by Kate Ellis
‘What is it?’
When Neil introduced himself Harris scowled and carried on scribbling on a notepad, as though an unpromising student had come to hand in an essay that was a week late.
Neil sat down without being invited. ‘I’m in charge of a survey of medieval graffiti in Dartmoor churches and I’m hoping you might be able to help with my research,’ he said and waited for the reaction.
The professor’s skeletal hand stilled above his notepad and for the first time he raised his head to look at Neil. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘In nineteen ninety-five you had a postgrad student here called Alcuin Garrard.’
Harris’s eyes widened and he dropped his pen.
‘He died in an accident, I believe.’
It was a few moments before Harris spoke. ‘He fell and hit his head. Chance in a million, they said. Tragic. He was a brilliant student.’
‘Who was his supervisor?’
‘I was.’
‘Had he finished his thesis?’
‘Unfortunately not.’ The professor turned his head away. Contrary to his reputation for irascibility, he seemed genuinely moved by the subject of Alcuin Garrard’s death.
‘What was the subject of his thesis?’
‘Ecclesiastical life in Pre-Reformation Devon and the effects of Henry the Eighth’s reforms on isolated rural communities.’ There was no hesitation. Out of all the doctoral theses Harris must have seen during the course of his career, this one had clearly stood out.
‘There wouldn’t be a draft of his thesis somewhere in the university?’
For a few moments Harris hesitated. ‘Not that I’m aware of. His papers might have gone to his family but I believe they emigrated to Australia when he began his studies.’
Neil detected a satisfaction behind his words, as though the fact that the Alcuin Garrard’s work might be lost or inaccessible pleased him in some way.
‘I’d like to locate his research notes – if they still exist,’ said Neil.
‘Then I wish you luck.’
The professor lowered his gaze and returned to his notes, making it clear to Neil that he’d overstayed his welcome – or that the subject of Alcuin Garrard’s research was an unwelcome one.
A phone rang in the incident room. It was a normal sound – phones rang all the time – but this particular call brought the work of the investigation team to an abrupt halt as Gerry Heffernan called for quiet.
‘There’s been another shooting three miles away. Postman found the body of a man outside an isolated cottage.’
For a few seconds the incident room fell silent. Then Wesley spoke.
‘Do we know the victim’s identity?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Surely there was a name on the letter the postman was delivering?’
‘It was addressed to the landlord. According to the postman, the victim never received any post himself.’
‘What about the victim’s phone?’
‘No sign of it. I’ll set the ball rolling and get Colin and the CSI team up there pronto. Hopefully the patrol officers have had the nous to seal off the scene.’ Gerry rolled his eyes. He never quite trusted Uniform to get things right if he wasn’t there to issue the orders.
While Gerry made his calls Wesley organised his desk and reached for his coat. The weather in Tradmouth had been pleasant when he’d set off that morning but up on Dartmoor the temperature was a few degrees cooler and a grey mist was veiling the landscape. He saw Rachel watching Gerry expectantly, as though the prospect of another murder excited her.
‘Where exactly did you say it was?’ she asked once the DCI had finished on the phone.
‘Three miles to the north of here,’ said Gerry. ‘If the postman hadn’t called the victim might have been lying there for days. As it is, there was a delivery on Saturday lunchtime so at least that narrows down the time of death a bit.’
When the pair set off Wesley drove as usual. Gerry had taken down the directions and, after a few false leads, they turned on to a lane that was little more than a track.
‘You sure this is right?’ Wesley said.
‘Nothing wrong with my navigation. How’s Pam?’
Wesley was surprised by the sudden change of subject. ‘Still shaken but she’s hiding it well.’ He paused. ‘Her mother’s staying with us for a few days.’
‘That must be an ordeal,’ said Gerry.
‘She wouldn’t be anyone’s first choice to have around in a crisis but, to be honest, I’m just glad Pam’s got someone there.’ He paused. ‘And I think Della gets lonely… And the kids think the world of her.’
‘Kids always like a disreputable grandma.’ Gerry chuckled. ‘Mine, God rest her, used to prop up the bar at the Crack drinking pints of Guinness – had her own tankard. Any thoughts on your slashed tyre mystery?’
‘I know we deal with some lowlifes but I can’t think of anyone who’d do something like that. At least the silent phone calls seem to have stopped.’
