'When I was young I was a bad lad did some things I regret. I got in with a bad crowd. You know how it is. Anyway, I was persuaded to do this post office. Got caught, didn't I?'

'So let me get this straight,' said Wesley. 'You're not French at all. It's all an act.'

Colbert shrugged his shoulders dramatically. He was so accustomed to playing the part that old habits were hard to break. 'When I got out I went on this training scheme and I learned how to cook. Really got into it. Then I decided to go to France someone I knew was working at this hotel in Paris and he got me a job in the kitchens. I worked my way up ... learned the lingo. I was there ten years then I decided to take the risk and come back to open my own place over here. When I did, everything I touched seemed to turn to gold I worked like stink, built up the reputation of my first place in Exeter then bought Le Pet.i.t Poisson.'

'What about the tattoo?'

'I lost it, didn't I? I found a surgeon in France who did it for me along with a nose job. The tattoo didn't really go with my new self.'

'Why did you decide to come back to England?' Gerry Heffernan sounded genuinely curious.

Darren Collins gave him a rueful smile. 'Got a bit homesick, didn't I? I spoke the lingo pretty well but it's not the same, is it?'

'Does Jean-Claude know about this?'

Darren nodded. 'He was working at the hotel in Paris at the same time I was. We became mates. When I wanted to set up a restaurant over here, he was the first bloke I thought of. You need a good sommelier, don't you? And a good head waiter. Jean-Claude can do both. Look, when I got out of jail, I started a new life ... I mean that. There was no way I was going back to that place and I found something I was really good at ... food. Darren Collins was another person someone I'm not proud of and someone I didn't particularly like.'

Wesley leaned forward. 'Your fingerprints were found in Charlie Marrick's bedroom.'

There was a long silence. 'Okay. I suppose it's confession time,' the chef said with a sigh. 'If I don't tell you, you're going to find out sooner or later if you're doing your job properly. I was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g Annette. It wasn't a regular thing but we scratched an itch from time to time if you see what I mean. That's why my dabs were in the bedroom. That's where we ... er ...'

'When was the last time you, er ... ?'

'A few days before Charlie died. Look, it was nothing serious. Just a bit of fun.'

'Did Annette know you weren't French?'

Darren gave a bitter laugh. 'Do me a favour. She wanted a French celebrity chef, not a failed armed robber. I've got so used to playing the part now that it's become second nature. I probably even dream in French these days.'

'Does, er ... Marie know about your change of ident.i.ty?' Wesley was genuinely curious about how a man can change his whole ident.i.ty and leave no trace of the old self behind.

Darren shook his head. 'She failed her French GCSE so there's no chance of her sussing that my French isn't exactly as the natives speak it. Look, I don't want her told. As far as she's concerned I'm Fabrice. I was born in Rouen and all my family are dead killed in a house fire. There was a Fabrice Colbert from Rouen, by the way ... he died when he was five. I sort of acquired his ident.i.ty. Made the paperwork easier.'

Wesley raised his eyebrows. Technically, Darren had committed a crime. But he wasn't convinced that reporting it to the French authorities would do anybody any good. Besides, if Darren's story was true if he'd managed to transform himself from an unsuccessful criminal to a successful chef Wesley couldn't help feeling a sneaking admiration for his achievements.

'What about your real family?' Wesley asked with barely concealed curiosity.

Darren turned his head away. 'Dead. Like I said, they were killed in a house fire. I was brought up in a children's home. No relatives.'

Wesley stood up. 'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be. Darren Collins was a loser. Fabrice Colbert is a success.'

'And if Charlie Marrick threatened to tell the world that Colbert was really Collins?'

Gerry Heffernan let the question hang in the air. But Darren didn't rise to the bait. He merely shook his head, a sad smile on his face. 'I know what you're thinking but there's no way Charlie could have known my secret. How could he? It was a long time ago.'

'You realise we'll have to speak to Annette Marrick. She'll have to confirm your version of how your prints got into the bedroom at Foxglove House.'

'Fair enough. But don't say anything about ...'

'I don't see any reason to share your secret with anyone ... at the moment,' said Wesley. 'Unless our enquiries throw up something ...'

'They won't. I'm innocent. I rowed with Marrick but I never hurt him.'

Heffernan stood up and the two men began to walk towards the office door. Then Wesley twisted round, Columbo style, to face the chef whose face was already relaxing into an expression of relief that the interview was over.

'Just one more thing, Mr ... er ... Colbert. Do you know a vet called Simon Tench?'

'Tench? I don't think so.' He raised a finger in the air. 'Hang on. Marie took the cat to the vet's in Tradmouth ... something wrong with its eye. I think she saw a guy called Tench. Why?'

'It's just that Mr Tench has been murdered. And it looks similar to Charles Marrick's murder.'

Darren slumped back into his seat. Then his eyes lit up with new hope. 'In that case, I'm in the clear. Why would I kill this vet? You tell me that?'

