'So where are we off to now?' Sam asked.

'Tradington mare's been in labour for a while and it doesn't seem to be going well. All good experience for you.' Simon was taking his responsibility for training up the new boy seriously. Not that Sam was objecting he was willing to learn. And besides, Simon was an amiable companion ... when he got off the subject of house hunting.

'So how do you like large animal work?'

'Great,' Sam replied. 'It's what I've always wanted to do.' He tried to sound suitably enthusiastic.

'You're living back at home, aren't you?'

'Yeah. With my dad. He's a widower so I reckon he's glad of the company and buying my own place is out of the question for a while houses are so expensive round here.' As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew he'd said the wrong thing. Any mention of the property market would set Simon off on the subject of his recent TV appearance on House Hunters. Sam decided a quick change of subject was called for.

'I don't suppose the police have got anyone for that break-in at the surgery?'

'Not yet. Maybe you could have a word with your dad ... chivvy them along a bit.'

'I've not seen much of my dad for a few days. He's busy with this case the murder in Rhode. Have you heard about it?'

He glanced at Simon and saw that he had turned quite pale. For a while he fell uncharacteristically silent but by the time they reached the farm he seemed to be back to his old, cheerful self.

Sam couldn't help wondering what was bothering him the break-in at the surgery ... or the murder in Rhode. But new boys can't really ask questions.

Rachel Tracey found herself a free bench on the esplanade and ate the smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwich she'd just bought from Burton's b.u.t.ties. She gazed out over the river, watching the yachts glide by and the pa.s.senger ferry chug to and fro over the water, and when she closed her eyes for a few moments Wesley Peterson popped unbidden into her mind. But she was strict with herself and banished him from her thoughts. She'd been down that road before and it had led nowhere. Not only was Wesley married but he was probably the faithful type, brought up by strict Christian parents from Trinidad his only sister had even married a vicar. She should find someone who was available. The trouble was, decent available men were in short supply and even when she'd thought she'd hit the jackpot with a man called Tim from Scientific Support, he'd turned out to be married. Perhaps she would follow her mother's advice and start attending Young Farmers' socials again. She'd done so up till a couple of years ago and she considered it a backwards step. But beggars can't be choosers, she told herself.

When she'd finished her lunch, she stood up and the crumbs she had unwittingly scattered on the ground were swooped up by a hungry sea gull who brushed her legs with its soft wing. Trish, who had gone off to do some emergency shopping at Winterlea's, was walking towards her and she raised a hand in greeting.

When Rachel had looked up the address in her notebook, just to make sure she'd got it right, the two women made their way up to Celia Dawn's cottage on one of the steep, narrow streets that meandered upwards, away from the river.

Celia's house was pristine pink with fresh white paintwork. There were sheer white Roman blinds at the windows, pulled down for privacy and window boxes overflowing with primulas and pansies. The place had a prosperous look, well cared for. But if she was a friend of Annette Marrick's who went in for charity dinners, Rachel was hardly surprised. When Rachel had been a child, most of these cottages had been occupied by locals fishermen, boatyard workers, shop staff, teachers, firemen, the occasional impoverished artist or writer an eclectic and lively social mix. But now many were either second homes or belonged to city people who'd retired or downsized to what they hoped were more peaceful surroundings.

A teenage girl answered the door. Dark, sulky and painfully thin. She said her mother was on the yacht the Daisy Lady moored at the Marina. Rachel couldn't miss it, she was a.s.sured. Rachel unlike Gerry Heffernan who would have spent every waking moment aboard his yacht, the Rosie May, given half a chance was a little nervous of boats as they seemed so insubstantial and so vulnerable to the whims of nature. But she walked back through Tradmouth with Trish until they arrived at the Marina.

The thin daughter had been right the Daisy Lady was easy to find. She was the largest yacht in that particular part of the Marina, bobbing above her neighbours like a mother duck amongst her ducklings. Rachel, unsure of the etiquette involved, wondered how they were going to get aboard. But as they walked down the wooden jetty they saw a woman on the deck, slumped on a sunlounger, sipping a drink with a slice of lemon floating on its surface that looked suspiciously like gin or vodka. Rachel called to her, asking her if she could have a word reluctant to mention the word police because there were people in life jackets busy on one of the neighbouring boats and the woman motioned her aboard with a lazy arm gesture.

Rachel took a deep breath and walked up the gangway, clutching the rails to steady herself, Trish following behind.

