'And the baby?'

'Oh yes, I'd forgotten about that. Buried in a different part of the cellar. Strange. If they'd been together I would have said it was the master of the house covering up his indiscretions.'

Wesley sighed. 'Don't expect we'll ever know for sure.'

'Did your suspect identify the body, then?' Bowman's question brought Wesley sharply back to the present.

'No. He just threw up all over your nice clean floor.'

Colin Bowman shook his head. 'I told Gerry Heffernan it wasn't a good idea.'

'That friend of yours has been on the phone again,' Rachel remarked casually as Wesley returned to his desk.

'Neil?'

'That's the one.'

'Did he say what he wanted?'

'I never asked. I'm not your personal secretary,' she said with a half-smile, a challenge in her eyes.

'Sorry.' Wesley looked away, embarra.s.sed. 'Is the inspector back?'

'Not yet. How did it go? Did Fielding identify the body? Did he confess all?'

'No. He just threw up. Which begs the question, if he killed her and knew she was in that state, why ask to see her?'

'We concentrate on the man she was meeting, then? This Maurice?'

'Might be an idea.'

'Forensic haven't come up with anything on Fielding's clothes and shoes.' Rachel sat back in her chair. 'Did Fielding identify the clothes she was wearing?'

Wesley thought for a moment. 'No. No, he didn't.'

'Maybe he never noticed what she wore. Do you notice what your wife wears?'

'Not usually. Only when she dresses up to go out.'

'She's lucky. Most men don't even notice that.'

Wesley laughed, but noted that Rachel spoke with conviction and a trace of bitterness.

'Did Neil leave a number?'

'On there.'

He dialled but there was no answer. They were probably outside on the site. He'd drop by at lunch-time; it was only down the road.

He found Neil digging alone. Jane and Matt had gone for a sandwich.

Neil looked up, his face serious. 'We had b.l.o.o.d.y treasure hunters in here last night. They broke the lock on the gate and tried to break into the hut and all but they must have been disturbed. Probably the publicity about these skeletons. Thought they'd try their luck with their b.l.o.o.d.y metal detectors. Look at this.' He indicated a few roughly dug holes near where the woman's skeleton had been found.

'Let's hope they didn't get too much,' said Wesley. 'I'll get the police patrol to keep a special eye on the place and tell the local antique shops to keep a lookout. Did you say they dug near the body?'

'Very near bit underneath we haven't dug yet. b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.'

'Found out any more about this place?'

'I've rung the local museum and asked if they had anything on the house or the Banized family. It seems they've got some household and business records, that sort of thing. I'll go up there when I've got the chance. And I'm doing well with the parish records and all. Nice bloke, the vicar interested in local history. He's looked up all the entries for Banized in the church registers and made a list of the inscriptions on their tombs, been a great help. I've not had a chance to look at his stuff properly yet but I'll get you a photocopy. Give you some bedtime reading. You coming out to play tonight?'

'It depends what time I finish work; I'll see.'

A few minutes later, furnished with a photocopy of the relevant parish records, Wesley returned to the station, blissfully unaware that it was going to be a very long day indeed.

Heffernan was in a bad mood. He trudged through the office, face set, and slammed his door. Wesley looked at Rachel, who shrugged her shoulders and returned to her computer screen, then he tapped tentatively on the inspector's door.

'Come in, Wesley. I thought I might go for a trip down the river this afternoon. I'd ask you along only you've got too much to do.'

Wesley smiled to himself. 'Yes, sir.'

'If the super asks where I am, say I'm out pursuing enquiries, okay?'

Wesley nodded.

'Did Fielding manage to identify her this morning?'

'That's what I wanted to see you about. He took one look at the body and threw up.'

'Understandable. We've not all got stomachs like Colin Bowman's.'

'If he did it, sir, he wouldn't have asked to see her. He would have known what state she was in.'

'That's your opinion, is it, Sergeant?'

'Yes. I suppose it is.'

'Another twelve hours and we'll have to let him go or charge him. What's it to be?'

'I'd let him go.'

Heffernan shrugged. 'Maybe.'

'Sir, Mrs Giordino didn't actually identify the body, did she?'

'She identified the photograph. What are you getting at?'

'But n.o.body's identified the body as Karen's?'

'Fielding's given us her dentist's address. His records'll clear up any doubt.' Heffernan began to sound irritated.

'Why?'

'Nothing, sir. Just a thought. Do you remember that key that was found in the bag. It didn't fit her flat and ...'

'If you stopped trying to be clever, Sergeant, and found us that Maurice bloke that Karen Giordino was supposed to be gallivanting off with at the time she died, we'd all be a b.l.o.o.d.y sight better off.'

'Rachel's been to the model agency. We've tried to contact him. He lives on his own in Morbay and there's n.o.body at his address. The agency say he's in France somewhere. So does his neighbour who's looking after his cat. And according to the agency he's supposed to be with Karen. I've contacted the airlines. No luck. He's probably gone by ferry or the tunnel.'

'Well, we all know where Karen is. The man's either a suspect or a vital witness. Contact the French police. We've got to find him.'

