'Stan ...'

'Yes?'

'If Alan killed this girl, he did it because he was provoked. She'd taken our child. They'll take all that into account, won't they? She wouldn't listen to reason.'

Stan didn't answer. He felt very uneasy as he left Hedgerow Cottage. He didn't know why.

Heffernan leaned forward. 'Why did you do it, Alan? Why did you do that to her face?'

The atmosphere in the interview room was tense. Wesley shifted a little in his chair. He needed a cup of tea ... or something stronger.

'Come on, Alan. Did she laugh at you? Is that it? After all you'd been through, after all the money you paid, did she tell you that you weren't the kid's real father? It must have really got to you. I mean, killing her's one thing, but doing that to her face. I saw her in the mortuary, you know, at the post-mortem. I saw what you did.'

Alan Berrisford seemed to have shrunk in stature since Wesley first encountered him. He sat hunched on his plastic chair. He looked pathetic, as murderers often do when their wrongdoings are discovered.

When he spoke, he was barely audible. Heffernan had to ask him to speak up for the tape machine.

'I was angry. She laughed. She turned round and I hit her. Then I kept on hitting her. That's it. That's what happened.'

'What did you hit her with?'

'A piece of wood ... a branch.'

'What did you do with it?'

'I threw it away.'

'Where?'

'I don't know ... just away.'

'Why were you meeting her?'

'She rang, asked to meet me, sort things out. She wanted to keep Jonathon, wanted us to agree ...'

'She was being a bit naive, then ... a bit optimistic?'

Alan looked up as if he'd never thought of the situation in those terms before. 'Yes, she was. There was no way we'd give up our son, no way.'

Heffernan looked at the clock on the green-tiled wall, then at Wesley. He spoke to the tape machine. 'Interview terminated at fifteen hundred hours.' He nodded to the uniformed constable in the corner, who led the crumpled Alan back to the cells.

'He looked like he needed a break, Wes, and we've got to be there at four.'

The sergeant nodded. He had nearly forgotten about the funeral. It wasn't something he was looking forward to, but it was customary to attend. They left at half past three plenty of time to get to Morbay crematorium.

The funerals of murder victims always seem to excite more interest than those of individuals who have died in more mundane circ.u.mstances. There was a good turnout. Chris Manners, his son in his arms, led the mourners; Sludge and Donna, out of place and awkward, provided a modic.u.m of moral support. The model agency was well represented as their former receptionist went on her final journey. Phil was there, looking solemn. A few of the models stood about self-consciously, among them Karen Giordino. She wore a short black suit and Mr Carl had done her hair specially for the occasion. After all, there might be photographers.

Heffernan watched Karen. She looked pensive, as if contemplating her own mortality. At one time, everyone had thought it would be her in the coffin. What if ... Karen shivered; it was too awful to contemplate. Life was unpredictable and you had to live each day to the full. That was why she had just ditched John. He was holding her back; cramping her. The previous evening she had also rung her mother. Life was too short to bear grudges. Karen felt tears p.r.i.c.k her eyes as the vicar read the words of the funeral service. Her only thought as the coffin disappeared behind the chapel curtains to its fiery fate was 'They thought it was me ... it could have been me'.

Chris's mum, who lived on the council estate on the edge of Morbay, invited people back for refreshments. Most declined. They had come for their own reasons to pay their respects or out of curiosity and now they just wanted to get home. Sharon had had no family so Chris's relations had to suffice. The mourners broke up into awkward groups, hung round for a while, then returned to their everyday lives.

Karen Giordino, as she was leaving, even managed to grace Heffernan and Wesley with a tentative half-smile. Life was too short.

It was after five when they got back to the station. Alan, the inspector said, would keep till tomorrow. He had confessed. The charges had been made. It was all a matter of paperwork now the blight of the modern policeman's life.

The statements lay on Heffernan's desk. Dr Downey had made a guarded statement in the presence of his solicitor. Even Mrs Hughes had come clean about her involvement in the case. She insisted she had done nothing criminal. No doubt Heffernan could think of something if he put his mind to it.

Chris Manners had named the men who were supplying him with the stolen building materials. The inspector had decided to ask for him to be treated leniently; he would recommend probation in view of the accused's co-operation and domestic circ.u.mstances. According to that long-haired woman from Social Services, it was looking increasingly likely that Chris might be able to keep his son. Heffernan hoped so. There was nothing like a bit of domestic responsibility to keep a young man on the straight and narrow: he had seen it before time after time.

Wesley knocked and walked in, interrupting the inspector's thoughts.

