The Armada Boy

Book 2: DI Wesley Peterson

by Kate Ellis

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Archaeologist Neil Watson did not expect to find the body of American veteran Norman Openheim in the ruins of the old chantry chapel. He turns to his old student friend, Detective Sergeant Wesley Peterson, for help. Ironically, both men are looking at an invading force – Wes the WWII Yanks and Neil a group of Spaniards killed by outraged locals as they limped from the wreckage of the Armada. Four hundred years apart two strangers in a strange land have died violently – could the same motives of hatred, jealousy and revenge be at work? Wes is running out of time to find out …

Release date: January 6, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 224

Sample

Norman Openheim lit a forbidden cigarette and inhaled deeply. It was good. He put the silver lighter carefully back in the
pocket of his baseball jacket and blew out a stream of warm, savoured smoke into the chilly night air.


He stood there in the middle of the ruined chapel. It was good to know that some things hadn’t changed in fifty years. He
had smoked back then . . . everyone had. Cigarettes had been simpler currency than sterling. He had smoked on this very spot,
his girl in his arms. But then he had had no worries about the health risks of nicotine and tar. He had lived for the moment,
not knowing whether he would be killed by a German shell or bullet the next day or if he would soon be drowned in the icy
sea off Normandy. Everyone had smoked back then.


The unaccustomed nicotine made Norman feel a little lightheaded. Dorinda, his wife, had put her dainty, pedicured foot down
ten years ago. No more cigarettes; they were bad for your health. This one was the first he had tasted in all that time .
. . the first act of rebellion. It felt so good that he could almost imagine he was seventeen again, the age he had been when
he had last stood on this spot.


A high-pitched whining in his ear reminded him that his hearing aid was playing up again, returning him bitterly to the realities
of his ageing body . . . malfunctioning, flabby and balding. Seventeen was a long time ago.


He pushed back his baseball cap and sucked hungrily on the cigarette. Birdsong . . . there used to be nightingales. He remembered
hearing their sweet song as he had made love to Marion in the shelter of the crumbling chapel walls. He touched his hearing aid and winced as it emitted a vicious electronic crunch.
He banged it a few times before it gave up the ghost altogether. Maybe it needed new batteries. But it didn’t matter . . .
not here, not now . . . not while he contemplated that youthful coupling with his pretty local girl: the pleasure, the excitement,
heightened by the hovering imminence of death at the hands of the enemy.


As his hearing aid was broken, Norman did not hear his killer approaching slowly behind him . . . and he was unprepared for
the blade that pierced his ribs and penetrated his beating, aching heart.


Dorinda Openheim tapped her tiny patent leather shoe impatiently. The colonel, a large, square man with grizzled hair, strode
towards her frowning with concern.


‘Sorry, Dorinda . . . we can’t wait much longer. You’re sure he said nothing?’

Dorinda shrugged. ‘I took one of my pills last night. I was asleep when he came to bed and he was gone when I woke this morning.’

Colonel Willard G. Sharpe raised his bushy grey eyebrows. Soldiers he could figure, but women . . . If Norman was avoiding
his pocket-sized harridan of a wife, Colonel Sharpe regarded that as a wise strategy.


‘We’ll have to begin without him. The vicar from St John’s church is taking the service . . . we can’t keep the good padre
waiting: got to keep friendly relations between old allies, especially when you remember the sacrifices these folk round here
made back in ‘44.’


Dorinda pursed her lips. The hardships of a few English villagers fifty years ago didn’t concern her: her husband’s unexplained
absence did.


‘Look, Dorinda, Norman’s all grown up now . . . he can take care of himself. We should be at the memorial by a quarter to.’

Dorinda looked round at the group waiting by the hotel door; the subdued veterans and their smartly dressed, chattering wives.
She would go without Norman. The colonel was right. Norman was grown up . . . he could do what the hell he liked.


She caught the eye of a tall, white-haired man who was hovering at the edge of the waiting group. She thought, not for the first time, how distinguished Todd Weringer looked in
his smart navy blue blazer and slacks . . . not like Norman who never had that darned baseball jacket off his back. She smiled
sweetly; Todd Weringer smiled back and winked.


