The Mechanical Devil

by Kate Ellis

  ‘Before my time, I’m afraid. And the old incumbent of this church has gone on to higher things.’ Grayling raised his eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘You mean he’s…’

  ‘Oh no, you misunderstand me. The Reverend Collins is now a canon at the cathedral. A well-deserved promotion. He’s a good man.’

  ‘I take it you mean Exeter Cathedral?’

  Grayling nodded, fidgeting with the front of his black clerical shirt as though something was bothering him; maybe something to do with Canon Collins.

  ‘When I called in at the church last night you looked upset.’ Neil thought he might as well be direct.

  ‘I was worried about a sick parishioner,’ Grayling said quickly. ‘Sometimes you can’t help getting emotionally involved.’

  Neil was sure he was lying.

  ‘Have you discovered any more about the wooden figure?’ Grayling changed the subject skilfully as though he was used to steering conversations in the direction he wanted them to go.

  ‘No, but everyone at the university’s very excited about it. It’s an important find and I wouldn’t be surprised if it ends up in a major museum. I’d like to find out more about it if possible.’

  ‘Canon Collins took an interest in that sort of thing while he was vicar here. I’ll give you his address if you like.’

  He consulted an address book bulging with scraps of paper and scribbled something on a notebook, then tore out the page and passed it to Neil.

  ‘I haven’t seen your curate around much – John Davies.’

  ‘He’s… gone to another parish.’

  Neil knew this was another lie. He thanked Oliver Grayling and returned to the church.

  Jeremy Ovorard’s white mansion was perched on the hillside above Morbay, near one of the resort’s more exclusive beaches. Wesley’s tyres crunched on a thick layer of gravel as the car came to a halt in front of the house. As an early warning system it was as effective as an alarm.

  Ovorard opened the door a split second after Wesley pressed the bell, almost as if he’d been waiting in the hall for them.

  ‘I hope you’ve come to say you’ve found her.’ His words sounded more like a criticism than an expression of hope.

  ‘No news yet, I’m afraid,’ said Wesley. ‘But I assure you we’re following every lead.’ He saw Gerry give him a slight nod. ‘We’d really like to speak to your wife, Mr Ovorard. She might have something valuable to tell us.’

  ‘That’s out of the question, I’m afraid.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m about to go to London for a couple of days – a parliamentary committee I really can’t get out of. I’m sorry, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me I have a train to catch.’

  ‘Let’s not waste time then,’ said Gerry. ‘Can we come in? Won’t keep you long.’

  Ovorard nodded meekly and stood aside to let them in, checking his watch again as if to make a point.

  ‘We’d like to talk to you about Andrea Jameson,’ said Wesley once they were seated in a cream-and-gold living room decorated in the style favoured by premiership footballers and their glamorous wives. The place looked like a show house on an upmarket development with nothing out of place and little sign of human habitation.

  ‘Andrea who?’

  ‘The woman Jocasta was last seen with in the village of Lower Torworthy up on Dartmoor. She was later found dead half a mile away.’

  ‘The name isn’t familiar.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true, Mr Ovorard,’ Wesley said softly. ‘You had a dispute with her about a party you arranged which was later cancelled. She sent in her account for the work she’d done and you refused to pay.’

  For a brief moment Ovorard looked uncomfortable. Then the untroubled mask slipped back into place. ‘Of course. I’m sorry, I’d forgotten all about it.’

  The words were said with confidence but Wesley didn’t believe them for one moment.

  ‘You argued with Andrea Jameson.’

  Gerry had been watching silently, letting Wesley do all the work, but now he chipped in. ‘We’ve been told things got a bit acrimonious.’

  ‘It was a simple legal matter, Chief Inspector. Nothing personal, I assure you. I dealt mainly with her solicitors.’

  ‘But you must have met Ms Jameson,’ said Wesley. ‘Tell us what you remember about her.’

  ‘She seemed very efficient and her firm came highly recommended.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Of course. Our dispute was settled and I assure you I bore her no grudge.’

  ‘You must have been annoyed with Jocasta for causing you all that trouble,’ Wesley said, watching Ovorard carefully. The man pressed his lips together in a hard line at the mention of his daughter’s name. He’d been annoyed with her all right.

  ‘OK, I admit I was angry at the time because we’d gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange a memorable sixteenth birthday party for her and invited all our friends. It was embarrassing when we had to cancel but we made an excuse that she wasn’t well. Gastroenteritis if you must know.’ He gave a humourless smile. ‘The political variety.’

