shifted up to make room for the newcomer.
Wesley hesitated. He was there to talk to ex-DCI Houldsworth, not to spend an evening socialising with old university friends.
And besides, he had told Pam he wouldn’t be long. But temptation was often difficult to resist. He asked if anyone wanted
a drink before going to the bar. He’d only have the one, he told himself firmly. Just to be sociable.
While he was at the bar he leaned forward and asked the motherly barmaid whether Mr Houldsworth was in that evening. He spoke
in a low voice, not wishing to be overheard. The barmaid looked him up and down suspiciously as though she was wondering what
this strange black man wanted with one of her regulars. But when Wesley showed her his warrant card and explained that he
wanted to pick his brains about an old case, her expression softened and she pointed out a large man sitting in solitary splendour
in the far corner, armed with a pint and a whisky chaser and puffing away heroically on a cigarette. Wesley thanked the barmaid
politely and returned to Neil with the drinks. Houldsworth didn’t look as if he intended to move from his post until closing
time.
‘How’s the dig going?’ he asked Neil, opening the conversation.
‘Gruesome,’ was Neil’s one-word verdict.
Wesley raised his eyebrows.
‘The earth’s damp and half the coffins are rotten,’ said one of his female colleagues, a rosy-cheeked girl fresh out of university.
‘When they lift them they keep breaking with a horrid sound of splintering wood. Then the bones fall out,’ she added with
inappropriate relish.
Wesley nodded sympathetically and turned to Neil. ‘You haven’t been round for a long time . . . not since Maritia’s wedding.’
‘Is it that long?’
Wesley noticed that Neil was avoiding looking him in the eye. And, as Neil was one of the most straightforward people he knew,
this puzzled him. ‘Is there something wrong?’
Neil felt his cheeks reddening. He forced himself to smile. ‘No, course not, mate. It’s just this dig’s not as easy as we
thought it was going to be, that’s all. Look, I’ll call round when I’ve got a moment. Er . . . how’s Pam?’
‘Apart from the fact that term’s just started, she’s fine.’
‘You’re sure everything’s OK? It’s not like you to indulge in solitary drinking in strange pubs.’
‘This is business, not pleasure. There’s someone I have to see and I’ve been told I can find him here.’ He drank half of his
pint and looked round. ‘In fact I’d better get on with it. I told Pam I wouldn’t be long. See you soon, eh?’
Wesley raised his hand in farewell to the company and carried his drink over to where ex-DCI Houldsworth was sitting. The
pub wasn’t particularly full but there seemed to be an exclusion zone around Houldsworth, as if he had staked his claim to
his own little corner of the pub as people used to own pews in churches and had their own leather armchairs in gentlemen’s
clubs. He looked up as Wesley approached, his eyes filled with barely disguised hostility.
‘That seat’s taken,’ were his first words. He was looking at Wesley as though he’d crawled out from a sewer.
But Wesley decided to ignore the obvious message. ‘Gerry Heffernan told me I’d find you here.’ He watched the man’s face and
saw a flicker of recognition. ‘My name’s Wesley Peterson. I’m Gerry’s DI at Tradmouth.’
Houldsworth smirked. ‘I heard something about Gerry being promoted. How’s the old bugger doing?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘Sorry to hear about his wife. Tragic that.’
‘Yes. Very sad.’
Houldsworth looked Wesley up and down. ‘So you’re his DI? Bet you stand out like a sore thumb.’
Wesley decided to ignore the racist innuendo. Putting the man straight would hardly make him co-operative. ‘Gerry suggested
I ask you about one of your cases.’
Houldsworth let out a mighty burp and patted his chest. ‘Pardon me.’
Wesley hesitated. He was there to talk to ex-DCI Houldsworth, not to spend an evening socialising with old university friends.
And besides, he had told Pam he wouldn’t be long. But temptation was often difficult to resist. He asked if anyone wanted
a drink before going to the bar. He’d only have the one, he told himself firmly. Just to be sociable.
While he was at the bar he leaned forward and asked the motherly barmaid whether Mr Houldsworth was in that evening. He spoke
in a low voice, not wishing to be overheard. The barmaid looked him up and down suspiciously as though she was wondering what
this strange black man wanted with one of her regulars. But when Wesley showed her his warrant card and explained that he
wanted to pick his brains about an old case, her expression softened and she pointed out a large man sitting in solitary splendour
in the far corner, armed with a pint and a whisky chaser and puffing away heroically on a cigarette. Wesley thanked the barmaid
politely and returned to Neil with the drinks. Houldsworth didn’t look as if he intended to move from his post until closing
time.
‘How’s the dig going?’ he asked Neil, opening the conversation.
‘Gruesome,’ was Neil’s one-word verdict.
Wesley raised his eyebrows.
‘The earth’s damp and half the coffins are rotten,’ said one of his female colleagues, a rosy-cheeked girl fresh out of university.
‘When they lift them they keep breaking with a horrid sound of splintering wood. Then the bones fall out,’ she added with
inappropriate relish.
Wesley nodded sympathetically and turned to Neil. ‘You haven’t been round for a long time . . . not since Maritia’s wedding.’
‘Is it that long?’
Wesley noticed that Neil was avoiding looking him in the eye. And, as Neil was one of the most straightforward people he knew,
this puzzled him. ‘Is there something wrong?’
Neil felt his cheeks reddening. He forced himself to smile. ‘No, course not, mate. It’s just this dig’s not as easy as we
thought it was going to be, that’s all. Look, I’ll call round when I’ve got a moment. Er . . . how’s Pam?’
‘Apart from the fact that term’s just started, she’s fine.’
‘You’re sure everything’s OK? It’s not like you to indulge in solitary drinking in strange pubs.’
‘This is business, not pleasure. There’s someone I have to see and I’ve been told I can find him here.’ He drank half of his
pint and looked round. ‘In fact I’d better get on with it. I told Pam I wouldn’t be long. See you soon, eh?’
Wesley raised his hand in farewell to the company and carried his drink over to where ex-DCI Houldsworth was sitting. The
pub wasn’t particularly full but there seemed to be an exclusion zone around Houldsworth, as if he had staked his claim to
his own little corner of the pub as people used to own pews in churches and had their own leather armchairs in gentlemen’s
clubs. He looked up as Wesley approached, his eyes filled with barely disguised hostility.
‘That seat’s taken,’ were his first words. He was looking at Wesley as though he’d crawled out from a sewer.
But Wesley decided to ignore the obvious message. ‘Gerry Heffernan told me I’d find you here.’ He watched the man’s face and
saw a flicker of recognition. ‘My name’s Wesley Peterson. I’m Gerry’s DI at Tradmouth.’
Houldsworth smirked. ‘I heard something about Gerry being promoted. How’s the old bugger doing?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘Sorry to hear about his wife. Tragic that.’
‘Yes. Very sad.’
Houldsworth looked Wesley up and down. ‘So you’re his DI? Bet you stand out like a sore thumb.’
Wesley decided to ignore the racist innuendo. Putting the man straight would hardly make him co-operative. ‘Gerry suggested
I ask you about one of your cases.’
Houldsworth let out a mighty burp and patted his chest. ‘Pardon me.’
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