The woman wore dark gla.s.ses even though the sun was behind a cloud. It wasn't really the sort of day for sunbathing but this didn't seem to bother Celia Dawn. Like Betina she was bottle blonde but Celia Dawn's hair was curly and she was a little on the plump side. She wore an orange vest top and a pair of shorts brief enough to reveal a glimpse of cellulite. She must have given birth to the sullen teenager very early in life because she was considerably younger than Annette and Betina perhaps close to Rachel's own age although smoking and too much sun had just begun to ravage her face. She sat up when the two women approached and took off the sungla.s.ses. Rachel was surprised to see the remnants of a black eye now fading to a sickly yellow. She invited them to sit.

'I need to ask you a few questions about Charles Marrick's death,' Rachel said, coming right to the point.

The woman nodded meekly and took another sip from her gla.s.s.

'How well did you know Mr Marrick?'

Celia looked her straight in the eye. 'I was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g him,' she said bluntly. She sounded sober. And a little angry.

Rachel was rather taken aback. She'd expected evasion friends covering up for each other. But she hadn't expected this.

'Tell me about him.' She had a feeling that the woman wanted to talk.

Celia took another sip from her gla.s.s. 'He could be very charming ... but basically he was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

'Was he violent?' Rachel indicated the eye.

'He liked it rough if you know what I mean. But he didn't do this.' She pointed to her eye and glanced at Trish nervously. 'This was an accident. Cupboard door.'

'Did Annette know what was going on?'

'G.o.d, I hope not. We were very discreet. And she never gave me any indication that ...' Her lips turned upwards in a knowing smile. 'Not that Annette was as pure as the driven snow. What's sauce for goose and all that ...'

'What do you mean? Was Annette having an affair?'

The woman shook her head and said nothing.

'Considering Charles Marrick was your lover, you don't seem too upset by his death,' Trish observed, watching the woman's reaction.

Celia stretched out her tanned legs. 'Look, Charlie Marrick was exciting in bed. Our relations.h.i.+p was purely physical, can you understand that?'

Rachel glanced at Trish and nodded, a.s.suming a 'woman of the world' expression. But, being a bit of a romantic beneath her sensible exterior, she didn't really understand the appeal of men like Charlie Marrick.

'Look, I'm a single parent and I need a bit of male company from time to time. Charlie was ready, willing and very able so ...' She shrugged. 'But that doesn't mean I liked him.'

'Have you spoken to Betina today?' Rachel asked innocently.

Celia shook her head. 'No. Why do you ask?'

'I'm trying to establish everyone's movements on the day of Charles Marrick's murder. Where were you on Wednesday afternoon?'

Celia thought for a few moments. 'Wednesday? I usually work on Wednesdays but ...'

'What do you do?' asked Trish, curious. Celia didn't look the working type.

'Market research interviewing people. But last Wednesday I was with Annette and Betina. We were here on the Daisy Lady. We're organising a charity dinner and we had a lot to discuss.'

'What time did Annette and Betina leave?'

She shrugged. 'I left to go to an appointment at three thirty. They were still here then but they'd gone when I got back at five.

'What sort of appointment?'

'Hairdresser's. Snippers and Curls.' She looked at Rachel and smiled a mirthless smile, challenging her to prove she was lying.

Rachel knew she wasn't going to learn any more. She handed Celia her card. 'If you remember anything else, ring me,' she said.

But she wasn't holding her breath.

When you're ten years old Sat.u.r.day is a day of freedom from the tyranny of school and the pointless nagging of grownups.

Of course it helped that Daniel's and Nathan's mums worked on Sat.u.r.days and their dads were just distant memories, having left for pastures new when they were small something that had created an unspoken bond between them at primary school. On Sat.u.r.days the two boys were left to their own devices and being too old for toys and too young as yet for the s.e.x, drugs and bottles of strong cider on offer outside the village pubs and phone boxes they roamed the lanes around the village of Whitely on their bikes when the weather was fine.

Today their mothers had gone to work as usual, in a bakery and a pasty shop respectively, and the boys had left the small council estate on the edge of the village to cycle out to the woods next to Sunacres Holiday Park. From the edge of the wood they could spy on the holidaymakers, sn.i.g.g.e.ring as they watched the self-conscious adults playing ball games or basking like seals on sunloungers outside the wooden chalets. During the school holidays they'd hide in the trees and jeer quietly at the kids playing football with their fathers, hiding their painful envy behind the disdain.

But today there were few holidaymakers about so the boys went in search of other entertainment. After hiding their bikes in bushes, they scuttled away into the depth of the wood, scratching their bare arms on brambles and bravely ignoring the stinging nettles that grabbed at them from either side.

