The Marriage Hearse Read Free Page A

reached Pam he kissed her cheek. Then he took a step back and looked at her. ‘What’s
     the matter?’
    ‘Nothing. Why should anything be the matter? How’s it going?’
    ‘We’ve got a bit of medieval pottery and some building debris from when a section of the hall’s west wing was demolished in
     the eighteenth century. A couple of very nice clay pipes – quite early. And an Anglo-Saxon brooch – not sure how that got
     there. Is this a social call or …’
    ‘Wesley’s working. There’s been another murder.’ She was aware of the mounting anger in her voice. She’d told herself time
     and time again that it wasn’t his fault if he had to follow the dictates of his work. But then he didn’t have to field Michael’s
     constant questions about the whereabouts of Daddy.
    ‘That’s police work for you,’ said Neil. ‘When I come acrosshuman remains at least nobody expects me to find the culprit.’ He smiled and put a comforting hand on her arm. ‘Fancy a cup
     of tea? The café in the hall’s open.’
    ‘That’s just what I need. How are you, anyway?’
    ‘Fine.’ He hesitated for a second. ‘But I had a call from Hannah last night. She can’t come over next weekend. Her father’s
     been taken ill.’
    Pam made the appropriate noises of regret, suppressing a vague feeling of relief. It was really none of her business if Neil
     embarked on a relationship with some woman he’d met a few months back when he was on a dig over on the other side of the Atlantic
     in Virginia.
    When they reached the main house Neil stopped to study the huge notice board in the entrance hall. A section was dedicated
     to advertising the various courses the centre offered. But the lion’s share of the available space advertised the forthcoming
     Neston Arts Festival.
    Pam scanned the notice board and one thing in particular caught her eye. A poster the colour of fresh blood advertising a
     new play.
The Fair Wife of Padua
. Well, not a new play exactly. She had read about it in the local paper. It was an Elizabethan play, written by one of Shakespeare’s
     contemporaries and lost for centuries until a copy turned up in some dusty archive. Quite a story. Perhaps she should make
     the effort to buy tickets.
    If Wesley didn’t prefer the company of the wicked or the dead.
    An incident room had been set up at Tradmouth Police Station. A large bright room on the first floor next to the main CID
     office. Two pictures of Kirsten Harbourn were already pinned to the notice board – one showing her alive and smiling, standing
     on the quay-side at Tradmouth against the background of tall yachts’ masts, the other showing her lying dead, her pretty features
     contorted. It was an image Wesley Peterson found offensive. But this was a murder investigation and squeamishness wasn’t going
     to help them catch her killer.
    When Wesley reached the station he longed to sit down and collect his thoughts, but Gerry Heffernan had called a meeting ofthe investigation team. Once it was over and tasks had been assigned, he summoned Wesley to his office. Wesley could guess
     why. Heffernan was a man who liked to throw ideas around.
    When Wesley opened the office door the chief inspector was sitting with his feet up on the desk. His shoes needed heeling
     but then that was probably the last thing on his mind.
    ‘So what have we got, Wes?’ he said as Wesley took a seat.
    ‘So far? Not much. Deceased is a twenty-three-year-old woman called Kirsten Harbourn who was due to marry a …’ He looked down
     at a sheet of paper in his hand. ‘Peter Creston at one o’clock today at Stoke Raphael church. She went to the hairdresser’s
     with her mother and her bridesmaid first thing this morning, then the bridesmaid left to visit her father in hospital and
     her mother went off to see to some last-minute arrangements at the hotel. The dead woman was left alone in the cottage at
     eleven when her mum dropped her off and she was due to be