‘Let’s hope that’s the end of it.’
Wesley saw a patrol car parked in a passing place next to a rotting wooden gate, half hanging off its hinges. Beyond the gate was a small cottage that looked semi-derelict.
‘About as cut off from civilisation as you can get,’ Gerry observed. ‘Who’d choose to live somewhere like this.’
‘I think we’re about to find out.’
After reporting to the crime-scene manager they made their way up the gravel path, careful to step on the metal plates put down by the CSIs. They headed towards the action centred on the area in front of the cottage door. At first they couldn’t see the dead body lying on the ground for all the living bodies bustling around it in the well-practised choreography of crime-scene investigation.
At the heart of the activity Colin Bowman was squatting next to the dead man, his bag open to reveal the instruments of his trade. Wesley noticed a Harley Davidson motorcycle parked by the cottage wall. Possibly it had been the victim’s pride and joy.
Colin greeted them with an affable smile. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. You are keeping me busy.’
‘Don’t blame us, Colin. We’re not killing ’em,’ Gerry replied. ‘What have we got?’
‘Male. Late thirties at a guess. Dressed in motorcycle gear. Looks like he’d just taken off his helmet when it happened.’ He paused. ‘It’s the same as the others. Shot to the chest then one to the head to make sure.’
‘Another execution,’ Wesley said softly.
‘Looks that way.’
‘Bullets?’ Gerry asked.
‘There are exit wounds so they won’t be far away.’ He looked at the cottage. ‘Embedded in the wall perhaps.’
‘ID?’
‘Haven’t found any yet. But he has a wallet containing two hundred pounds and some keys, presumably for the cottage and his motorbike. There’s something else too.’ He looked round and called to a young woman CSI who appeared to be labelling crime-scene bags.
‘Have you bagged that collar I found in his pocket yet?’
She nodded and produced a bag. Inside was a stiff white circle and it took Wesley a couple of seconds to recognise it as a clerical collar.
‘Looks like a dog collar,’ said Gerry, leaning over to see. ‘Is our man a vicar?’
Colin unzipped the dead man’s leather jacket and pointed to the blue clerical shirt, the fabric stiff with dried blood. ‘I think you’re right, Gerry. This chap’s a clergyman. He’d taken his collar off and stuffed it into his pocket. Perhaps it was uncomfortable under his leathers.’
‘We need to take a look in the house,’ said Wesley.
The young woman passed him the keys. ‘They fit. We’ve tried. If he was a clergyman it doesn’t look like your average vicarage.’
Wesley’s sister was married to a vicar and he knew that clergy accommodation can come in all shapes and sizes, but he didn’t feel inclined to enlighten her. He made for the front door with Gerry following close behind.
‘He wasn’t the house-proud type, was he?’ Gerry said as he circled the room, picking up items with his gloved hands and replacing them in disgust.
‘If he was a clergyman where are the books? The Bibles and the volumes on theology; every vicarage I’ve ever been in has shelves full of them.’
‘Maybe he keeps them upstairs.’
There was a new-looking large flat-screen TV which looked out of place against the rest of the decor. Above it was a shelf containing a pile of soft porn magazines. Wesley took a couple down and held them up for Gerry to see.
‘A naughty vicar, eh? The Sunday papers used to be full of them in the old days,’ he added with a touch of nostalgia.
The kitchen yielded little in the way of clues to the dead man’s lifestyle. Just tins and a few ready meals in a fridge with black mould around the seal. Wesley made his way upstairs and Gerry followed.
‘We’re sure he was actually living here? He didn’t just come here to visit a parishioner and ended up getting shot? Mistaken identity maybe?’
‘The keys were in his pocket but you could be right, Gerry. Maybe he was keeping an eye on the place for someone.’
However, this theory was exploded when Wesley opened the wardrobe and saw a row of clerical shirts dangling from cheap wire hangers. There were black trousers too and a couple of dark jackets. When he opened the drawers he saw three spare clerical collars lying there. ‘He lived here all right,’ he said, standing aside so that Gerry could see the proof for himself.
‘It shouldn’t be hard to find out who he’s annoyed,’ said Wesley. ‘Unless…’
‘Unless what?’