Wesley said nothing. He thanked Darren for his time and the two men left, pa.s.sing through the restaurant. The only diners were a party of four at a table near the window, talking loudly, oblivious to the time and the fact that the staff were hovering, eager to clear the place so they could prepare for the evening.

'What do you think?' Heffernan asked as they climbed into the car.

'I believe him. But I think we should double-check his alibi ... and see if he has any connection with Tench other than a few eye-drops for the cat.' He hesitated. 'In fact I found myself admiring him back there. He was in a children's home ... started on a career of armed robbery then he pulled himself around and became a successful chef. You've got to hand it to him, Gerry ...'

'But don't forget, Wes. Old habits die hard.'

With those words of wisdom ringing in his ears, Wesley turned the car around and headed back to the police station.

CHAPTER 6.

Blood-letting was used to remove corrupt matter from the body. But how was corrupt matter removed from the monastic community itself? Brother William faced this question and eventually he discovered the solution. Are you intrigued, Neil? Have I whetted your curiosity? Shall I make my move in our blood game and tell you more?

Brother William was admitted to the Cistercian Abbey of Veland in Devon at the age of twelve. He was an orphan, taken in and educated by the brothers and taught their ways. At the age of sixteen he became a novice and around a year later he took his vows of poverty, obedience and chast.i.ty. This he did willingly, committing himself to G.o.d, for he was an innocent soul, more concerned with the spirit than the body. If he had known of the evil that he would face in that place that ought to have been a holy refuge from the sins of the world, then perhaps he wouldn't have vowed his freedom away with such willing joy. You see, Neil, Satan dwelled with the monks in that magnificent Abbey of Veland the Satan that is within us all.

The writer re-read the words on the screen. It was almost ready to send to Neil Watson. He should know the truth about what happened to Brother William. But as to the other matter ... Perhaps it would soon be time to make confession. Or to pay the ultimate price.

At least Wesley had managed to salvage a couple of hours of his Sunday afternoon. After their visit to Le Pet.i.t Poisson, Gerry Heffernan had decided that they needed a break if they were going to be fit for the rigours of Monday morning. Gerry had taken the Rosie May out for a sail around the headland to, as he put it, blow out the cobwebs.

Wesley arrived home to find a note Pam had gone to Belsham vicarage. Maritia had phoned that lunchtime to offer her anniversary congratulations and when she'd learned that Della had let them down, she'd invited Pam and the children round to the vicarage for the afternoon. Wesley joined her just in time for a decent cup of tea. He joked to his sister that there was no sign of cuc.u.mber sandwiches but then Maritia had never really been the cuc.u.mber sandwich type.

As he sat there in the freshly painted living room of the vicarage, listening to his sister's stream of chat and family news, Wesley's mind kept wandering back to the two recent murders. But one glance at Pam, cuddling Amelia on her knee while Michael played outside, attempting a spot of rudimentary tree climbing in the large vicarage garden, told him that she was tired.

Wesley caught her eye and then began to make farewell noises, saying that they'd better make a move as they had to get the children organised and prepare themselves for a hard week ahead.

Maritia smiled sympathetically. Like their mother, she was a busy GP with patients, paperwork and a new computer system to wrestle with each day, as well as her unpaid role as Vicar's Wife with responsibility for the flower rota and a week night Bible study. Maritia seemed to possess boundless energy but then, Wesley thought, she had no children. Children were a great leveller when it came to sheer exhaustion.

It was as Pam was gathering their things together that Maritia dropped her quiet bombsh.e.l.l. Not that anybody but Pam had any idea that what she said was even mildly explosive.

'Jonathan's coming up to stay for a few days next week,' she announced. 'We haven't seen him since before the wedding, have we, Mark?' She looked at Pam and smiled. 'You remember Jonathan, don't you, Pam?'

If this had come from anyone else, Pam would have interpreted it as a snide remark at her expense. But she knew that Maritia was quite unaware of what had pa.s.sed between her and Mark's old school friend, Jonathan, just before the couple's wedding the previous year. For one thing she'd been far too busy to notice.

'Mmm.' She glanced at Wesley, glad for once that he was too preoccupied with work to hear the giveaway nervousness in her voice.

'Why don't you come round for dinner next Sunday?' Maritia put her arm around her husband's waist. 'It'll be nice to have a get-together.'

Mark kissed the top of his wife's head and Pam looked away, feeling a sudden urge to blurt out the truth, to shock these smug innocents. But she forced herself to smile.

'Yeah ... great,' she heard herself saying, even though she had every intention of avoiding Jonathan at all costs. Jonathan was dangerous. Jonathan had threatened her marriage once and she wasn't going to let it happen again.

Wesley was quiet as they drove back home, deep in thought.

'Everything okay?' she asked, glancing round at the children. Amelia had fallen asleep in her car seat and Michael was looking out of the window entranced at the pa.s.sing scenery of rolling fields and grazing animals.

'Yes,' Wesley replied. 'Apart from the fact that I've got two corpses on my hands identical MO but no apparent connection between them. And on top of that some kids found a skeleton in the woods near Sunacres Holiday Park yesterday.'

