It was Petronella who stood there framed in the doorway, fidgeting nervously with a strand of hair. 'Who are you calling?'

'None of your b.l.o.o.d.y business.'

'Betina. That's one of the cronies you told the police you were with when Charlie died, isn't it?'

Annette felt a tear tickle her cheek. 'I expected a bit of loyalty from my own daughter.'

Petronella snorted. 'You mean the same sort of loyalty you gave to me when you left me in that hospital?'

As Petronella shot out into the hall, Annette threw the telephone across the room. If all else failed, she might have to break the habit of a lifetime and tell the truth.

She wished at that moment that she hadn't summoned Petronella but she'd needed someone and her daughter was her own flesh and blood. That was why she hadn't smothered Petronella at birth. That was why she'd left her there in the warm safe hospital.

But she hadn't known then that your sins always come back to haunt you.

CHAPTER 4.

The second letter should have been delivered that day. Neil Watson would find it at his flat when he arrived home and the writer wondered whether reading it would make him feel sad ... or angry. Or just curious. Or perhaps the subject of blood would frighten him.

The writer began to type. The story had to be told. Little by little. Until everything was clear.

I saw you on the television around the same time as I learned what had happened to Brother William. I knew then that you were the one to help me. It was meant.

I could tell you all about the ruins at Stow Barton and what happened there in 1535 but I'm sure you'd prefer to find out for yourself. Think of it as a kind of game. The blood game. I've made my first move and you've not responded. But I'm near you. I could reach out and touch you. I could even make you bleed.

There was more to say. There had to be more. But it could wait for a while.

Perhaps this was a dangerous game. Perhaps it would be best to stay silent. It wasn't too late to stop. The writer stared at the words on the computer screen and considered the question.

According to the kitchen staff at Le Pet.i.t Poisson, Fabrice Colbert had returned to terrorise them at approximately four fifteen on the day of Charles Marrick's murder. He had just had time to kill Marrick but not much time. He had come into the kitchen with a carrier bag bearing the logo of a Neston health food shop so it seemed he'd been telling the truth about the shopping trip. But of course nothing was certain. He was still very much in the frame.

Wesley sat at his desk considering what he knew so far. Marrick had enemies and common sense told him that one of these enemies had killed him. He had cheated Colbert and, no doubt, he had cheated others. And his widow hardly seemed to regret his pa.s.sing. Perhaps there was a lover somewhere with good reason to get rid of Marrick. And Annette's alibi hadn't been checked out thoroughly yet. He'd send Rachel off to interview the ladies who lunched. She would be bound to give an honest and unbiased opinion ... or maybe not unbiased.

His thoughts were interrupted by Lee Parsons, a new DC who looked so young, he was frequently asked to prove his age in pubs.

'Sir,' Parsons said nervously. 'A report's just come in from Forensics. You asked for a match between the blood on the knife found on that Carl Pinney and the blood of Charles Marrick. There's a match. They're the same.'

Wesley's heart began to beat a little faster. 'What about the knife itself?'

'Available anywhere supermarkets and ...'

'Not an expensive chef's knife then?'

Parsons shook his head.

Wesley thanked the young DC and hurried to Gerry Heffernan's office. He'd want to know right away.

This could change everything.

Neil Watson opened the door of his flat, yearning for a hot shower to wash away the dirt of a day's digging. But when he saw the letter lying on his doormat, he felt the blood drain from his face. He recognised it at once. It was exactly like the other one. He stared at it for a while before bending down to pick it up and tearing the envelope open.

He read the letter inside. There was no actual threat this time, just strange stuff about monks. And blood. Monks swimming through rivers of blood. The whole thing was bizarre. And unnerving in view of what they'd just found at the dig.

He'd show it to Wesley as soon as possible. He needed someone to share it with. Living alone, these things preyed on the mind. And the images in the letters disturbed him.

He considered the ident.i.ty of the writer. Lenny fitted the bill, showing off his knowledge, trying to get one up on the professionals. But it was going to be hard to find out for sure without a confrontation and Neil hated confrontations unless they were of the professional variety with developers or the local planning department. Besides, there was no evidence it was Lenny just a hunch and maybe prejudice against the c.o.c.ky man's arrogance.

He was re-reading the letter, trying to make some sense of it, when his mobile phone began to ring.

After a short conversation, he stood for a moment, feeling rather flattered. They wanted him again, the TV company. They wanted him to give an update on the dig on the local news programme. The feedback from their viewers had been good and there was a lot of interest in history at the moment.

Then suddenly apprehension crept in, taking over what should have been a moment of professional triumph. There was always the possibility that one of those interested viewers might be his letter writer.

If he made another appearance on TV, he would be sticking his head above the parapet again. And people who did that put themselves in danger.

First thing the next morning, Rachel Tracey asked the question that was on all their minds. 'This Darren Collins's prints were found in Annette Marrick's bedroom but where is he now?'

Gerry Heffernan shrugged his shoulders. 'That's the six million dollar question, love. When we find that out, we might be nearer to cracking the case.'

