Gerry Heffernan had had enough. He was growing impatient. Being a naturally inquisitive person himself, he found it hard to believe that in the cloistered world of Belsinger School, the entire staff wouldn't have known if something serious had happened. He said as much to Hedge, rather too brutally in Wesley's opinion.

Hedge looked hurt. 'I can a.s.sure you, Chief Inspector, that I'm telling the truth. Whatever it was was hushed up suppressed very effectively. Only a handful of people knew and they weren't telling. But I did overhear Stanley speaking on the telephone once. He mentioned a girl. No name. He just referred to "the girl in question". Please believe me, I've told you all I know.'

When they took Hedge back to the dig Wesley didn't stick around to say h.e.l.lo to Neil. It was high time they had another word with Mortimer Dean.

Helen Spilling's part-time job at Morbooks was perfect. Interesting and relatively undemanding, it fitted in perfectly with the school run. Mr Dean somehow she'd never felt it appropriate to call him by his first name was a bit of an old woman but that wasn't a problem. She'd had far worse bosses in her time.

When she arrived at the shop for her usual Friday afternoon s.h.i.+ft, Helen was surprised to find the door locked. Mr Dean must have shut up at lunchtime to visit the warehouse, she thought, taking the keys from her handbag. But he was bound to be back soon and in the meantime she'd make herself a cup of tea in the kitchen at the back of the shop.

As she let herself in she noticed that the open sign was lying on the mat, which was unusual: Mr Dean was so pedantic about that sort of thing and he always turned the sign to closed if he had to shut the shop for any reason, even if he slipped out for a few moments to buy a paper or a sandwich. Helen felt a little uneasy but she told herself she was being stupid. Everybody makes mistakes sometimes even Mr Dean and the sign had probably fallen off as he shut the door behind him.

When Helen slipped behind the counter, she noticed that the till was open and empty just as Mr Dean left it when he shut up the shop last thing at night. But the shop would surely have been open that morning, she thought. If he was shutting for any reason, he would surely have let her know.

She stared at the till for a while. Mr Dean took the float upstairs every night just to be on the safe side because there was so much crime about these days. If she was to open up the shop, she needed some change and the cash box was kept in the top right-hand drawer in the dresser. She was sure that Mr Dean wouldn't mind if she went up to the flat to get it. Besides, he might be ill and in need of help.

Helen turned the sign on the door to closed and flicked up the latch. If she was upstairs she didn't want anybody roaming around the shop unsupervised. Only the other week somebody had pinched an expensive book a guide to the Bible strangely enough. The thief had obviously glossed over the Thou Shalt Not Steal part.

The door at the bottom of the stairs stood open. Mr Dean never left it open and Helen suddenly felt apprehensive. She'd never considered herself a nervous or imaginative sort of person but she felt something was wrong. She took a deep breath and began to climb the stairs leading up to Mortimer Dean's flat.

In the silence every sound seemed to be amplified, especially the buzzing of the bluebottle that dive-bombed her head and then flew round in circles, preparing for another attack. Helen's hand was shaking as she pushed open the flat door and called out Mr Dean's name. Feebly at first then a little louder. But there was no answer. Only silence and the relentless buzzing of the bluebottle, louder now as though the original insect had been joined by its friends. As she crossed the threshold, she saw Mortimer Dean lying slumped on the sofa. A gla.s.s had fallen on to the carpet by his feet. A whisky gla.s.s Mr Dean's favourite tipple was a decent single malt.

She stared at the man in horror. There was no question about it. Mortimer Dean was dead.

Wesley Peterson and Gerry Heffernan all dressed up in overalls and plastic gloves, just in case stood together, staring at the body of Mortimer Dean.

'Natural causes?' Heffernan suggested hopefully. With their current workload, the last thing he wanted was another suspicious death on his hands.

'Who knows?' Wesley answered, studying Dean's face. The dead man looked rather surprised. His mouth was open and his eyes stared into s.p.a.ce.

'Well it certainly isn't our Spider,' Heffernan said with what sounded like relief. 'Not a drop of blood to be seen.' He glanced round. 'Is someone taking a statement from the la.s.s who found him?'

