A Painted Doom by Kate Ellis Page A

took a deep breath of salty air.
    Audentes fortuna iuvat
. It seemed rather appropriate now.
    He checked the inside pocket of his coat. It was still there. Walking slowly back along the wooden jetty, he looked at each
     boat in turn, searching for the name on the stern.
    Then he saw it. The
Henry of Lancaster
. It was a substantial yacht, its gleaming white hull immaculate and its deck spotless. Someone looked after this vessel,
     probably loved it. It reminded Lewis of a toy yacht that had been his pride and joy when he was young. So perfect, the sails
     so tightly and neatly furled. But this was no toy. Near the top of the mast he could see the discreet bulge of an expensive
     radar system and GPS. This craft could probably cross the Atlantic if its skipper felt so inclined.
    There was no sign of life on board and Lewis hesitated, uncertain what to do next. There was something final about stepping
     aboard a boat. To board a boat was to trust its skipper, and Lewis wasn’t sure whether he was willing toleave dry land and fall hostage to the whim of … who?
    H. Lancaster.
Henry of Lancaster
. He had used the boat’s name, not his own. Lewis, suddenly fearful, began to back away. It had seemed a good idea in the
     cosy security of his bedroom. But now it was beginning to rain. And he wanted to go home.
    He turned to face the town. There were people walking along the quayside; people hurrying in and out of the shops; people
     standing around talking; boat owners walking back to their craft with carrier bags full of victuals; a small fishing boat
     tying up, laden with crab baskets. Normality. He touched the package in his pocket and started to walk back towards the worn
     stone steps that led upward to safety.
    ‘Lewis. Is it Lewis?’
    It was a man’s voice, deep and resonant. Lewis turned round.
    ‘I’ve been waiting for you, Lewis. Come aboard. Have you got it?’
    Lewis swallowed hard and nodded. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Come on. Come aboard.’
    Lewis Hoxworthy turned and walked slowly back towards the boat.
    The man lay there, pale and naked, on the stainless-steel table. Wesley Peterson took a deep breath, but this was a mistake.
     As he inhaled, the stench of blood, death and air freshener made him feel slightly sick. He glanced at Gerry Heffernan, who
     was standing beside him watching the procedure keenly, arms folded, seemingly without a care in the world.
    The fact that most of Wesley’s immediate family were doctors made no difference. He was squeamish and he wasn’t afraid to
     admit it. He must be a throwback, he thought: the medical gene must have passed him by.
    The same couldn’t be said of Dr Laura Kruger, whoconducted the post-mortem with effortless efficiency, but without Colin Bowman’s habitual social chitchat. Wesley looked away,
     thinking with some regret that he would miss Colin’s gourmet refreshments and pleasant small talk afterwards. The luxurious
     little indulgences that Colin happily shared in his well-appointed office somehow made the whole unpleasant business easier
     to bear.
    ‘Well, I think I can safely say the cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head, fired at close range; very neat hole in
     the forehead. The bullet went straight through. Want to see the exit wound?’ Laura Kruger was about to turn the corpse when
     Wesley shook his head.
    Gerry Heffernan looked a little disappointed. ‘Any idea what kind of gun it came from? Time of death?’
    ‘I estimate he died some time on Wednesday, late afternoon or evening. Sorry I can’t be more accurate. And as for the gun
     I’d say a smallish pistol. The bullet would tell us more.’
    ‘They’ve done a fingertip search of the field and nothing’s been found. Anything else interesting?’
    Laura stood back and looked at the body. Lying there, Shellmer seemed older than he had done when they first found him. Without
     the youthful clothing he looked lined and haggard. ‘His hair’s dyed,’ Laura added