Rachel decided to forgive her boss the 'love' just this once. He was under pressure after all.

Wesley Peterson considered the six million dollar question for a few moments. 'Of course all it really indicates is that Collins has been in the Marricks' bedroom at some stage. It doesn't prove he was there when Marrick died. He could be a handyman who did some work there.'

Heffernan grunted. Trust Wesley to put a dampener on things. Not that he wasn't right. Collins might be their man. But on the other hand, he might not.

The picture of Collins, taken so many years ago, had been pinned up on the notice board along with the crime scene pictures and the names and photographs of all the people involved in the case the possible suspects and those whose paths, through no fault of their own, had crossed Charles Marrick's near the fatal time. Wesley walked over to the board and began to examine the faces, one by one.

After a couple of minutes, he turned to the DCI. 'Gerry, have a look at this. Tell me if you think I'm mad.'

He pointed to the picture of Collins then to another photograph. Heffernan frowned and peered from one image to the other.

'Nah, Wes. Couldn't be. Anyway, he hasn't got a tattoo.'

'Tattoos can be removed.'

'No. You're barking up the wrong tree there.'

'Fingerprints would settle it.'

Heffernan laughed. 'Rather you than me, mate. We'd have every lawyer from here to Timbuktu on our backs if we tried that one.'

Wesley smiled. A secretive smile. 'He doesn't necessarily have to know.'

Gerry Heffernan pretended to look shocked. 'Wesley Peterson wash your mouth out with soap and water. Have you never read the Police and Criminal Evidence Act?' A grin spread across his chubby face. 'When shall we do it then?'

Rachel Tracey looked concerned as she usually did when things weren't done by the book. 'You sure it's a good idea?'

'He won't even know it's happening,' said Wesley with an innocent expression on his face. 'Fancy coming with me?'

Rachel considered the question for a few seconds. Then she gave her answer. 'Wish I could but I'm going to see the ladies who lunch the ones who've given Annette Marrick her alibi. A Betina Betis said that she'll be at the boutique she runs in Foss Street all morning. Then I'll see the other one Celia Dawn separately to see if she comes up with the same story.'

'You do have a suspicious mind,' said Gerry Heffernan. He sounded cheerful this morning and Wesley wondered why. It wasn't as if they were any nearer finding out who killed Charles Marrick. In fact the case was becoming more confusing by the day.

'We need another word with Carl Pinney. He's a thug and he was found with the murder weapon, although he claimed he found it.'

Heffernan snorted. 'I wouldn't trust him if he said sea gulls shat on chimneypots. Let's bring him in again.'

'After his little triumph over Steve, he'll be on to his solicitor as soon as the police car appears at the end of his road.'

The DCI knew Wesley had a point. At that moment Pinney would consider himself untouchable. Invincible.

'Then let's pay him a quiet visit.' He grinned. 'A courtesy call. Present our compliments and ask him to go over his story again.'

Wesley looked happier about this proposal. Tact and diplomacy were required in this case. Even though the little toerag was hardly worth it. 'The Pinney residence first, then,' he said, putting on his jacket.

'Yeah. Then we'll pay a call on you know who ... just in time for coffee.'

Steve Carstairs had never imagined that he'd miss work. He'd dreamed many times of a life of idleness, preferably somewhere hot near a bar and a swimming pool in the company of a couple of bikini-clad blondes.

But the day-to-day reality of enforced sloth was starting to get to him. He had tidied his flat but that hadn't taken long. He had visited his mum, telling her that he was taking some leave rather than the truth that he'd been suspended from duty pending enquiries for allegedly beating up a suspect. He often lied to her to keep the peace ... and to stop her worrying as all mothers did.

At first he'd decided not to tell his father the truth ... then later he'd changed his mind. Somehow it had seemed right to relate the brutal facts to the man who'd let him down all those years ago. He'd also told him that he was innocent ... that Carl Pinney had been lying through his crooked, rotten teeth. And Robbie Carstairs had seemed unconcerned ... which probably meant he believed him. Or that he didn't give a d.a.m.n.

In his unfilled hours, he found himself wondering what his colleagues in CID believed. Whether Gerry Heffernan would give him the benefit of the doubt. Or Wesley Peterson. He'd given Peterson a tough time over the years they'd worked together because of the colour of his skin.

Steve knew that Peterson owed him no favours that he'd probably be there in the front of the queue to condemn him and his resentment began to rise like yeast, fuelled by his feeling of helplessness. He'd only done to Carl Pinney what anyone would have done the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d had only got what he deserved. He was innocent. It was unfair. And he was starting to think of himself as the victim.

He felt he had to get out of the flat. And he had a sudden desire to see his father so he drove out to Tradmouth, taking the car ferry across the river.

There was a fine drizzle in the air, casting a gossamer veil over the town as the ferry chugged across the grey water. The clang of the ferry docking at the slipway shocked Steve back to reality and he drove off automatically, circling the streets until he found a free parking s.p.a.ce.

