'We need to know more about their backgrounds. Perhaps we should visit Foxglove House and Tench's cottage and have a look through their things.'

'I was thinking of a trip to Chester, Wes. I'd like to talk to the team who dealt with the case.'

'And got it all wrong,' Wesley pointed out helpfully. 'If they put it down to suicide, they probably weren't paying much attention.'

'Well you can't blame them it certainly looked that way. Anyway, I've got a cousin who's a DS at Chester police headquarters. I'm thinking of giving him a ring and arranging a visit. Nice place, Chester.'

Wesley looked at his boss. He was so transparent. He fancied a trip up north. He'd probably fit in a visit to Liverpool while he was at it for a family reunion. But on the other hand, they did need to have a closer look at the death of Christopher Grisham, the man whose b.l.o.o.d.y death in a Chester flat had been dismissed as suicide.

'Has your mate Neil had any more of those funny letters?'

'Not that I know of.'

'You don't think they can have anything to do with this?'

'It seems a bit strange that someone starts killing people by bleeding them to death then Neil starts getting letters about monks being bled. Coincidences happen but ...'

'Anything from the lab?'

Wesley shook his head. 'I sent the second letter there but they didn't come up with anything useful.'

There was a knock on the door and Rachel bustled in, a sheet of paper in her hand. She waved it triumphantly at Gerry Heffernan. 'I talked to Peter Wicks at the vet's and he told me about a man who threatened Simon Tench. Smallholder called Barty Carter city boy who fancies himself as a farmer.'

Wesley could hear the disapproval in her voice.

'This Carter didn't have a clue about looking after his livestock and when Tench pointed out the error of his ways, he was threatened with a shotgun. And Carter's got form. Affray outside a London nightclub when he was eighteen. He's a violent man.'

Wesley caught Heffernan's eye.

'Okay, Rach,' the DCI said patiently. 'You check him out. But don't go alone, eh. You can take Steve ... keep him out of mischief.'

Rachel disappeared back into the organised chaos of the CID office and Heffernan stood up. 'You wanted to have a look through Marrick's things ... see if we can find any sort of link with Tench and this Grisham up in Chester.'

'Yes. And we can visit Tench's place as well. There must be some connection. Where are people of the same age thrown together. School? University?'

'Your guess is as good as mine,' Heffernan replied, reaching for his coat.

The post came unusually early that morning and Neil saw the letter, squatting on his doormat like some malevolent toad. He recognised the envelope same as the others. This was all he needed first thing in the morning with the drive down to Stow Barton ahead of him.

It was about time Wesley did something, he thought to himself. What was the use of having an old friend in the CID if he couldn't do you a favour from time to time? But with these murders, Wesley had been rather preoccupied. No use whatsoever.

He rinsed a smear of marmalade off his fingers and donned the pair of heavy rubber gloves he kept for clearing out the sink when it blocked, as it had a habit of doing. Then he picked the letter up awkwardly. The gloves were too thick but at least this way there'd be no fingerprints except the sender's ... and all the post office employees who had handled it as it made its journey to his door. He suddenly felt a little silly and took off the gloves.

He slit the envelope open and extracted the letter inside using the corner of a tea towel, spreading it out on the top of the sideboard as the kitchen table was covered in crumbs as usual.

He read it through twice. The sender seemed to be telling the story of a Brother William and this new, personal slant rather intrigued him. The mention of evil of Satan dwelling in the Abbey of Veland seemed rather melodramatic. But then that was probably Lenny's style if he was indeed the author of the letters. Neil told himself that he shouldn't jump to hasty conclusions.

The writer was treating it as a game. The blood game. But it takes two to play a game and Neil wasn't going to partic.i.p.ate. Suddenly he felt less afraid. All he had to do was ignore his tormentor and he'd get sick of waiting for a response. The writer was a nutter. Nothing more.

He tried to forget about the letter as he drove to the dig. He wouldn't have to think about it again until it was time to go home, he told himself. He would put it from his mind and give it to Wesley like the others get it off his hands.

Diane had arrived at the dig before him and he found her in the outbuilding that served as their site office. She greeted him with a shy smile and the news that the results had come back from the lab in Exeter. The soil taken from the pit contained traces of blood. However, further a.n.a.lysis was needed to tell whether that blood was human or animal. And the slim, corroded object had been x-rayed and found to be some sort of lancet. Another piece in the jigsaw of evidence that was now starting to form a clear picture.

He was about to make for the trenches when Diane touched his arm. 'Lenny wants a word.'

'That's all I need.'

'He's paid to come on this dig, Neil,' she said. 'He has as much right to your attention as anyone else. Mind you ...'

Diane didn't have a chance to finish her sentence. There was a knock on the outbuilding door and a well-bred female voice called out a cheerful h.e.l.lo. Diane hurried back to her trench, pa.s.sing Annabel on her way out.

Annabel bustled in, a folder under her arm and a smile on her face. She was usually closeted in the archives at Exeter during her working day and she was always glad of a trip out.