'But if the body's not Karen's ...'

The inspector didn't give him a chance to finish. He left the office, slamming the door. Wesley watched him go, open-mouthed.

'Where's he gone?' Rachel seemed unconcerned about the boss's display of temper.

'Sailing.'

'That figures. It's really got to him.'

'What has?'

'He went to see Mrs Giordino this morning. She's going back home tomorrow. Sailing's his way of dealing with it.'

'Thought it was something I said.'

'No. You were just the nearest available officer of lower rank.' She smiled and their eyes met. Rachel looked away, and shuffled some papers self-consciously.

Five minutes later the phone rang and Rachel answered it. She covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Wesley. 'It's Bob Naseby on the desk. He says we should both get down there quick.'

'Why? What is it?'

'How should I know?'

They clattered down the uncarpeted stairs and arrived at the front desk. Bob gave them a meaningful look and pointed to a figure standing in the corner of the reception area reading the notices. When the figure turned, Wesley's heart began to beat faster. He opened his mouth to speak. But what do you say to someone who has returned from the dead?

The woman approached the desk and Bob Naseby broke the silence.

'This lady wants to speak to you, Sergeant Peterson. She says her name's Karen Giordino.'

Chapter 15.

Methinks Elizabeth may be with child. Her courses have ceased and she doth feel most sickly of a morning. I rejoice if this be so. The staircase is finished and is well but Master Mellyn did charge more for the work than he first did say. I had thought that as he did use an old ships mast instead of new timber it would prove less dear. Robert, the apprentice, hath the toothache once more. Elizabeth is tired and I do keep from demanding she perform the full duties of a wife.

I am drawn to thinking once more of Jennet who I do see often. Today I came upon her in our bedchamber putting down fresh rushes and I did feel the stirrings of desire as I did watch her shapely arms all bare and the whiteness of her bosom. I must be strong and avoid her company.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,

1 June 1623

Years back Darren Watts would have joined his father on the fishing boats as soon as what pa.s.sed for his formal education was over. But the fishing industry in the West Country and beyond was experiencing lean years and Darren, like so many of the friends he met down at the amus.e.m.e.nt arcades of Morbay, had signed on.

It was his elder brother who had introduced him to the delights of metal detecting, first demonstrating its potential in the garden of their whitewashed council house in the middle of the estate that squatted beside the main road out of Tradmouth, then venturing down into the town onto the river-edge mud when the tide was out.

It was the antic.i.p.ation Darren loved; the prospect of the big find. He had never, in fact, found anything very remarkable ... until last night.

He had read the report in the local paper and his brain had slowly turned over the possibilities while he sat with his family pa.s.sively watching an American film on satellite television. He had rung his friend Gary, who was always ready for a bit of excitement. Tradmouth was a b.l.o.o.d.y boring place.

Breaking through the fence last night had been easy. They should have put a stronger padlock on the gate it was asking to be busted.

They had ducked down, hearts racing, when the police patrol car pa.s.sed by. Then they had begun. Darren had been quite unprepared for the effect of nerves upon his bowels. He wanted the toilet. He wanted to go home. But Gary had told him to f.u.c.king pull himself together and get working.

They had come up with a coin, then some buckle thing that looked like it was off a belt. It all looked like a load of c.r.a.p to Darren, but it might be worth something. Then he'd found the ring all filthy, needed a good wash. Darren said he'd show it to his brother who knew about things like that.

Satisfied with the night's finds, they had gone home, and Darren had let himself into the house furtively, wanting no questions asked. Then that morning he had shown the mud-caked ring to his brother who told him to take it to an antique shop when he'd cleaned it up. It might be worth something.

Now that his mum had gone off to her work at the chicken factory, Darren filled the bathroom sink and gently lowered the ring into the lukewarm water. As he moved it around and the mud gradually floated off it, he could see the glint of gold and the green and blue of the stones in their settings. He lifted it from the water and studied it carefully. It was old, beautiful a real prize. There was writing on the inside.Darren squinted and held it close but he could only make out one word: 'Jennet'.

Wesley and Rachel reckoned the first thing somebody'd need when they'd come back from the dead would be a cup of coffee. They sat across the table from the young woman, trying not to stare.

Rachel thought she looked older than her photograph, harder. She was taller than Rachel had expected, and a pair of enviably long legs protruded from beneath the black leather miniskirt. Her face was carefully made up and her fair hair fell in an immaculate bob. Mr Carl evidently knew his stuff. But for all the changes it was still clear that this was the woman in the photograph: this was Karen Giordino. They'd recognise her anywhere.

'You've given us a bit of a shock, Miss Giordino,' Wesley began. 'We thought you'd been killed. Have you heard about the body that was found up at Little Tradmouth?'

'I've been out of the country.' Her accent betrayed her Manchester origins. 'On a modelling a.s.signment. I went back to my flat this morning and one of the neighbours said the police had been round looking for John. She said they thought I was dead.'

Her hand started shaking as she lit a cigarette.

'I'm glad to see you're still with us, Miss Giordino. But there are one or two things I'd like to clear up.'

'Where's John?'