Page 33 of The Chapel of Bones

She went on to explain the situation, and Wesley felt disappointed that Trish hadn’t trusted him enough to share the information – unless her parents, fearful for their pet’s safety, had kept her in the dark too.

‘The drop’s tonight,’ Maritia continued. ‘More instructions to follow. Mark has started fancying himself as the Great Detective.’

‘You don’t mean he’s after my job?’ said Wesley with a laugh.

‘I mean he intends to be there keeping watch when those dognappers pick up the money. I told him not to take any risks.’

‘Quite right. Leave it with me,’ he said, looking at the paperwork that had piled up on his desk and suddenly feeling overwhelmed.

He was tempted to ask Gerry’s advice, but he needed to speak to Trish first. Perhaps her parents wouldn’t want the police to launch an operation that might put their precious pet at risk. On the other hand, with the Waltons’ co-operation, they might be able to catch the dognappers once Bella was home safe and well. This was something that required serious thought.

Wesley was so busy with the murder case that he didn’t have a chance to speak to Trish in private about her parents’ situation. Gerry was anxious to follow the Jim Baker lead and he didn’t want to waste time, so they set off for Morbay, taking the car ferry across the river; a pleasant, scenic journey but a frustratingly slow one.

Baker’s name had been fed into the police computer, but he had no convictions, something Wesley found rather surprising. The forwarding address provided by the letting agency turned out to be a flat in a shabby nineteenth-century terraced house with moss-stained stucco walls. It was in the worst part of town; the haunt of unfortunate benefit claimants and the poorer cohort of students. Not the ideal environment for an ambitious artist, Wesley thought as they approached, especially after the relatively attractive and bucolic surroundings of Belsham. Baker had blotted his copybook there, but maybe here, his behaviour wouldn’t be viewed as so objectionable.

A bank of stained plastic bells had been placed beside the flaking front door. The names were faded and indecipherable, so Gerry chose one at random. When there was no response,he pressed another. This time they were in luck. A pale, tired-looking girl with a pinched, elfin face opened the door.

‘Jim moved out a few months back,’ she said once they’d explained why they were there. ‘Had a fight with the bloke on the top floor. I’m glad he’s gone, to tell you the truth. Just feel sorry for whoever lives next door to him now.’

Wesley took a deep breath. It was time to ask the question. ‘Do you know where he moved to?’

‘Yeah. He left the address with me in case he got any post.’ She gave a bitter smile. ‘Like I’m his bloody servant. If anything does come for him, it’ll go in the bin.’

‘Or you could save it and give it to us,’ said Gerry, handing her his card. ‘Now, have you got that address?’

She nodded as though she liked the idea of landing Jim in trouble with the police, then disappeared into the shadows of the house, returning a few minutes later with an envelope with an address scribbled on the back.

‘East Burrington. That’s where that zoo is – the one in the leaflets found in Donnal’s briefcase and Sue Potter’s bin,’ Wesley said as they walked back to the car.

‘In that case, do you fancy a visit to the zoo? I’ll buy you an ice cream.’

‘What about the university?’

‘It’ll still be there when we get back.’

The developer who’d been obliged to allow the excavation on the site of his new housing development had been growing impatient, and as the archaeologist in charge, Neil had appeased him with assurances that they were almost finished, apart from the inevitable paperwork and site report. He felt a pang of conscience about leaving these dull routine aspects to Dave, while he followed up the more exciting possibilities at SycamoreHouse. But he told himself that his second in command would soon be in a position to join him there.

The Sycamore House dig was progressing well, with a small team of postgrad students recruited from the university, plus Helen Jones, whose enthusiasm for the dig didn’t appear to have waned as he’d suspected it would.

‘Neil,’ a tinkling voice called over. He turned round and saw Helen waving to him, trowel in hand. She looked muddy but happy.

‘Hi, Helen, can I help?’

‘No. I just wanted to tell you something. I was out and about last night – I’ve been so busy trying to get the house straight that I haven’t really had much of a chance to explore the grounds yet. I never realised there was so much land, and the woods are far more extensive than I thought. Anyway I walked into the trees after you’d gone, and there’s something I think you should see.’

‘Why don’t you show me?’ said Neil.

She climbed out of the trench and led the way into the area of woodland nearby. It was a place Neil was intending to investigate once they’d made more progress with what he was now absolutely certain was a chapel associated with Neston’s Augustinian priory. Annabel had come across old documents suggesting that there was also a holy well, although so far they’d found no evidence of this.

As he followed Helen into the trees, she turned her head as though she wanted to make sure he was still there. ‘It’s just over here.’

She stopped by a bank, a steep rise in the ground blanketed with a thick layer of ivy. ‘In here. I think there are stones underneath the ivy.’

She stood back while he attempted to push the vegetation to one side. It was tough and seemed determined not to move; to keep whatever secret it was hiding. But Neil’s heart began tobeat a little faster. Under the ivy he could see what looked like a small green mound, but there were certainly stones there so he suspected it was some sort of structure.

He turned to Helen. ‘This looks interesting. I’ll get someone over to help chop the ivy back, then we can see what we’re dealing with.’

‘Think it could have anything to do with that . . . man the builders found in the house?’