Wesley answered in the affirmative. Everything was being dealt with. They were just waiting for Colin Bowman to arrive. He'd been in the middle of a postmortem on a suicide victim when they'd called. He hadn't sounded his usual cheerful self..

He bent down and picked up the whisky gla.s.s that lay on the floor by Dean's feet. Wesley suspected that it had probably fallen out of his hand. He brought it up to his nose and sniffed it. Then he handed it to Gerry Heffernan.

'Does that smell a bit strange to you, Gerry?'

Heffernan sniffed at it and shrugged. 'Might be worth getting it tested, seeing as our friend here had connections with the three victims.'

Wesley dropped the gla.s.s into an evidence bag.

'I must say I can't see anything suspicious, Wes. He could have had a heart attack or ...'

But Wesley wasn't listening. He was making his way to the small kitchen which lay through an arch off the living room. A few seconds later he emerged holding another gla.s.s in his gloved hand. 'This was on the draining board. Someone had washed it up. I wonder if Mr Dean was entertaining a visitor when he died.'

'It might just be a gla.s.s he used earlier and washed up.'

Wesley looked at the gla.s.s in his hand. Gerry Heffernan could be right. But he'd get it checked for prints just the same. You never know your luck. He suddenly remembered something he'd been meaning to tell the boss; something Dean's death had driven out of his head. 'By the way, Gerry, when we called in at the station Rachel spoke to me. She'd been to Belsinger and got a list of former pupils. And guess who was on it.'

'Surprise me.' Heffernan wasn't in the mood for guessing games.

'Barty Carter. He wasn't in Tavistock House and I think he was in the year above Marrick and co. but he was there all right. Funny he never mentioned that he'd known Simon Tench from school.'

'Perhaps he didn't. I remember at school we didn't really mix with people who weren't in our year.'

Wesley felt rather deflated. But he had to acknowledge the boss was right. Maybe Barty Carter hadn't even recognised Tench. 'I've told Rachel to check it out anyway.'

'Let's just hope the b.u.g.g.e.r's got rid of his shotgun,' Heffernan muttered under his breath.

Wesley suddenly felt uneasy. Carter was volatile, unpredictable. What if he'd put Rachel in danger by telling her to go there again? But he told himself that Rachel knew what she was doing. She'd be okay. 'If he was at Belsinger, Carter might be able to throw some light on this girl Hedge was talking about.'

'Girl?'

'The girl who may or may not have been connected with the serious incident Hedge mentioned. The one Marrick might have been involved in.'

'It's all so vague, Wes. They'd obviously not discovered the joys of gossip at Belsinger.'

Wesley grinned. 'All male community. Positively monastic.'

'I thought they were usually the worst,' said Heffernan absentmindedly, picking up a pile of mail that lay on Dean's sideboard. The dead had no privacy.

Wesley wandered over to the computer desk that stood in the corner of the room. Dean's computer wasn't the latest model but it was sufficiently up to date to satisfy the technical needs of the average person. Wesley switched it on and, with a few clicks of the mouse, Mortimer Dean's e-mails appeared on the screen.

'He sent a rather interesting e-mail yesterday,' Wesley said, making himself comfortable by the computer.

Heffernan looked wary. He'd never managed to get along with a computer in his life. If he touched one either the screen turned blue or the whole thing blew up. 'How do you mean, interesting?'

Wesley began to read. 'Frankie, I really must see you. The police have been asking questions. I know it might be difficult for you but is there a way we can meet? I'm afraid things have got out of hand again. I know it seems strange that our roles are reversed now but I'm genuinely frightened for our friend and I don't know what to do about it. Yours ever, Mortimer Dean.'

There was a sharp intake of breath. Then the DCI asked the inevitable question. 'Who's Frankie and who's our friend?'

Wesley noted down the e-mail address. 'We can get this traced. But Frankie can't be far away if he wants them to meet.'

'Not necessarily. He says it might be difficult.'

Wesley had to acknowledge that Heffernan might be right. Frankie, whoever he or was it she? was, might be miles away.