‘Shall we go without him, then, Dorinda?’ said Colonel Sharpe impatiently. ‘He’s probably out reliving a few old memories.
He knows the lie of the land round here . . . he won’t get himself lost. He’ll probably make his own way to the service.’


‘Sure. Let’s go.’ Dorinda turned and marched towards the door, her hand brushing Todd Weringer’s as she passed.

The chantry chapel of St Dennis, founded by Sir Roger de Carere in 1263, had stood ruined and overgrown at the edge of the
village of Bereton since its closure by Henry VIII in 1545. It slumbered amid its weeds like Sleeping Beauty’s castle – being
of use only to courting couples – while the village’s spiritual needs were taken care of by the ancient parish church of St
John a few hundred yards away.


Neil Watson of the County Archaeological Unit was planning to awaken the ruins from their sleep. He parked his rusty Mini
in a wide part of the lane leading out of Bereton and walked back the few yards to the overgrown footpath that led to the
chapel. Neil liked to be early; to have a chance to look round the site of an excavation before his colleagues and their equipment
arrived. He liked to take in the atmosphere of the location; to imagine the events, the people, the emotions that had shaped
the place before he started dissecting the evidence of its past.


He was relieved to see that the path to the chapel was passable, kept that way by curious walkers and young lovers from the
village.


He passed through a crumbling archway into the body of the roofless nave, its floor covered by patchy grass, its walls shoulder
height to the left but much taller to the right. The windows at the chapel’s east end, though empty of their tracery and jewelled
glass, were remarkably intact. A half-crumbling tower still stood proudly at the west end. The chapel must have been quite
a place in its day.


Neil strolled towards the east end, kicking an empty plastic bottle. Here and there the ground was littered with cans, cigarette
packets and the occasional used condom: how the youth of the village would miss this place while the site was fenced off for
the excavations. They would have to use their ingenuity to find somewhere else or spend the next few months pursuing chastity
and useful hobbies. Neil knew which option he would have chosen at their age.


At first he thought the dark shape in the south-east corner of the chancel was a pile of old clothes, dumped there by an environmentally
unaware villager. But as he drew nearer he saw the pile had a human shape.


‘Shit,’ he mouthed, looking down at the elderly man who lay before him on the ground. A baseball cap was stuck firmly on the
head and the jacket that proclaimed the name of some American sports team looked bizarrely inappropriate for someone of the
dead man’s advanced years. He stood over the body and stared at it, willing it to go away or wake up and transform itself
into a drunken vagrant . . . anything that wouldn’t disrupt his well-planned dig.


Neil delved into the pocket of his shabby waxed jacket and took out a mobile phone. He pressed the buttons, still looking
warily at the dead man and the startled expression that was frozen in the staring eyes. ‘I need to speak to Detective Sergeant
Peterson,’ he said, the tension audible in his voice. ‘It’s urgent.’


Although the most recent ‘invasion’ of our beautiful village came in 1944, when the area was evacuated by the US forces for
the D-day landing rehearsals, we must bear in mind that history has a habit of repeating itself.


It was back in the reign of the first Queen Elizabeth, in 1588, that Bereton was invaded by sailors from the Spanish ship
San Miguel, which was wrecked after being separated from the great Armada approaching up the English Channel.


From A History of Bereton and Its Peopleby June Mallindale


Detective Sergeant Wesley Peterson put the phone down. He could see the inspector through the glass office partition. He was
slumped in his chair surrounded by files; jacket off and badly ironed shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal a large tattoo on his
forearm in the shape of an anchor. Detective Inspector Heffernan had the harassed look of a man trying desperately to keep
one step ahead of Tradmouth’s criminal fraternity. He had just received a report of another burglary. What he didn’t need,
Wesley thought, was a possible suspicious death.


Wesley took a deep breath, gave a token knock and went in. ‘Sorry, sir, I’ve just had a call from . . .’

‘Don’t tell me any bad news, Wes, I don’t want to know. These burglaries from weekend cottages . . . it’s got to be the same
lot: same mode of entry, same sort of things nicked. Is Steve back yet?’


