mortuary, he intended to set off for London to see Evans’ s wife - or rather widow. Pete Jarrod had rung him at home the previous night to say that when a DC had called round to break: the news, the widow had seemed to take it calmly. This came as a relief: Wesley didn’t know whether he was up to coping with hysterical grief. He had come to rely on Rachel to deal with that sort of thing because she was good with the bereaved, possessing just the right mixture of sympathy and common sense. But this time he’d be alone. With the investigation into Evans’s suspicious death gathering pace, Rachel was needed in Tradmouth.
Of course there was always a chance - a slim one admittedly - that they had made a mistake about Patrick Evans; that someone who resembled Evans had stolen his identity and the genuine article was alive and well somewhere. But Wesley dismissed the idea. The hotel manager had recognised the photograph of the tidied up corpse and once his wife had identified the body the question would be settled beyond doubt.
Wesley looked at his watch and at his empty, greasy plate. It was time to meet Gerry Heffernan. With a sigh he stood up, his chair legs scraping loudly on the hard floor. The group of uniforms in the corner looked round then averted their eyes.
As Wesley arrived in the CID office, Heffernan hurried in, breathless. He had the dishevelled look of a man who’d overslept. But then he’d lived alone since his children had left home for university. And his wife had died some years . ago so there was nobody to make sure he got out of bed on time in the mornings. His tie was askew and there was a grease stain on the front of his shirt. Pam concluded long ago that Geiry Heffernan was the type of man who needs a good woman. Trouble was, good women seemed to be in short supply these days.
‘Ready for our rendezvous with Colin, Wes’!’ The chief
42
inspector sounded inappropriately cheerful, his accent betraying his Liverpool origins.
‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ Wesley mumbled. Heffeman charged ahead, setting the office door swinging and Wesley followed, regretting his choice of breakfast. His stomach was already starting to complain at the earlier excesses of that morning.
Colin Bowman was waiting for them at the mortuary. As usual, the two policemen observed the proceedings from the far side of the white-tiled postmortem room, Wesley hardly saying a word and looking away at the most gruesome moments while Heffeman chatted cheerfully, as though Colin was doing something quite mundane, like preparing a meal or working on a car engine.
Colin announced that the victim had been a healthy man in his thirties. He had good muscle tone, probably as a result of working out regularly in a gym, and Gerry Heffeman couldn’t resist observing that all that healthy living hadn’t done the man much good.
The cause of death was undoubtedly a stab wound to the heart. The blade that had ended Patrick Evans’s life had been narrow, sharp and fairly long; a kitchen knife perhaps. From the angle of the wound, his killer bad pr0b-ably been a few inches smaller than him. Or perhaps standing on slightly lower ground: the Devon landscape was notoriously undulating. Colin also observed that the murder could have been committed by a man or a woman. That was all they needed, thought Wesley: the entire population of Devon under suspicion.
The only time Colin’s stream of social chitchat stopped flowing was when be began to examine the contents of the corpse’s stomach.
‘He’d eaten a hearty meal.just before be died,’ he announced after a few seconds of silence. ‘Hardly digested. Come and have a look.’
Wesley and Heffeman edged forward reluctantly. Wesl~y could still taste the sausage and baconbe’d bad for bleak-
43
fast and the last thing he wanted was to throw it up all over the spotless mortuary floor. As Colin waved the bowl containing the dead man’s last supper under their noses,
Of course there was always a chance - a slim one admittedly - that they had made a mistake about Patrick Evans; that someone who resembled Evans had stolen his identity and the genuine article was alive and well somewhere. But Wesley dismissed the idea. The hotel manager had recognised the photograph of the tidied up corpse and once his wife had identified the body the question would be settled beyond doubt.
Wesley looked at his watch and at his empty, greasy plate. It was time to meet Gerry Heffernan. With a sigh he stood up, his chair legs scraping loudly on the hard floor. The group of uniforms in the corner looked round then averted their eyes.
As Wesley arrived in the CID office, Heffernan hurried in, breathless. He had the dishevelled look of a man who’d overslept. But then he’d lived alone since his children had left home for university. And his wife had died some years . ago so there was nobody to make sure he got out of bed on time in the mornings. His tie was askew and there was a grease stain on the front of his shirt. Pam concluded long ago that Geiry Heffernan was the type of man who needs a good woman. Trouble was, good women seemed to be in short supply these days.
‘Ready for our rendezvous with Colin, Wes’!’ The chief
42
inspector sounded inappropriately cheerful, his accent betraying his Liverpool origins.
‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ Wesley mumbled. Heffeman charged ahead, setting the office door swinging and Wesley followed, regretting his choice of breakfast. His stomach was already starting to complain at the earlier excesses of that morning.
Colin Bowman was waiting for them at the mortuary. As usual, the two policemen observed the proceedings from the far side of the white-tiled postmortem room, Wesley hardly saying a word and looking away at the most gruesome moments while Heffeman chatted cheerfully, as though Colin was doing something quite mundane, like preparing a meal or working on a car engine.
Colin announced that the victim had been a healthy man in his thirties. He had good muscle tone, probably as a result of working out regularly in a gym, and Gerry Heffeman couldn’t resist observing that all that healthy living hadn’t done the man much good.
The cause of death was undoubtedly a stab wound to the heart. The blade that had ended Patrick Evans’s life had been narrow, sharp and fairly long; a kitchen knife perhaps. From the angle of the wound, his killer bad pr0b-ably been a few inches smaller than him. Or perhaps standing on slightly lower ground: the Devon landscape was notoriously undulating. Colin also observed that the murder could have been committed by a man or a woman. That was all they needed, thought Wesley: the entire population of Devon under suspicion.
The only time Colin’s stream of social chitchat stopped flowing was when be began to examine the contents of the corpse’s stomach.
‘He’d eaten a hearty meal.just before be died,’ he announced after a few seconds of silence. ‘Hardly digested. Come and have a look.’
Wesley and Heffeman edged forward reluctantly. Wesl~y could still taste the sausage and baconbe’d bad for bleak-
43
fast and the last thing he wanted was to throw it up all over the spotless mortuary floor. As Colin waved the bowl containing the dead man’s last supper under their noses,
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