The idea that had just occurred to Wesley was so shocking that he hardly liked to put it into words. ‘Unless there’s a madman going around shooting people at random.’
Gerry looked at him. ‘I hope to God you’re wrong, Wes. I really do.’
The broken glass crunched beneath Belinda Crillow’s high heels and she took a deep, shuddering breath. She closed her eyes to blot out the sight of the destruction and when she opened them again she clamped her hand across her mouth to suppress a scream of anguish.
She called Wesley Peterson’s number first but when she heard his voice mail asking her to leave a message she sank down in the armchair and considered her next move.
Eventually she called DC Carter at her local police station and he promised to come round, although it had taken a few white lies to goad him into action. She told him in a whisper that the intruder was still on the premises: she could hear him smashing things up. She thought he was armed with a knife or machete, or maybe an axe. For the first time Carter sounded genuinely concerned and he promised to send a patrol car right away.
She sat in the silence and waited. First to arrive was a burly uniformed constable with a shaved head whose stab vest gave him the appearance of a robot. Wesley Peterson had been so much gentler; more sympathetic to her plight.
‘You OK, love?’ the constable asked. ‘Where’s your intruder?’
‘He’s gone. You’re too late.’
‘Tell us what happened,’ he said, taking his notebook from his pocket.
She described the incident in as much detail as she could recall. The man had burst in and threatened her. Then he’d searched for something – she wasn’t sure what – smashing anything that got in his way. Yes, he was armed with a knife and he was big. Over six foot and wearing a balaclava like before – and he had a local accent. No, she didn’t know what he wanted. She’d been too frightened to ask questions. She was sure it was the same man who’d attacked her when she was out jogging, although she had no idea who he was or why he was picking on her. Apart from the break-in at her flat in Tradmouth eighteen months ago she’d had no previous experience of the world of crime.
‘Did he say anything else?’
She hesitated, tears brimming. ‘He said he knew I’d been talking to Inspector Peterson. He told me to keep my mouth shut or he’d shut it for me.’
‘Inspector Peterson? Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘What have you been talking to Inspector Peterson about?’
‘Nothing. I’ve no idea what he meant.’
When she broke down in tears the conversation ground to a halt.
26
According to the landlord the dead man’s name was John Davies and he’d taken the cottage on a three-month lease. All he knew was that his tenant was a clergyman looking for a spot of peace and quiet in the countryside and that he paid his rent on time.
If there was anyone who’d know about any clergy in the area, Wesley thought, it would be the vicar of Lower Torworthy. Neil had been spending a lot of time poking around in his church so presumably they were on good terms, which might be to Wesley’s advantage.
Colin had booked the post-mortem for the following morning so Wesley hoped that the short delay would give them time to find out more about the victim. Clergymen tended to be public people, he thought, so the information shouldn’t be hard to come by.
Once they reached Lower Torworthy Gerry returned to the incident room to bring everyone up to speed with developments. Wesley, however, made straight for the church and stood in the porch for a while, looking at the parish notices and thinking about the man he’d just seen lying dead in front of that dilapidated cottage. From where he was standing he could see the Shepherd’s Arms, the pub where Alcuin Garrard had drunk with a girl called Sarah all those years ago. Alcuin had been found dead in the same place as Ian Evans, which suggested a connection. Although at that moment Wesley had no idea what it could be.
The heavy church door opened with a loud creak and as Wesley’s eyes adjusted to the dim light in the nave he saw a huddle of people with clipboards and cameras in the south aisle. Neil was amongst them and as soon as he spotted Wesley, he broke away from the others.
‘Hi, Wes. What brings you here?’
‘Business, I’m afraid.’ He paused. ‘You won’t have heard about Pam’s car.’
Neil’s smile of greeting vanished. ‘Has she had an accident?’
‘Someone slashed all her tyres on Saturday afternoon while the car was on our drive.’
Neil swore under his breath. ‘Someone you’ve arrested?’ He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. ‘Or racially motivated maybe?’
Wesley shrugged his shoulders. ‘We’ve been getting strange phone calls too. I didn’t want to leave her on her own so Della’s staying with us for a while. She’s making herself useful for once because I’m working all hours at the moment. How’s the survey going?’
‘We should be finished tomorrow. I went to see Professor Harris at the History Department this morning. Do you remember him from our student days?’
‘Not really.’