'All cleared up, sir?'

'Just about, Wes, just about. I had Stan in before saying he'd let slip where the kid was to Elaine Berrisford.'

'h.e.l.l.'

'It probably doesn't matter. She won't try and get him back now. Surely the woman's got more sense.'

Wesley nodded. 'Just have to keep an eye on the situation. Anyway, even if she did go down to Neston, the worst thing that could happen would be an embarra.s.sing scene.'

'You're most likely right, Wes. Wish he hadn't done it, though.'

'Is it okay if I go now? I've got a call to make on the way home.'

'You go, Wes. See you tomorrow. We'll get some cans in, have a bit of a celebration tomorrow night you tell everyone.'

There was always a celebratory atmosphere when a murder case was cleared up. And this one had the added bonus of the missing toddler being found alive and well. Wesley promised to spread the news.

Neil was preparing to pack up for the night when Wesley arrived at the site. Matt and Jane had left already. They were going to the theatre in Plymouth. Neil commented that it was all right for some. Wesley sensed a hint of envy and wondered why Neil hadn't a partner of his own: he had always been popular with the opposite s.e.x at university; he had even gone out with Pam at one time, before Wesley had swept her off her feet, of course.

'How are you fixed for coming down to Little Tradmouth? I think I've tracked down William Boscople.'

'Great. Now?'

Wesley nodded. Now was as good a time as any, and Pam wasn't expecting him back for another couple of hours.

Wesley's car was at home. Neil's yellow Mini was squatting a quarter of a mile away in the munic.i.p.al carpark near the waterfront. They drove out of Tradmouth up the steep incline of the main road. The Mini struggled valiantly. When it eventually reached its destination the poor thing looked out of breath.

Hutchins Farm Cottages were sited, as their name suggested, near Hutchins Farm. Number 3 looked less well cared for than its neighbours. The curtains hanging limply at the windows were in need of a good wash. Wesley used his knuckles to knock on the door; there was no bell or knocker visible.

Inside the cottage Bill Boscople put down his newspaper on the ancient settee which used to be green but was now an indeterminate shade of brown. He wished they wouldn't put those pictures on page three it was no good for his blood pressure and the doctor had told him to take it easy and not to get too excited. Bad enough with all these murders and kids going missing. The place was getting like Chicago he'd said as much to his mates in the Farmers' Arms the other night.

There was another knock on the door, louder this time.

' 'Ang on 'Ang on ...' Bill Boscople stood up, stiff from shifting bales of hay. He was getting past it, he thought; the old joints weren't what they were. He was a wiry man, average height with a mop of grey hair and the weather-beaten features of one who has spent most of his adult life working out of doors. He moved slowly towards the door, hoping it wasn't Cissy Hutchins wanting another job done just when he was settled for the evening. It was good on telly tonight.

He opened the door to find two young men standing there. He'd seen the black one before at the farm: he was one of the policemen who'd come up to interview that Mrs Truscot when she found the body. The other one didn't look like a policeman with all that hair, but you never knew nowadays. What did they want?

'I know you,' he said to Wesley in an accent that was pure West Country. 'You'm one of them policemen what come about the murder. Come along in. I don't mind helping the police with their enquiries.'

Wesley decided to do the talking, seeing he had a head start already. 'Mr Boscople?'

'That's me.'

'My name's Wesley Peterson. I'm a detective sergeant but I'm not here professionally.' He pointed to Neil. 'This is Neil Watson. We're doing some detective work of our own.'

'Private detectives?' Bill Boscople was impressed.

'I'll let Neil explain. He's with the County Archaeological Unit.'

Boscople looked confused, but as Neil gave an account of the dig and his discoveries, he began to nod with understanding.

'Aye, me mother were a Banized. I did hear tell that her family were not short of a bob or two at one time, but ...'

'The wills in the museum at Tradmouth mention a journal, Mr Boscople. I know it's a long shot but we worked out from your family tree that if it still existed, it might have come to you.'

Boscople looked puzzled. 'What would it look like, this journal?'

'A book, I should think, handwritten ... a diary.'

Boscople shook his head. 'I never seen it.' He paused, deep in thought. T don't know what's in them trunks, mind. Put 'em in the attic when me old mum died and never looked in 'em. You're welcome to have a look if you like, if it's for the museum.'

Neil was longing to get his hands on the trunks but tried to contain his impatience. 'The vicar of Tradmouth's made up your family tree from the old church records, Mr Boscople. I'll take you along to see it one day if you want. And you must come to the exhibition at the County Museum it's about your family, after all.'

