John.
‘Get it put in all the local rags. Someone’s bound to recognise him.’
Wesley nodded. It was easy to remain anonymous in the metropolis, but South Devon out of season … He said as much to the inspector.
‘Don’t you believe it. Maybe that was true a few years back but now there’s a floating population all round the coast … if you’ll pardon the pun. Lots of people coming and going. Doesn’t make life any easier.’
After a perfunctory knock, Steve Carstairs burst in. ‘Phone call for you, Sarge,’ he said sulkily. ‘A Neil Watson … says it’s urgent.’
Wesley excused himself and took the call. Neil sounded more annoyed than worried. It was one more delay for the dig, using up valuable time. Wesley promised to be round there as soon as he could. He returned to his boss.
‘Another skeleton, sir, at the dig in St Margaret’s Street. The archaeologist in charge is a friend of mine. He says it all looks contemporary with the site.’
‘We’ll still have to go through the motions. Do the necessary, will you. Get Dr Bowman to pronounce life extinct and all that. You’d best get up there but don’t be long.’
‘I’ll make sure everything’s done to Home Office regs, sir.’
Wesley left the room, trying hard not to show his enthusiasm for the task ahead. A bit of time spent with Neil on the dig would be a welcome diversion.
Heffernan heard the phone ringing in the outer office and once more Steve was the bearer of tidings, this time good.
‘There’s been a message from the PC posted at the dead girl’s flat, sir. A bloke arrived in a minicab and turned tail as soon as he saw him. He got the minicab’s number.’
‘Well, you know what to do,’ Heffernan
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