Wesley, London-born and -bred, sometimes had difficulty catching the subtleties of Heffernan’s Liverpool accent. He leaned
forward, hoping to get a word in.


Heffernan continued. ‘Have you finished that report on the stolen yacht?’

‘Yes, it’s all done . . . and there’s been a call from Morbay to say that it‘s turned up in the marina there. Sir . . . ’

Something in the sergeant’s voice made Heffernan raise his tousled head. ‘What is it? I’ll tell you, Wes, the only news I
want to hear right now is that all the local villains have repented of their evil ways and are forming an orderly queue downstairs
to turn themselves in.’


‘Sorry, sir, I’ve just had a call. Suspicious death at Bereton. There’s a patrol car on the way and I’ve called Dr Bowman
and SOCO.’


Gerry Heffernan buried his face in his large, callused hands. He was a church-going man, not given to swearing, but on this
occasion he allowed himself the luxury of a colourful sentence in keeping with his merchant navy background.


Wesley tried hard not to grin. ‘There’s another thing, sir.’

‘Come on, Wes, spit it out . . . things can’t get worse.’

‘Do you remember Neil Watson from the County Archaeological Unit? He found the body. It’s bang in the middle of a dig he’s
about to start and he’s in a bit of a state about it. You know what it’s like nowadays if something’s delayed and goes over
budget . . .’


Heffernan stood up and glowered at Wesley. He remembered Neil Watson all right . . . a friend of Wesley’s from his student
days who had been studying archaeology with him at Exeter until their paths diverged and Wesley joined the police force to
undertake investigations of a less academic nature. ‘Your mate’s not the only one who could do without this. Here we are with
our pet villains trying for a productivity bonus and your mates start digging up bodies.’


‘He didn’t dig it up, sir. It was just lying there, apparently.’

The inspector ignored Wesley’s last remark and reached for his jacket. ‘We’d better get down there.’ He sighed. ‘It could
be natural causes . . . we can but hope, eh?’


Wesley nodded. He’d worked for Gerry Heffernan for six months now, long enough to know that behind the bluster lurked an amiable,
even gentle, man.


The swing-doors crashed shut behind them as they passed the station’s front desk.

‘Morning, gentlemen, lovely morning.’ Bob Naseby, the desk sergeant, held up a huge hand in greeting.

‘Morning, Bob. Can’t stop . . . ’ Heffernan hurried through the foyer, Wesley in his wake.

‘Sergeant . . . I know you’re in a hurry but can I have a word . . . about you know what?’

Wesley turned. ‘We’re in a bit of a rush now, Bob. Later on, eh?’

Bob Naseby nodded knowingly and reached beneath his counter for his steaming cup of tea as the station doors swung shut.

‘Couldn’t see the queue of waiting villains. Maybe they’ll be in later . . . they’ll be having a nice lie-in seeing as it’s
Monday. What was that all about?’


‘What, sir?’

‘You and Bob Naseby . . . the “you know what”?’

‘Oh, that? I made the mistake of telling Bob that my great-uncle played cricket for the West Indies. Now he’s convinced that
I’m going to be the division’s answer to Brian Lara.’


‘That was a big mistake, Wes.’

‘I hadn’t the heart to tell him that it’s not in the genes . . . he was only my uncle by marriage. I didn’t even make the
cricket team at school.’


Heffernan laughed wickedly. ‘No escape now. Once Bob gets your name down for that cricket team there’s no trial by jury, no
plea-bargaining and no appeal.’


Bob Naseby was notorious for his obsession with the game of cricket. Wives and girlfriends seethed as he took their menfolk
off to spend their off-duty hours on the cricket field in the summer months. ‘I’ll just have to come clean . . . tell the
truth,’ said Wesley with finality.


‘My mam used to say honesty is the best policy. We should have that plastered up on every cell wall, don’t you think?’

They drove on for a while in amicable silence. They were on the coastal road to Bereton which meandered above sandy, tree-lined
coves. The spring sunshine filtered through the branches throwing golden sparks out on to the clear blue sea.


‘This view, Wes,’ said Heffernan. ‘I bet it’s as good as anything you’d find in the Med.’

‘You don’t find anything like this in the Met, sir.’ Wesley, transferred from the Metropolitan Police six months back, smiled,
enjoying his private joke.