Pam looked at him, shocked. 'That's not been on the news.'

'Early days. I had a missed call on my mobile earlier Neil. Why don't you try and get him now?' Wesley wanted to distract Pam from his work commitments Neil had his uses.

She took Wesley's mobile and tapped in Neil's number. But there was no answer. She tried his mobile but it was switched off. This wasn't like Neil. Maybe something had happened. Or maybe he was up to something and he didn't want to be contacted.

Pam, slightly uneasy, promised herself she'd try again later.

They made an early start on Monday morning. Carl Pinney was in the interview room with that indispensable accessory to life on the wrong side of the law his brief. Carl regarded his solicitor as an infallible lucky charm that could get him out of all manner of trouble. Gerry Heffernan had nailed a lucky horseshoe to his back door once. It had fallen off and hit him on the head. He just hoped that the protection provided by Carl's brief would prove equally ineffective.

Wesley entered the interview room just behind his boss. He hadn't been able to contact Neil the previous evening and there was a small nag of worry in the back of his mind. After all, Neil had been receiving those anonymous letters ... the ones that spoke of blood and death. Wesley would call him later just to make sure he was okay.

They sat down opposite Carl Pinney and his solicitor, a bored-looking man in his mid-forties with a s.h.i.+ny suit and thinning ginger hair who kept glancing at his watch as though he'd rather be elsewhere. He didn't look lucky and he didn't look charming. But Pinney was relying on him.

Wesley gave Pinney a friendly smile. 'I expect you go out on Sat.u.r.day nights, Carl.'

Pinney rewarded him with a look of utter contempt.

'Where did you go on Sat.u.r.day ... and who were you with?'

'What's it to you?'

'You know why you've been brought in, don't you?'

'Haven't a clue.'

'The knife you used in the attack on DC Carstairs is the same one that killed Charles Marrick.'

'I told you before. I found it.' He looked at his solicitor who avoided his eyes.

'There's been a development since then, Carl. There's been another murder. Exactly the same as Marrick's. Where were you on Sat.u.r.day night?'

Pinney's eyes darted to and fro in panic. 'I weren't feeling well. I didn't go out. I got beaten up, you know. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d mate of yours put me in hospital. I've still got the bruises and they still b.l.o.o.d.y hurt. Takes a long time to get over something like that,' he added self-righteously. 'I think I've got post traumatic stress disorder.'

Wesley ignored this last remark. 'Is there anyone who can back up your story?'

'Our Chelsea.'

'Our Chelsea? Who's that?' asked Heffernan.

'Me sister. Me mam was out so we sent out for pizzas.'

'What time was this?'

Pinney shrugged. 'About six ... seven. Dunno really. We ain't got a clock.'

'Where did you order the pizza from?' Wesley asked.

Pinney said a name which meant nothing to Wesley or Heffernan one of the many small pizza delivery joints that plied their trade in the large seaside resort of Morbay. It would be checked out, of course, but even if the delivery driver saw Carl Pinney, it didn't mean he didn't nip out soon after the pizzas were dropped off and murder Simon Tench. To do that he'd need access to a car, of course. But Wesley would put money on his ability to hotwire and pinch any car that lacked adequate security and he would have honed his driving skills on the unofficial skidpans of the Winterham Estate, terrifying the older residents with the noise of squealing tyres as the vehicles careered recklessly around the litter strewn streets.

Wesley made a mental note to ask someone to check on stolen cars at the relevant times. It was the only possibility: buses in the area were like rare protected beasts reported on in hushed tones by David Attenborough on BBC natural history programmes infrequent and unreliable. And Pinney was hardly the type who'd walk miles on the off chance of finding a likely victim.

But the more Wesley thought about it, the less likely it seemed that Pinney was their murderer. The impulse attack the knife in the alley or the s.n.a.t.c.hed handbag was his style. Not the calculated piercing of arteries. But they still had to be thorough and check out his story.

'Have you any pets, Carl?'

Pinney looked at Wesley as though he was mad. 'We had a dog once but that was years ago. Why?'

'Did you ever take it to a vet called Simon Tench?'

Pinney looked puzzled and shook his head. 'Never took it to no vet. It got run over in the end ... killed. We never had to take it to no vet.'

Wesley and Heffernan caught each other's eye. Carl Pinney was no advert for responsible pet owners.h.i.+p.

'Have you ever heard of or met Simon Tench? He worked in Tradmouth. The Cornvale Veterinary Clinic.'

Pinney shook his head vigorously but Wesley could tell he was uneasy. He had recognised Tench's name or that of the clinic.

The solicitor made a show of studying his watch. 'I think it's time my client had a break.'

Gerry Heffernan stood up. 'Break? We've not even started yet.'

Wesley put a hand on his arm. 'Quite right. We'll continue this later on. We've got to attend the postmortem of the latest victim.' He watched Pinney's face for a reaction but saw none.

And he had an uncomfortable feeling that they were wasting their valuable time.