'News,' she announced. 'I've gone through all the old doc.u.ments we've got concerning the Abbey of Veland and I've found a few new references to this site.' She placed the folder on Neil's makes.h.i.+ft desk and began to take out a sheaf of papers. 'There are two mentions of a grange at Stow Barton, latterly used as a seyney house "an honest and convenient place for the letting of blood."'

Neil grinned, resisting the urge to punch the air in triumph. This confirmed it once and for all. But how had the author of his anonymous letters found out about the function of Stow Barton before he did. Someone must have been researching the site ... doing their homework.

'Just one thing, Annabel. These doc.u.ments you found ... has anyone else been looking at them recently?'

Annabel shook her head. 'Not that I know of. But I can ask if you want. Why?'

'No, that's okay,' he answered lightly. 'Thanks a lot for your efforts. Fancy a guided tour round the site?'

Annabel looked keen. Anything to put off the drive back to Exeter.

'By the way, you haven't come across any reference to a Brother William in any of your doc.u.ments, have you?'

'Not yet,' Annabel answered. 'But there's plenty of stuff I haven't had a chance to examine yet. And I want to dig out the Comperta the reports made by Henry VIII's commissioners when they visited Veland Abbey prior to closing it down.'

'Any particular reason?'

'They were under orders to dig out any dirt there was about the monks' private lives.' She grinned. 'And the Comperta often makes for interesting reading. You get all the stuff about pregnant nuns, monks indulging in sodomy and what they euphemistically called "solitary sin". And then there were the abbesses who were allegedly having it off with the abbot of a nearby house. All the scandal. Not that the commissioners were unbiased, of course. They were paid to find dirt so Henry could feel all self-righteous about destroying the corrupt monastic houses. Who can blame the commissioners if they made half of it up and laid it on with a trowel? It was what their political masters wanted to hear.'

They were outside now and Neil was leading the way to the pit. Or, in the light of the lab's findings, perhaps he should start thinking of it as the blood pit. He walked by Annabel's side, making for the trench that confirmed all her findings something which, as an archaeologist, he found rather thrilling, physical and written evidence coming together in perfect harmony. Suddenly Annabel touched his arm. 'Who's that?' she whispered.

'One of the trainees. Name of Lenny. Why?'

'I'm sure I've seen him somewhere before.'

Neil ushered her onwards, out of Lenny's sight line. If Annabel had seen him before, it was possible he'd been at the archives. Finding out about monastic blood-letting. Just as his anonymous letter writer had done.

Annette Marrick didn't look at all pleased to see Wesley Peterson and Gerry Heffernan on her doorstep. She'd told the police everything she knew and it was about time she and Petronella were left alone.

Wesley was surprised that Petronella hadn't returned to Bath. She had a job there and, presumably, friends. And he'd sensed little empathy between Petronella and the biological mother who'd abandoned her at birth. But perhaps the fact that Charles Marrick had abused them both had created some kind of bond between them.

Annette led them past the closed living room door into the huge dining kitchen where Petronella was watching a property programme on the giant TV screen that almost dominated one wall of the room. The young woman looked up as they entered and gave Wesley a shy half smile. He thought she looked needy, vulnerable and thinner than she'd done when he'd first seen her.

'I'm having the decorators in to deal with the lounge,' Annette said unexpectedly. 'I just want to get everything straight. To get rid of ...'

'Of course ... I understand,' Wesley said quickly. He thought of the room next door as he'd last seen it, wondering whether the blood would begin to seep through the paint at any stage and keep returning like the famous bloodstain at Holyrood House in Edinburgh which marked the spot where David Rizzio died in the arms of Mary Queen of Scots. The thought made him shudder. But, he told himself, the decorators would be able to seal the stains in so that couldn't happen. Marrick's blood wouldn't return to haunt the living.

He caught Petronella's eye and she looked away. It was hard to judge what she was thinking.

Heffernan looked at Annette and came straight to the point. 'Look, love, sorry to bother you and all that, but we need to have a look through your husband's things. Okay?'

Annette could hardly say no. Instead she gave a vague wave of her right arm and told him to help himself.

'Where do we start?' asked Wesley as they made their way upstairs.

Gerry Heffernan didn't answer. He made straight for the smallest of Foxglove House's five bedrooms the one that Charles Marrick had used as a study c.u.m office. It had been searched already of course. But then the search had been for clues to a motive for Charles's murder. Now they were looking for his past. Something anything that would link him to Simon Tench and Christopher Grisham.

But if Charles Marrick had kept anything relating to his distant past, he hadn't kept it here. There was, however, a lot of material relating to his business that might be of some interest to the fraud squad. They left everything as they found it and shut the door behind them.

Annette was waiting for them in the hall when they came down the stairs. 'Find anything?' she said. She sounded casual but Wesley could detect a note of nervousness in her voice.

'Where would Charles have been likely to keep any mementoes of his school or university days?' Wesley asked.

'He wouldn't,' Annette said quickly. 'Charlie hadn't a sentimental bone in his body. He never talked about the past.'

