that.’
Wesley thought for a moment. ‘Or it could be that the victim knew his killer and co-operated in his own death.’
Colin sighed. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Wesley. But I’d say that was a distinct possibility.’
Sam Heffernan folded his new overalls carefully and placed them in the boot of Simon Tench’s Land Rover along with his unworn
wellingtons and his shiny new medical bag.
‘Ready?’ Simon asked, unlocking the car door.
Sam nodded.
‘Should be a straightforward calving. Nothing to worry about,’ Simon said reassuringly as Sam climbed into the passenger seat
wondering how long it would be before he shed the mantle of ‘new boy’.
He liked Simon, the junior partner at the Cornvale Veterinary Surgery. Simon didn’t make him feel foolish when he made a mistake
like some would.
‘Have the police been in touch again about that break-in?’ Sam asked, making conversation as Simon turned the key in the ignition.
‘No. Maybe you should have to have a word with your dad. No use having friends in high places if you don’t make use of them.’
Sam didn’t answer, unsure whether to take the comment seriously. His dad had enough on his plate at the moment without being
troubled by kids smashing a window and pinching drugs from a vet’s surgery.
As Simon swung the Land Rover left on to the main road, Sam noticed a figure step back into the shadow of thetall laurels by the surgery gate as they passed. He had a strong sense that there was something malevolent about the person,
whoever he or she was, but he told himself he was imagining things. Perhaps it was the monk-like hood that shrouded the figure’s
head on such a fine day that gave him the creeps.
Or perhaps it was the uneasy feeling that the figure had no face.
CHAPTER 3
I have dreams about monks – bad dreams. And in those dreams they’re swimming through rivers of blood. Hot blood, flowing through
the passages and cloisters of their abbey, sweeping into their great church and carrying away the costly ornaments and the
painted statues of their saints.
On the TV you said that you wanted to know more about the history of the abbey and I will find out all I can for you. I know
that Veland Abbey was a Cistercian foundation built in the late thirteenth century. The Cistercians – or white monks – usually
built their establishments in isolated locations and sustained themselves by working the land. Some of the houses eventually
became very wealthy and I wonder if the devil wormed his way into the hearts of the monks of Veland through the sin of avarice.
You see I know the end of Brother William’s story but I don’t yet know how the terrible events began. The worm in the bud that
grew into mortal sin and resulted in death.
It must be so good to be like you, Neil, and know that there’s a point to it all.
I will write again soon.
Wesley and Heffernan were silent as they left the hospital, taking in the implications of what Colin Bowman had told them.
From what they had learned from his widow, CharlesMarrick had hardly been the sort to lie back meekly and allow someone to kill him. It didn’t make sense.
Le Petit Poisson was their next port of call. They hadn’t warned Fabrice Colbert of their impending visit. Gerry Heffernan
always liked to take his witnesses unawares … before they had time to perfect their story. The restaurant was within walking
distance of the hospital so it made sense to make the journey on foot. Besides, Gerry Heffernan claimed that he was in need
of the exercise – Joyce, his lady friend, had begun to drop hints about his weight.
Le Petit Poisson was a turreted folly of a building perched above Battlefleet Creek, half a mile up the steep street leading
to Tradmouth Castle. Wesley had heard that the restaurant’s view over the river was spectacular – not that, on a policeman’s
salary, he had ever sampled its delights himself.
‘Wonder if garlic spuds are on
Wesley thought for a moment. ‘Or it could be that the victim knew his killer and co-operated in his own death.’
Colin sighed. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Wesley. But I’d say that was a distinct possibility.’
Sam Heffernan folded his new overalls carefully and placed them in the boot of Simon Tench’s Land Rover along with his unworn
wellingtons and his shiny new medical bag.
‘Ready?’ Simon asked, unlocking the car door.
Sam nodded.
‘Should be a straightforward calving. Nothing to worry about,’ Simon said reassuringly as Sam climbed into the passenger seat
wondering how long it would be before he shed the mantle of ‘new boy’.
He liked Simon, the junior partner at the Cornvale Veterinary Surgery. Simon didn’t make him feel foolish when he made a mistake
like some would.
‘Have the police been in touch again about that break-in?’ Sam asked, making conversation as Simon turned the key in the ignition.
‘No. Maybe you should have to have a word with your dad. No use having friends in high places if you don’t make use of them.’
Sam didn’t answer, unsure whether to take the comment seriously. His dad had enough on his plate at the moment without being
troubled by kids smashing a window and pinching drugs from a vet’s surgery.
As Simon swung the Land Rover left on to the main road, Sam noticed a figure step back into the shadow of thetall laurels by the surgery gate as they passed. He had a strong sense that there was something malevolent about the person,
whoever he or she was, but he told himself he was imagining things. Perhaps it was the monk-like hood that shrouded the figure’s
head on such a fine day that gave him the creeps.
Or perhaps it was the uneasy feeling that the figure had no face.
CHAPTER 3
I have dreams about monks – bad dreams. And in those dreams they’re swimming through rivers of blood. Hot blood, flowing through
the passages and cloisters of their abbey, sweeping into their great church and carrying away the costly ornaments and the
painted statues of their saints.
On the TV you said that you wanted to know more about the history of the abbey and I will find out all I can for you. I know
that Veland Abbey was a Cistercian foundation built in the late thirteenth century. The Cistercians – or white monks – usually
built their establishments in isolated locations and sustained themselves by working the land. Some of the houses eventually
became very wealthy and I wonder if the devil wormed his way into the hearts of the monks of Veland through the sin of avarice.
You see I know the end of Brother William’s story but I don’t yet know how the terrible events began. The worm in the bud that
grew into mortal sin and resulted in death.
It must be so good to be like you, Neil, and know that there’s a point to it all.
I will write again soon.
Wesley and Heffernan were silent as they left the hospital, taking in the implications of what Colin Bowman had told them.
From what they had learned from his widow, CharlesMarrick had hardly been the sort to lie back meekly and allow someone to kill him. It didn’t make sense.
Le Petit Poisson was their next port of call. They hadn’t warned Fabrice Colbert of their impending visit. Gerry Heffernan
always liked to take his witnesses unawares … before they had time to perfect their story. The restaurant was within walking
distance of the hospital so it made sense to make the journey on foot. Besides, Gerry Heffernan claimed that he was in need
of the exercise – Joyce, his lady friend, had begun to drop hints about his weight.
Le Petit Poisson was a turreted folly of a building perched above Battlefleet Creek, half a mile up the steep street leading
to Tradmouth Castle. Wesley had heard that the restaurant’s view over the river was spectacular – not that, on a policeman’s
salary, he had ever sampled its delights himself.
‘Wonder if garlic spuds are on
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