They heard voices on the stairs interspersed with inappropriately hearty laughter. Colin Bowman had arrived.

And when he examined Mortimer Dean's body he announced that he couldn't say for certain how he died until he conducted the postmortem. But his first instincts were that he had ingested some sort of poison.

It was possible they might have another murder on their hands.

Rachel felt nervous as she drove out to see Barty Carter. She'd spoken to her mother the night before and received the farming community's verdict on the man, which wasn't good. But Rachel felt sorry for him, her pity mingled with just a hint of admiration for the way he'd stuck it out on the smallholding. He'd had problems but he hadn't given up.

However, she was reserving her judgement. He hadn't told them that he'd been at school with Simon Tench. Perhaps he had something to hide.

Gerry Heffernan and Wesley Peterson had no idea that she'd gone there alone but she'd thought it best. Carter would be more likely to confide in her if she didn't have someone like Steve Carstairs in tow, flas.h.i.+ng evil looks, playing the hard man. Carter needed the gentle touch. A bit of tea and sympathy. But if he hadn't done anything about those pigs, she'd still give him a hard time.

When she arrived at the smallholding, she saw that Carter had taken her orders to heart: the pig shed had been thoroughly mucked out and the pigs were grunting happily in their fresh straw. As she stood watching the creatures one curious sow came to say h.e.l.lo and Rachel rewarded her with a vigorous scratch on the back of the neck sending the animal into an ecstasy of joyous rubbing and snuffling. Rachel had always had a way with pigs on her parents' farm. But it wasn't something she wanted generally known around the police station.

'h.e.l.lo.'

Rachel swung round to see Barty Carter standing with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, watching her with a nervous half smile on his face.

'The pigs look a lot better.'

Carter stared at the ground, contrite. 'I thought I'd better get my act together.'

'You've done well,' Rachel said quickly.

After an awkward silence, Barty Carter smiled a smile that transformed his face and made him, in Rachel's opinion, the right side of attractive. 'So you're not going to report me, Detective Sergeant?'

Rachel hesitated. It wouldn't do to seem too soft or to let him think he'd got away with his previous behaviour altogether. 'I'll be keeping an eye on the situation, Mr Carter. But from what I can see, you seem to be making progress.' She looked round. 'Is there somewhere we can talk?'

Carter led her into the house and she noticed that he'd made an effort here as well. The place looked a good deal cleaner and the paperwork that had been scattered over every available surface was stacked in neat piles.

'I'm trying to sort everything out,' he explained. 'When my wife left I went through a bad time but ... I've decided to get my life on track again.' He looked at her, sheepishly. 'I poured all the booze down the sink the night after you came. I don't know, maybe it took a visit from the police to give me the kick up the backside I needed. I just hope I can b.l.o.o.d.y keep it up.'

Rachel smiled. 'Look, if you want any advice on farming or ... I'm sure my dad or one of my brothers would be able to have a chat ... pa.s.s on their experience.' The Traceys didn't have a high opinion of posh people from the city who had the same att.i.tude to farming as Marie Antoinette had to shepherding a pretty game. But Rachel could be very persuasive when she put her mind to it.

Barty Carter gave her a shy, grateful smile. 'Thanks. I can't go on calling you Detective Sergeant, can I? What's your first name?'

'Rachel.'

'Thanks, Rachel. Er ... did you come to check on the pigs or is this just a social call?'

'Neither really.' She paused. It was time to slip back into the role of police officer. She'd have to put her sympathy on hold and watch out for lies and evasions. 'Last time I visited you didn't mention that you'd been to school with Simon Tench.'

'I didn't think it was relevant. He was in the year below me and I didn't really know him. In fact I didn't know him at all. We weren't in the same house so our paths never crossed.'

The explanation sounded perfectly plausible to Rachel. There were girls in the year below her at school she would walk past in the street and not recognise. But she had to continue with the questioning. There might be something some snippet of apparently irrelevant information that might be of some help. 'Did you know Charles Marrick or Christopher Grisham?'