'Did he go to school round here?'

'I think so but I couldn't tell you where. Like I said, he never talked about it.'

'University?'

'Do me a favour. Charlie was a businessman. Wheeler dealer. He wouldn't have wasted his time at university.'

Wesley who had enjoyed three years studying archaeology at Exeter University and had emerged from the shades of academe with a first cla.s.s honours degree looked suitably chastened.

'Thanks, love. We'll be in touch,' said Gerry Heffernan, making it sound more of a threat than a promise.

'Where to now?' Heffernan asked as he climbed into the pa.s.senger seat of Wesley's car.

'I think we might have more luck at Simon Tench's place,' Wesley replied as he started the engine.

Rachel hadn't heard of Barty Carter through the farming community's normally efficient grapevine. He probably kept himself to himself, rather than co-operating with his farming neighbours as her parents did. He was a city boy, an outsider, which meant he'd have been treated with suspicion anyway.

She decided to do the driving. She'd never really trusted Steve Carstairs behind the wheel or anywhere else come to that. He drove like he lived too fast and without much thought to the consequences of his actions.

'So where are we off to?' he asked as he sprawled in the pa.s.senger seat, taking up every available inch of s.p.a.ce.

'Smallholding. Bloke called Barty Carter who's got form for affray. He had a row with our second victim, Simon Tench. About the only enemy Simon had in the world, that anyone knows of.'

Steve was silent for a few moments. Then he said 'Sometimes it's your friends you have to worry about more.'

Rachel glanced at him, surprised. 'That's very philosophical of you, Steve. What do you mean by that?'

Steve's face reddened. He wasn't sure what he'd meant. It had just sounded good.

'I hear there's a new woman in your life.'

There was a long silence. Then Steve cleared his throat. 'She's called Joanne works with my dad. But it's early days.'

'How are you getting on with your dad?' she asked, taking advantage of this new openness.

'Okay.'

Rachel suspected that that was all the information she was going to get out of him for the moment so she concentrated on her driving. But when her mobile rang, she brought the car to a halt in a lay-by. She said h.e.l.lo then fell silent for a while before saying 'Who is that?' before the caller hung up.

'Well?' said Steve, sensing excitement.

Rachel turned to him. 'That was a woman wouldn't give her name. She said if I wanted to know who Charlie Marrick was with on the day he died, I should ask Celia Dawn.'

'You want to do it now?'

'Better get this visit to Carter out of the way first.'

They found Barty Carter's smallholding down a narrow lane off the main road to Neston. The metal gate was coming away from its hinges and a flaking sign gave the name of the property as Windy Edge and warned trespa.s.sers to keep out.

Even though Rachel had lived on a farm for most of her life, she had never smelled anything like the stench that greeted them as they got out of the car.

Rachel wrinkled her nose. 'There's no excuse for a smell like that not if the stock's looked after properly.'

'I'll take your word for it,' Steve answered. He could hear the grunting coming from a rickety wooden shed to their left. Ahead of them stood the house. Filthy windows, flaking paintwork. No mod cons. The place was a dump.

'Wonder where he is.' Rachel began to walk towards the pig shed, her hand to her nose. The grunting of the animals sounded half-hearted and miserable, as though the effort was too much for them. She felt angry. And her anger increased as she pushed the shed door open.

The place was covered in slurry, as though it hadn't been mucked out for a few days. The creatures looked dispirited on their spa.r.s.e, filthy straw. One thin animal, alone in a corner pen, lay on the ground, a hopeless look in its little eyes. It looked ill. Or perhaps it had just lost interest in life.

'We should call the RSPCA,' Rachel announced, her eyes alight with righteous fury. 'This isn't on.'

Steve said nothing. He had covered his face with his sleeve against the stench.

'Let's get out of here,' Rachel said.

Steve followed her out into what pa.s.sed for fresh air. But as soon as they stepped outside, they saw a tall, slim figure standing in front of them, dressed in an ancient waxed jacket and tweed cap, legs slightly bent like a cowboy preparing for a shootout in front of the saloon. He was carrying a shotgun. And it was pointed straight at Steve Carstairs's head.

Rachel's heart missed a beat. But she took a deep breath and held up her warrant card like a magic s.h.i.+eld. 'Police. DS Tracey and DC Carstairs, Tradmouth CID. If I were you, I'd put that thing down.'

The man hesitated for a few moments, his eyes nervous, flicking from one to the other, a.s.sessing the opposition.

'You heard what I said,' Rachel said, trying to keep the terror she felt out of her voice. She lowered her left hand slowly and felt in her jacket pocket for her mobile phone. If she called out the Armed Response Unit they'd be there within fifteen minutes. But that would probably be too late.

It seemed like a long time before the shotgun was lowered slowly. 'What do you want?' the man called out. He was surprisingly well spoken, posh even. Somehow Rachel had expected a voice more fitting to his thuggish behaviour. But then thuggishness often didn't confine itself to the lower social cla.s.ses.

'Are you Barty Carter?'

The answer was a curt nod.