They trudged on through unexplored territory, stopping now and then to answer a call of nature against a tree, until they came to a small clearing. To their right a thicket of tangled branches formed a rough tunnel, perfect for their purpose. This would be a den to end all dens. A palace amongst dens. Quite magnificent. A fine and private place where the unreliable adult world could never touch them.

Daniel led the way as they pushed through the undergrowth. Then suddenly he stopped.

'Go on,' Nathan snapped, almost falling over his friend.

There was a long silence. 'Nath. Let's go.'

Nathan pushed his friend out of the way and looked down at the ground where the scattered bones lay, pale against the brown of the earth. He held his breath for a moment, taking in the skull, the cavernous eye sockets and the teeth that grinned cheerlessly upwards at the overhanging tree branches.

Daniel began to back away, his eyes on the bones as though he expected them to rise any minute, rea.s.semble themselves and chase the intruding boys out of their secret place.

Their hearts racing, the boys ran back to their bicycles and rode home as though the devil himself was on their tail.

CHAPTER 5.

You've seen the pit the place where the brothers' blood was poured. And no doubt, if you have any intelligence at all, this find will confirm the true purpose of the buildings at Stow Barton. But I wonder if you will discover the rest. I wonder if you'll ever find out the truth about what happened to Brother William. I like this blood game. My wits pitted against yours, Neil.

Did I say it was a game? Perhaps it is and perhaps it isn't. Can a game cause so much pain?

The writer switched off the computer. Why had Brother William's story come to light just as the excavation at Stow Barton was about to begin? Why had its discovery dragged the terrible memory back into the daylight now, when it had been dammed up for years behind a wall of normality? Why had the whole thing returned like an evil-smelling flood?

At four thirty Wesley was thinking of home and the evening ahead a leisurely meal followed by a spot of hotel luxury. Pam had had to face yet another Sat.u.r.day on her own with the kids and he felt a little guilty that he hadn't been there to give her time to prepare for their anniversary evening. But at least he had the recipe for creme brulee, written in Fabrice Colbert's own hand, to present to her as a peace offering. He had sent the pen Colbert had used to write it down to Forensic but as it was the weekend, he wasn't holding his breath for a speedy result.

Gerry Heffernan, beaming like a fairy G.o.dfather, had told him to go, saying that they'd done all they intended to do and unless anything new came in, he might as well go off and enjoy himself. Rachel had reported back on her meetings with the ladies who'd lunched with Annette Marrick on the day of her husband's murder, concluding that Annette's alibi was flimsy to say the least. She wouldn't have trusted either of those women, she announced judgementally. But she believed Celia Dawn's revelation that she'd had an affair with Charlie Marrick who liked to add a spot of violence to his love life. The man must have made enemies and the list of suspects probably stretched into infinity. This particular Charlie was n.o.body's darling.

With this comforting thought in his head, Wesley reached for his jacket which was hanging on the coat stand. He was just about to put it on when the telephone on his desk rang. The desk sergeant sounded apologetic as he informed Wesley that a lady was waiting down in reception with a couple of kids. She was talking about a skeleton in some woods. Was someone from CID available to have a word with her?

Wesley put the phone down and took a deep breath. He put on his jacket and made his way to Gerry Heffernan's office. He'd want to know. He might bl.u.s.ter and complain but he'd still want to know.

In the end they sent Paul Johnson down to see the woman. Somehow neither of them could face it just at that moment and they both trusted Paul to get at the facts. But after ten minutes Paul returned with a solemn look on his long face. The kids had come across some bones in the woodland next to the Sunacres Holiday Park. According to the woman it had frightened the life out of them but the kids had looked as though they were enjoying every minute.

It was Gerry Heffernan who made the decision. 'Okay, Paul. You and Lee Parsons go up there with her. It'll be nothing probably a dead sheep or something. But if it turns out to be human, you know what to do.'

Wesley felt relieved. He'd promised Pam he'd be back early. The last thing he wanted was for work to interfere with their special evening.

He walked home. The sky was bright and the weather forecast was good. Even though tomorrow was Sunday, Wesley knew he'd be needed at work again. But Gerry had told him not to arrive till after lunch his token anniversary present to Wesley and Pam.

When Wesley arrived at the house, Pam rushed out into the hall to greet him. And the expression on her face something between embarra.s.sment and disappointment told him that all wasn't well.

'It's my b.l.o.o.d.y mother she's let us down. Some friend's turned up out of the blue and she called about an hour ago to say she can't look after the kids. The friend's male of course.'

Wesley put a calming hand on her shoulder. He'd known Della was a selfish b.i.t.c.h but this topped everything. 'Have you tried Maritia and Mark? Maybe ...'