Barty Carter shook his head. 'I don't recognise the second name but the first one rings a bell. I seem to remember someone nudging me in the corridor and whispering 'That's the famous Charlie Marrick.' But I didn't take much notice at the time. I had other things on my mind.' He grinned. 'I was in the lower sixth and we used to sneak out to the nearest pub. I think there were a couple of local girls who took my fancy. Consequently, I didn't take much notice of the famous Charlie Marrick.'

'Can you tell me anything about him?'

Carter shrugged. 'I think he was usually in trouble for something and I heard a whisper there was an incident with a girl but ... Sorry I can't be more help.'

'You never thought to tell us you knew Marrick?'

'I didn't know him.'

Rachel usually had a suspicious mind it probably went with the job. But there was something in Carter's manner that made her think he was telling the truth.

'Is there anything else ... anything at all? You might not think it's relevant but ...'

'Sorry, that's all I know. But there is something I'd like to ask.'

'What's that?'

'Any chance of us going out for a drink one night?'

'Nice try,' Rachel muttered. Then, after a few moments' thought, she said, 'We'll see,' with a businesslike smile.

As Carter watched her drive off, her wheels churning up the mud produced by the leaking tap near the gate, he suddenly felt more optimistic than he had done for months.

Brother Francis sat by his computer and stared at Mortimer Dean's e-mail. Dean had kept in touch with him since he'd left Belsinger. There'd been a rapport between housemaster and pupil. Nothing s.e.xual, more a recognition of a sympathetic soul. They'd exchanged letters at first then later, with the advent of technology in the ordered world of Shenton Abbey, they'd corresponded by e-mail. Nothing profound or spiritual Dean had been a devout atheist but pleasantries and news of old boys.

There had been no mention of Charlie Marrick, of course. By tacit agreement it was never spoken of. As if ignoring it would make it vanish as though it had never happened.

But Brother Francis knew it had happened. He'd been there. It was something he'd shared with his confessor before he took his vows; something for which he knew he'd received forgiveness. But even though he'd received his absolution, the very thought of that terrible time made him feel physically sick. It was an indelible stain on his life. Something he could never get rid of by reason and prayer. He still dreamed about it, even after fifteen years. It would be with him until he died.

Brother Francis hadn't concerned himself with Greek mythology since his school days at Belsinger. But he knew Nemesis was the G.o.ddess of retribution. And, in spite of his higher calling, he could sense that she was very near. Just biding her time.

CHAPTER 11.

Ever since they found him, I've been longing to tell the truth but somehow I can't find the words. Perhaps if I write more about Brother William, you'll understand.

You'll wonder why I've chosen you, Neil. But the truth is, I don't know. Why are any of us chosen for anything?

Imagine those monks at the seyney house. How they must have been back then warm and relaxed after their blood-letting. Brother William must have been at ease, unsuspecting, and I've been wondering about his relations.h.i.+p with Brother Silas before it happened. Those tragic events at the seyney house can't have come from nowhere. There must have been a preparation. Watching eyes, full of desire. There must have been some hint of sin. Perhaps Brother William had been too innocent to recognise the signs.

Sometimes I feel as if I'm about to go mad. As if all this putrid filth will burst from my body and I will die like I deserve to.

The writer's hand shook. The last letter had been posted and Neil would receive it next morning Sat.u.r.day. This latest one would be the final word before the truth was revealed. The time was almost near. But what was the worst that could happen? Only death.

Rachel seemed quiet when she returned to the CID office. Wesley asked her if anything was the matter but she shook her head and gave him an enigmatic smile that would have put the Mona Lisa to shame.

'Did Barty Carter have anything interesting to say for himself?' Wesley asked.

The smile was still playing on her lips as she replied. 'He claims he didn't know Tench and Grisham, even though they went to the same school. They were in different years and different houses and he says their paths didn't cross.'

'Think he's telling the truth?'

'Probably. However, he does remember Charlie Marrick having a bit of a reputation. And he remembers hearing rumours of some scandal involving a girl ... but it was all hushed up. And before you ask, he's no idea what it was all about. Apparently he had other things on his mind at the time.'

Wesley thought for a few moments. 'Do you believe him?'