The road to Bereton wound off to the right, leaving the coastal road with its sweep of pebbled beach behind. The wall-like
Devon hedges obscured the view into the fields until, half a mile inland, they came to a village of pastel-painted cottages,
clustered round a handsome medieval church and a squat thatched pub. A hand-painted sign showed the way to a rival hostelry
and another sign, ancient but more official, pointed the way to the chantry.


‘It’s the chantry we want,’ said Wesley.

‘What’s a chantry when it’s at home?’

‘It’s a chapel . . . usually built by someone wealthy, so that prayers and Masses could be said for their souls when they
died. Priests were employed to staff them. They were quite the rage till old Henry VIII put a stop to them.’


‘You seem to know a lot about it.’

‘I’m a mine of useless information, sir.’

‘That’s what comes of an expensive education.’

‘This particular chantry was quite substantial,’ Wesley continued. ‘It was referred to as a college. There were four priests
employed . . . one as the normal parish priest and the other three just to serve the chantry. That’s what Neil’s excavating.
Only the chapel shell remains but there must have been more buildings. He’s trying to find out what’s there.’


‘Fascinating,’ said Heffernan unconvincingly. ‘So you’ve seen Neil recently, then?’

‘We went for a drink last week.’

‘What did your Pam think to that?’

‘She came with us.’

‘In her condition?’

‘Making the most of our freedom, sir . . . before we need to worry about baby-sitters.’

‘You’ll not have much freedom if this turns out to be murder, Wes. Mystic Gerry predicts lots of overtime . . . unpaid and
all if the super has his way.’


Wesley parked behind Neil’s Mini. He would have recognised the rusting vehicle anywhere – it was unchanged since their student
days. A pair of police patrol cars were parked in front of Neil’s, their occupants absent. They walked back towards the chantry and saw that the area had been cordoned off with blue-and-white tape. Heffernan made a mental note to praise this
piece of efficiency . . . credit where credit’s due, he always thought.


The first person they encountered was Neil, leaning disconsolately against the chapel’s rough stone wall by the half-demolished
west door.


Heffernan spoke first. ‘I’ve got one thing to say to you.’ Neil looked mildly alarmed. ‘Next time you want to go finding bodies
will you wait till all our villains have announced a strike . . . or a work-to-rule at least. As if we’ve not got enough to
do. I just hope it’s natural causes.’


‘So do I,’ said Neil with feeling. ‘Every day we delay this dig we’re going over budget. And we’re co-ordinating it with a
project out in the bay. It’s bloody inconvenient.’


‘Bloody inconvenient for the poor bugger in there and all . . . ’ Heffernan stormed past into the shell of the chapel where
something in the far corner was attracting quite a crowd. SOCO had arrived.


Wesley hung back to talk to Neil. ‘What time did you find him?’

‘Just when I rang you. I’ve got my mobile.’ He produced a tiny mobile phone from his pocket and displayed it proudly.

‘Very nice,’ said Wesley admiringly. He had never associated Neil with high technology. ‘Were you on your own?’

‘Yeah. Just came to see the lie of the land. I’ve sent the others away for now. I’m meeting them in the Bereton Arms at opening
time if you want to join us . . . ’


Wesley shook his head. I won’t have the time . . . unless it’s natural causes.’

‘Let’s hope it is, then. Pam okay? How long till the baby’s due?’

‘Ten weeks and she’s fine . . . blooming. Bit tired at school.’ Wesley’s wife had been supply teaching since their move to
Devon. She had found a long-term contract in a school that she liked and was reluctant to give it up until nature dictated
that she had to.


‘Won’t be long now till you’re having all those sleepless nights.’

‘I get them already working for Gerry Heffernan. I’d better get in there . . . see what’s going on. I’d find your mates, if
I were you. There’s no point hanging round here. We may need a statement later but I know where to find you. You didn’t touch the body
or anything like that, did you?’


‘Come on, Wes . . . .’

‘Sorry. Stupid question,’ Wesley said apologetically. Neil was a trained archaeologist who knew how to deal with evidence
as well as any policeman.