  ‘One of her former classmates at Widedales said she had a boyfriend.’ He was bending the facts but he wanted to see Ovorard’s reaction.

  The MP’s face reddened. ‘Whoever told you that was wrong.’ He checked his watch again. ‘I’m sorry. I really must go.’

  Wesley heard a noise; the dull thud of a door banging upstairs. ‘In that case we won’t keep you. If there’s any news about Jocasta you’ll be notified at once.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t like the idea of his little girl having a boyfriend,’ Gerry said as they made their way back to the car.

  ‘If he’s away in London for a couple of days it means Jocasta’s mum’ll be here without her guard dog,’ said Wesley. ‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’

  Gerry looked at him and grinned.

  17

  There was a message from the incident room to say that Trish Walton’s visit to the village of Littlebury had borne fruit. After asking around in the village she’d discovered that Jason Fitch had inherited a bungalow overlooking the sea from his grandmother and that he used it for the occasional weekend away. The woman who ran the village post office said that Fitch and his wife were careful to keep themselves to themselves, quite unlike the former owner of Gull’s View, Fitch’s grandmother – a Mrs Lingham – who’d been well liked and a mainstay of the local WI.

  The next piece of good news was that when Trish had taken a look at the bungalow she’d seen a big SUV registered to Sharon Fitch parked outside.

  Wesley drove straight to Littlebury down the narrow country lanes. He’d never been comfortable driving in this terrain, leaving it to Rachel if at all possible because she’d grown up in the area and navigating the high-hedged, single-track roads was second nature to her. But this time he had no choice and his hands tightened on the steering wheel as he instructed Gerry to look out for passing places and approaching vehicles. Gerry, in contrast, looked perfectly relaxed in the passenger seat.

  ‘Let’s hope they’ve got the kettle on when we arrive.’

  ‘Aren’t we bringing Jason in for questioning?’

  ‘We’ll have time for a cup of tea first,’ said Gerry. ‘I’m spitting feathers.’

  The village of Littlebury consisted of a few streets of pastel cottages, two pubs, a medieval church and a village hall along with a post office cum general store that did a roaring trade in beach equipment in the holiday season. Today, with the fine September sun, there was a small display of bright plastic buckets and spades outside to attract any off-season holidaymakers with small children who happened to pass by. The main road through the village sloped towards a wide expanse of beach and beyond the beach was a small island topped by an impressive art deco hotel. Wesley had visited Monk’s Island before in the line of duty but had never set foot inside the hotel. He’d heard it was expensive but perhaps one day he’d treat Pam to a night there.

  Gull’s View
wasn’t hard to find. It was a small bungalow with the slightly run-down look Wesley had seen before in properties owned by the elderly who find day-to-day maintenance too much to cope with. It was clear that the Fitches had done little to the exterior since inheriting and Wesley couldn’t help wondering what they had planned for it in the future.

  The SUV was still outside; a large white BMW which dominated its surroundings. Out of habit Wesley put his hand on the bonnet as he passed. It was cold, which meant the Fitches hadn’t ventured far from the house since Trish made her report.

  There was no bell so Wesley rapped on the glazed door and waited. After a while a dark shadow appeared in the hallway, distorted by the patterned glass. Wesley held his breath as the door opened to reveal a woman with a bottle-blonde ponytail and tanned limbs. Her jeans were tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination and she wore a skimpy vest top which revealed an array of tattoos on her shoulders and arms. She didn’t look pleased at being disturbed.

  ‘Mrs Fitch?’

  She nodded cautiously as though she was thinking of denying it.

  ‘I’m DI Peterson and this is DCI Heffernan,’ Wesley said, showing his ID. ‘We’re investigating the death of Andrea Jameson. May we come in?’

  Sharon Fitch grunted something under her breath and walked ahead of them into a small parlour. All trace of Fitch’s grandmother had been erased and replaced with white walls and simple Scandinavian furniture. The place had an unfinished look; a work in progress.

  ‘What do you want?’ Sharon’s question was brusque, as though she couldn’t wait to get rid of them. They weren’t invited to sit.

  ‘We’d like to speak to your husband.’

  ‘You and me both. We had a row and he buggered off.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘You knew Andrea Jameson?’