But as soon as he arrived at the open doorway of Burton's b.u.t.ties, he knew that his journey had been a mistake. A long queue snaked to the counter and his father seemed to be rushed off his feet. As was Joanne Beeston who had abandoned her basket for the day and was serving behind the polished gla.s.s barrier sandwich delivery orders dried up on Sat.u.r.days; for most office workers it was a day of rest.

When Joanne spotted him she gave a shy wave and whispered something to Robbie who glanced over without a smile. Steve's heart lurched. His father, so long lost to him, looked irritated that he'd turned up unannounced. He experienced a few moments of indecision, considering what to do, before mouthing to Joanne that he'd meet her in the Flying Pig at eight and leaving the shop. He shouldn't have come. He knew that now.

He thrust his hands into his pockets and returned to the car, numb and hurt. It was no use telling himself that his father had reacted that way because he was busy the expression on his face had told him otherwise. The novelty of having a son was wearing off ... and the fact that that son was in trouble didn't help.

As he walked with his head down, eyes on the pavement, he heard a familiar voice saying h.e.l.lo. He looked up and saw Trish Walton.

'Hi,' he said. 'How's things?'

Trish gave him an embarra.s.sed smile, unsure what to say. Should she discuss work? n.o.body had told her she wasn't supposed to talk to him. 'Okay,' she said warily.

'How's the Marrick case going?' He was trying to sound casual, to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

Trish hesitated. Then she decided that it wouldn't do any harm to share what she knew. After all, Steve might be cleared ... and then he'd have to take up where he left off.

'Forensic reckon the knife Carl Pinney used to attack you was the one that killed Charles Marrick. They found traces of Marrick's blood on it.'

Steve swore softly under his breath. 'So he b.l.o.o.d.y did it.'

Trish shook her head. 'He claims he found the knife. The boss and Inspector Peterson are going round to interview him this morning.'

'He got bail?' The leniency hit him like a kick in the teeth.

Trish nodded. 'The accusation against you didn't help.'

'I didn't do it, Trish. I didn't beat up that little piece of s.h.i.+t. I'd have liked to but ...'

Trish made a great show of looking at her watch. 'Sorry, Steve. I've got to go.'

'You believe me, don't you?'

Trish didn't answer. She turned and walked away.

He watched her go. If she felt like that, she could go to h.e.l.l. At least he had his date with Joanne that evening. And he clung to that pleasant thought for the rest of the day.

Wesley Peterson wasn't answering his phone. Neil had tried to ring him the night before the night he'd sat up brooding about the latest letter he'd found when he got home from work but the phone had been engaged. He'd spent the evening in his flat alone, thinking, with a couple of bottles of beer for company. Someone out there had chosen him as the recipient of their sick ramblings. And this made him nervous.

Even though it was Sat.u.r.day, he knew Wesley would probably be working. But Pam would be home and he felt a sudden need to speak to another human being. Things had been awkward between him and Pam for a while, ever since he'd discovered that she'd had a short-lived fling with another man. Perhaps it was time he made an effort to mend things and he had the perfect excuse. It was her wedding anniversary and he knew Wesley had booked a meal and a hotel room for that night. He'd call round to offer his congratulations.

Before he set out, he called Annabel, his contact in the archives, to see whether she'd discovered anything more about Stow Barton. He already knew that the site had belonged to Veland Abbey and, after Henry VIII had grabbed all the country's monasteries, that all the abbey's lands had been sold to a family called Pegram thrusting nouveau-riche members of the king's court. New men who had been the future back then. But, in view of the letters and the strange pit he'd found, he wanted to know more and to discover whether a Brother William had featured in the abbey's history.

But all he got was Annabel's disembodied voice on her answering machine and he suddenly remembered that she'd told him she'd be away for the weekend, probably indulging in some country pursuit Annabel tended to hang round with the hunting and shooting set in her leisure hours. It would have to wait till Monday.

An hour later, Neil arrived at Wesley's house and Pam answered the door, looking wary, as though she didn't quite know whether she'd been forgiven. But when he asked if he could come in, she offered tea.

'I believe you and Wes are off out tonight,' he said as he slumped down on the sofa, avoiding eye contact with the two young children playing near him on the floor.

She smiled. 'Yes. My mother's even promised to stay the night with the kids ... which is a first. Things are looking up.'

He nodded, slightly envious of the decent meal and hotel room Wesley would be enjoying that night, painfully aware that he himself had n.o.body to share such treats with even if they were available.

When Pam left the room to make the tea, he made an awkward attempt to help little Amelia with a jigsaw which seemed rather advanced for her tender years, and felt rather pleased with himself when her elder brother Michael, addressing him as Uncle Neil, asked him what he knew about castles and he was able to give the lad some pointers for the model he was making at school. But all this intellectual activity was brought to a halt by Pam's arrival with a couple of mugs filled with steaming tea and he was relieved. He'd never felt entirely at home with children.

'Did Wes tell you I'd had an anonymous letter?' he said as Pam handed him his drink.