'They're visiting Mark's mum in hospital won't be back till late.' Tears were forming in her eyes. 'I've rung the hotel to cancel.'

Wesley clenched his fist. His mother-in-law was becoming more irresponsible than most of her teenage students and she was getting worse with the years. He would have felt differently if she'd had a genuine reason for ruining her daughter's anniversary, but a date with some man ... He wouldn't forget this in a hurry.

He looked at Pam. She was taking it remarkably well or seemed to be.

'If we can't get a babysitter, we'd better have a takeaway,' she said calmly. 'Are you going to ring the Golden Dragon, or shall I?'

Wesley tried to hide his anger. Takeaways were commonplace the thing he always suggested when he wanted to ease the domestic burden. But tonight they had little choice.

The phone call came just after he'd ordered the food. 'Wanted to catch you before you went off gallivanting,' said Gerry Heffernan's voice on the other end of the line sounding inappropriately cheerful.

'The gallivanting's off,' said Wesley miserably. 'I'll explain when I see you.'

'Oh ... er ... right,' bl.u.s.tered Heffernan, unsure what to say. 'Well I just thought you'd like to know that Paul's reported back. The bones in the wood were almost certainly human.

Wesley glanced at Pam who was watching him expectantly. Perhaps some things were just meant to be.

All in all Simon Tench had had a bleak day. The foal he had been called out to deliver had died but at least he and Sam Heffernan had managed to save the mother. The promised new life had turned to grim death and the incident left Simon feeling depressed. Professional failure and the look of disappointment sometimes even grief on his patients' owners' faces, always did.

When he arrived back at the cottage he and Emma were renting just outside the village of Stokeworthy, he found Emma wearing her uniform, car keys at the ready. She kissed his cheek and asked him what was wrong she was always sensitive to his moods; that was one of the things he loved about her. But as soon as he'd outlined the problems of his day, she'd had to rush out:she'd changed her s.h.i.+ft at Tradmouth Hospital and she'd be working all night. She'd have liked to be there for him in his hour of need, but sometimes these things couldn't be helped.

When she'd gone, he sat down and flicked through the estate agents' brochures lying on the coffee table. They'd have to find somewhere soon. He'd had high hopes of the TV programme that the company could somehow produce the perfect property for them out of nowhere but it hadn't happened. Nothing they had been shown had had the right feel and the only one they'd made an offer for had been whisked out of their grasp by a second-home seeker with a city bonus to spend. They were still looking and local prices were still rising. But he and Emma had enjoyed their half hour of fame. Taking part in a TV property show had meant a change of routine and a brief brush with a more glamorous world.

Simon contemplated making himself something to eat. But he wasn't really hungry. He kept seeing the dead foal lying on the straw, still and perfect ... like a work of art, a beautiful sculpture. The mother had nuzzled it, urging it to stand, to spring to life. Simon buried his head in his hands. He mustn't let it get to him.

He needed a distraction, some mindless noise to fill the room and drive out the gloom. He had just picked up the remote control to switch on the TV when the doorbell rang, piercing the silence.

He stood up. Perhaps it was Emma. Perhaps she hadn't been needed at work after all and she'd forgotten her house keys.

But when he opened the door he saw that it wasn't his wife standing there. But he still greeted the caller with a smile. And after a short conversation, he invited the newcomer in.

Pam had told Wesley that if he didn't go and see what was going on, it would only be on his mind all evening. And she wanted his undivided attention.

So, after making earnest promises that he wouldn't be long, he joined Gerry Heffernan in the woodland near the Sunacres Holiday Park. Colin Bowman was already there, examining the bones. And after a few minutes, he delivered his verdict. 'Well the bones are definitely human probably those of a mature male and they've been here quite some time. They're scattered around most likely disturbed by animals but more than that, gentlemen, I can't really tell you until I've had a chance to examine them more closely.'

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. 'Had they been buried or ...'

Colin shook his head. 'They might have been in a shallow grave but there's no evidence of it. It's more likely that the body was just left in the undergrowth and the animals got to it. Not a nice thought but ... nature red in tooth and claw and all that. It's pretty overgrown here. They could have lain undiscovered for years.'

Wesley nodded. 'How old was he?'

Colin looked up. 'You know as well as I do, Wesley, that these things aren't always easy but I'd say he was probably in his thirties of forties. Fortunately we have the skull.' He asked the photographers if they'd finished and when the answer was affirmative, he picked the skull up, Hamlet style, and gazed at it for a few moments. 'There are a few fillings which may help with the identification.' He sighed. 'Any idea who it might be? Have you had a chance to look in your missing persons files yet?'