  Sharon turned away and stared out of the window. ‘I knew Jason was screwing her. Found texts from her on his phone, didn’t I. He said he’d finish it but that’s not the first lie he’s told, believe me.’

  ‘Andrea Jameson had arranged to join your husband at Princebury Hall up on Dartmoor last Friday but she was killed before she got there. Your husband didn’t turn up either.’

  ‘That’s because I finally put my foot down and told him I was leaving if he went. I should have done it years ago.’

  ‘How did he react to that?’ Gerry asked. It was the first time he’d spoken and he sounded genuinely curious.

  ‘He went off and sulked for a bit then he came back, which surprised me because I thought he wouldn’t be able to resist sniffing around that bitch again. He can never usually help himself. He sulked all day Saturday then on Sunday I told him we were coming here for a few days. Thought it’d do us good to get away.’

  ‘I understand your brother, Kyle, was at your house on Sunday. We’ve been trying to get in touch with him.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky. He’s in Spain; he just called in on his way to the airport.’

  ‘When’s he back, love?’ said Gerry.

  ‘Early next week, he said.’

  ‘Does your brother own a gun?’

  ‘Kyle’s been a bad lad in his time but if you’re trying to pin this murder on him you’re making a big mistake.’ She was either genuinely shocked or she was a good actress because she almost had Wesley convinced. Almost but not quite.

  ‘Can you tell us exactly what your husband did last Friday?’

  Sharon slumped down on the sofa. ‘He was at home till early afternoon catching up with work in his study,’ she said, fishing a tissue out of her jeans pocket. ‘Then he told me he was going away to Dartmoor for the weekend – he’d already packed without bloody telling me. We had a flaming row, then he drove off – must have been around three o’clock.’

  ‘What time did he come back?’

  Wesley held his breath while she made the mental calculation.

  ‘Around seven thirty. Came back with his tail between his legs.’ There was a note of triumph in her voice and Wesley suspected she’d enjoyed her moment of victory against her rival.

  ‘What was his explanation?’

  ‘He said he’d been driving around thinking and he’d decided to stand her up.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘No. But it was a result,’ she added with a satisfied smile.

  ‘Does your husband own a gun?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She didn’t sound altogether convincing.

  ‘We’ve heard a rumour that your brother, Kyle, has a nickname: the Hit Man.’

  She said nothing for a few moments while the implication of Wesley’s question sank in. ‘He used to work as a DJ at a club in Plymouth. Hit Man – hit records. Get it?’ She sounded as though she was addressing a particularly stupid child.

  ‘Did you or your brother ever meet Andrea Jameson?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Kyle?’ Gerry asked.

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘But he knew about her?’

  She hesitated. ‘I might have mentioned it. Look, Andrea wasn’t Jason’s only bit on the side. She was one in a long line but he always comes back to me in the end,’ she added with satisfaction.

  ‘There are more women?’

  ‘Too right there are. That’s one of the things we rowed about.’

  ‘Where’s your husband now?’

  There was a long silence before she answered. ‘I have my suspicions.’

  ‘Will you share them with us?’ said Wesley.

  Sharon looked him up and down as if she’d noticed him for the first time. ‘OK, seeing as you asked so nicely. I think he’s with Gemma Whittingstill. She’s a nutcase. She threatened me, would you believe.’

  Wesley looked at Gerry. ‘What form did these threats take?’

  ‘She phoned the house a couple of times and said Jason was leaving me and if I stood in her way she’d kill me. Anyway, I asked our Kyle to go round and have a word. There were no more calls after that,’ she added with a satisfied smirk.

  ‘So he’s still seeing this Gemma?’ Gerry asked. He sounded fascinated by this real-life soap opera.

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me. They’ve been on and off for ages. He keeps finishing it but she always lures him back somehow. Trouble with Jason is he can never refuse a shag when it’s offered. Sex addiction, they call it in the States.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘If I were you, I’d pay La Whittingstill a visit. She’s a jealous cow and if she found out he was planning to go away with Andrea…’

  ‘Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘In the middle of nowhere off the road to Neston. She’s a mad bitch and if it wasn’t for our Kyle…’

  She didn’t have to finish her sentence. She’d just given them the name of another person who might want Andrea Jameson out of the way for good.

  ‘Ever heard the name Ian Evans?’

  ‘No. Who is he?’

  Wesley didn’t answer her question.

  Letter from Oswald DeTorham to Sir Matthew