'Aye, but they were a murdering lot by the sounds of it. What was it? Two skeletons you found. Don't know as I want to go.'

'If we find this journal...'

'Oh, aye, that's what you've come for.' He led them to the top of the steep, narrow, uncarpeted stairs and pointed up at a small trapdoor. 'They be up there.' He looked Wesley up and down. 'You'm not really dressed for it, me luvver. I'd send your mate up.'

Neil, clothes already grimy from the dig and game for anything, was provided with a ladder and a torch. Wesley stood at the bottom in his working suit, waiting selfconsciously. Bill Boscople, he thought, probably didn't have a high opinion of people who wore suits.

It was a full fifteen minutes before Neil emerged, filthy but triumphant. 'You should have a look in those trunks, Mr Boscople. There's all sorts in there: war medals, old clothes, letters fascinating stuff.'

'I'll take yer word vor't.' Boscople looked unimpressed.

Wesley could hardly contain his curiosity. 'Did you find it?'

Neil sat on the top rung of the ladder, grinning. He took a small brown leather-bound volume from his pocket and held it up.

'Would you mind very much if I kept this to have a good look at it? I'll return it as soon as we're finished with it, of course.'

'You'm do what you want wi'it. 'Tis no use to me. If it make you two gentlemen 'appy then you keep it. What'd I do wi'it?'

'Would you donate it to the museum, then, Mr Boscople? It'd be very much appreciated.'

'I told you, 'tis no use to me. What'd I want wi' old smelly books?'

"Thanks very much. We'll make sure there's a special notice up saying you kindly donated it.'

Boscople again looked unimpressed. He glanced at the cheap carriage clock on the tiled fireplace. It was nearly time for his programme. He suddenly had a thought. 'It's not worth ort, is it?'

'Not a lot in monetary terms, Mr Boscople,' said Neil earnestly. 'But in historical terms, for the museum, it's very valuable.'

'So it i'n't worth much money, then?'

'I'm sorry, probably not much. But as I said ...'

'You 'ave it, then. More use to you than me.'

Neil and Wesley bade Bill Boscople a polite farewell before he changed his mind.

Wesley invited Neil back for an evening meal. Then they could have a look at the journal properly. If Pam hadn't cooked enough, he could always go down to Tradmouth for a takeaway. The journal lay on Wesley's lap. He opened it. The spidery handwriting was surprisingly easy to read. He read through the first pages, which were mainly accounts of how trade was going, interspersed with local gossip about the mayor, vicar and other solid citizens of the Banizeds' acquaintance. It seemed it would prove to be a fascinating account of life in a thriving port in the first quarter of the seventeenth century. He resisted opening the later pages. What, he wondered, would they reveal about John Banized, Merchant of Tradmouth?

When they arrived at Wesley's house, he carried the journal carefully inside and placed it in the centre of the coffee table.

Elaine Berrisford put on her coat; the nights were getting colder. She pushed the front door to make sure it was locked. The alarm was on, and the light in the living room. She shivered as she walked to the car, which was parked at the side of the cottage on the drive they had created by demolishing a section of hedgerow; it was amazing how much life had been in that hedge birds, small animals, insects.

She felt in her pocket. It was still there. She unlocked the car and got in.

Chapter 28.

Jennet is beyond reason. Last night I did discover her trying to lift the child from his cradle while my wife was at her toilet. She says she will have him; will take him from the house and back to her family. She threatens to tell the truth abroad, that the child is hers as a consequence of my l.u.s.t for her.

I know not the remedy for this. The Lord doth punish me for my misdeeds.

Extract from the journal of John Banized.

30 March 1624.

Pam was nearly asleep when Wesley came to bed. He and Neil had had a lot to discuss, and some cans of best bitter to get through. Pam had gone to bed at half ten she had work the next day.

'You're a lucky man, Wes,' Neil had said wistfully when Pam had said goodnight. Wesley found himself wondering just how serious Pam's relationship with Neil had been before he had met her. She had never mentioned him, but now he had come back into their lives she seemed glad to see him even when he descended on her for an unplanned dinner. But these were night thoughts, the kind rendered insubstantial by morning light. Pam was just pleased to see an old friend. Her spirits had certainly risen since her conversation with Maritia. Maybe she was taking her sister-in-law's advice to heart. He hoped so.

They had begun to read the journal, laughing at the candid comments about the pompous citizens. The writing was lively and legible, but the pages were brittle and had to be treated with the utmost care. It had been decided that it should stay in Wesley's care for the time being, his house seeming safer than any alternative overnight accommodation.