Wesley found the inspector talking to a tall, genial man who greeted him with a casual affability that made him expect to
be offered a drink and canapes at any moment.


‘Good to see you again, Sergeant. How’s that wife of yours? I hear a happy event is imminent.’

‘Fine, thanks, Dr Bowman. And yourself?’ He knew that Colin Bowman couldn’t be hurried: the social niceties had to be observed.

‘I was just telling the inspector here, I cut my hand rather badly gardening . . . not as bad as this poor chap, though.’

He stood aside and Wesley saw the body, the object of all the attention, for the first time.

‘How did he die?’

‘Stabbed, poor chap. Straight through the back and into the heart . . . single wound. If it had been an inch either side it
would have hit a rib.’


‘So it was someone who knew what they were doing?’

‘Either that or they were lucky. Must have come up on him from behind. He’s got a hearing aid: I’ve checked and it doesn’t
seem to be working. That means he might not have heard his killer. Look at his face . . . he looks a bit startled, doesn’t
he?’


‘Well, you would if you’d just had a knife stuck in your ribs,’ said Heffernan, not too helpfully. ‘What was he doing in a
place like this anyway?’ He pointed to a grey object next to the body. ‘Is that what I think it is?’


‘Yes . . . a rat,’ said Colin Bowman with distaste. ‘Not the most salubrious of companions even in death.’

‘Have you examined it?’

The doctor looked disdainful. ‘Why should I do that? I’m a forensic pathologist, not a vet.’

‘It’s just that . . .’ Heffernan touched the rat gingerly with his shoe. ‘Have you noticed it’s been wounded?’

Colin Bowman bent down with fresh interest. ‘Might have been killed by a dog or something.’

‘Too neat.’ Heffernan pointed, not wanting to touch the thing that lay with its tail stiff, just touching the dead man’s arm.
Wesley bent over to see. ‘I reckon,’ said Heffernan with a confidence he didn’t feel, ‘that looks like a knife wound.’


Colin Bowman was wearing rubber gloves. He touched the creature. After a few seconds he stood up and nodded. ‘I think you
could be right, Gerry. Why stab a rat, eh? Strange . . . bizarre. I’ll take it back to the lab . . . have a better look.’


‘And the post-mortem?’

‘I’ll have our friend here on the slab either later today or first thing tomorrow. As to the time of death I can’t be too
accurate at the moment but I’d say between 9 and 11 last night. Can’t speak for our furry friend.’ He looked again at the
man’s corpse. ‘Any idea who he was? The clothes are a little, shall we say, flamboyant for a gentleman of that age.’


‘Doesn‘t fit in with any of our missing persons . . . have to look further afield.’ Heffernan shrugged.

‘Well, I’ll leave you to it, then, Gerry . . . Sergeant. Happy hunting.’

‘Why is he always so flaming cheerful?’ asked Heffernan rhetorically as the doctor disappeared through the chapel archway.

Wesley bent down to look more closely at the body. A man in his late sixties; baseball cap, baseball jacket over a shocking-pink
shirt. His clothes and shoes didn’t look cheap, neither did they look particularly expensive: but there was something about
them that rang bells in Wesley’s head. He looked up at his boss. ‘Do you know, sir, I reckon he could be an American.’


Heffernan sighed, contemplating diplomatic repercussions and severe blows to the ‘special relationship’. ‘That’s all we bloody
need,’ he said.


Dorinda Openheim did her best to look dignified as the white-gloved bugler sounded the last post. She shivered as a gust of
fresh March wind penetrated the thick pink cloth of her best suit.


Most of the wives wore black. Maybe she should have worn black – it might have been more appropriate. But it was too late
now.


The vicar with the plummy English accent was talking again. Vicar? He looked little more than a kid. A couple of the veterans were laying a wreath at the war memorial. How much longer would they have to stand outside in the cold?


And where was Norman? She fidgeted as she remembered the previous night, then she glanced across at Todd Weringer, his handsome
face a study of appropriate solemnity as he remembered his fallen comrades.


‘Let us pray,’ the vicar intoned.

Dorinda shut her eyes tight and prayed that nobody would discover her secret.

Even police officers need to eat. They opted for the Ber. . .