The Mechanical Devil

by Kate Ellis

  ‘I reckon I’m the only one who’s ever showed any interest in her and I’m only the cleaner.’ She said the last three words with heavy irony. ‘And don’t they let me know it.’

  This was better. Wesley hoped the tea wouldn’t arrive and break the spell. ‘Tell me about the Ovorards.’

  ‘Well, don’t believe the concerned politician act.’

  ‘I thought he was one of the good guys.’

  ‘That’s what he wants you to think. He’s a complete shit – there’s only one person Jeremy Ovorard loves and that’s Jeremy Ovorard.’

  ‘Has he ever… made advances to you?’

  She giggled. ‘I think I’m a bit long in the tooth for him.’ She glanced round the room before continuing. ‘Let’s just say Jo hasn’t brought any mates home for the past couple of years.’

  Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that just gossip or have you got evidence?’

  Shona shrugged. ‘There’s no smoke without fire, is there?’

  ‘He seems worried about Jocasta.’

  ‘It wouldn’t look good if he didn’t play the anxious father, would it?’

  Wesley was surprised by her cynicism. So far he’d had no reason to doubt Jeremy Ovorard’s sincerity. He’d seen how upset he was when he’d made the appeal and he’d assumed Jocasta had either got herself into genuine danger or that she was a spoiled daughter putting her parents through hell. Now he was beginning to doubt his own judgement.

  ‘What about his wife?’

  ‘He keeps her in the style she’s become accustomed to so she turns a blind eye. Tabitha’s OK but she’s a bit of a princess. Good job she’s got me to clean her loos for her – she’s got four by the way. One main bathroom, one downstairs cloakroom and two en-suites.’ She rolled her eyes at the extravagance.

  ‘How do Mr and Mrs Ovorard get on?’

  ‘They don’t. They lead separate lives.’

  ‘And Jocasta?’

  Shona tapped the side of her freckled nose. ‘She hates her dad and she thinks her mother’s a pain in the arse. A dysfunctional family, I think they call it.’

  ‘A family with secrets?’

  She considered the question for a few moments. ‘Don’t all families have secrets? Only some are worse than others,’ she added with a knowing wink.

  ‘Like the Ovorards’?’

  ‘I’m just the cleaner. They don’t wash their dirty linen in front of me if that’s what you’re hoping.’

  ‘How long have you worked for them?’

  ‘Four years. I clean for other people as well but the Ovorards have always been regulars. And before you ask I don’t claim to know them that well. Some people like to be all pally with their cleaner but they keep their distance.’

  ‘But you must hear things; find things lying round,’ said Wesley.

  ‘They’re very careful – especially him. He keeps his office locked. He’s an MP so he says there are confidential papers in there. But you’re right. I’ve got eyes in my head and I see what’s going on.’

  ‘And what do you see?’

  ‘I see Tabitha flirting with the gardener. Not that I blame her. He’s really fit.’ She bent forward and whispered. ‘I found his T-shirt in Tabitha’s bedroom a few months back.’

  ‘Her husband didn’t notice?’

  ‘Oh, they don’t share a bedroom. Tabitha’s just wheeled out when he needs a devoted wife to parade in front of the media. Luke’s not the only one, I’m sure of that.’

  ‘The gardener’s called Luke?’

  ‘Yeah. Luke Wellings.’

  Wesley felt like a piece of the jigsaw had just fallen into place. Craig Carswell from the Drama Centre had overheard Jocasta speaking to someone called Luke and the coincidence was too strong to ignore.

  ‘Is Luke… friendly with Jocasta?’

  Shona gave him a knowing smile. ‘I see what you’re getting at and you could be right. If you ask me he fancies himself as a bit of a stud. Mother and daughter. Now that’d be a challenge.’

  ‘Have you any evidence?’

  Shona considered the question for a moment.

  ‘A couple of weeks before Jo went to that drama course I saw her with Luke in the summerhouse in the garden. I wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying and as soon as they saw me at the back door they shut up.’

  ‘Does he own a motorbike?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s his pride and joy. Why?’

  Wesley recalled the doodle of the motorbike he’d found at the Drama Centre and felt like punching the air. But as the waitress was just bringing his order, he controlled himself.

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘He lives with his gran.’

  ‘Know the address?’

  ‘It’s not far away. I’ll show you if you like. But he’s not there, he’s travelling round the States for a few months. Holiday of a lifetime.’

  ‘When did he leave?’

  ‘About three weeks ago.’

  ‘And nobody connected this with Jocasta’s disappearance?’

  ‘You think they’ve run off together?’

  ‘Would it surprise you?’

  She considered the question while Wesley took the first bite of his sandwich. ‘I’m sure the idea of screwing mother and daughter would appeal to Luke but I’m not sure he’d want it to get heavy.’

  ‘You seem to know him well.’

  Shona’s cheeks turned red. ‘We had a bit of a fling about a year ago. He’s that sort of guy. But we’re just mates now.’

  ‘According to a witness Luke might have been in contact with Jocasta while she was in Tradington.’ Wesley watched her sip her tea, wondering if she was as unconcerned about Luke’s relationship with Tabitha as she claimed. A little jealousy wouldn’t have surprised him but she shrugged as though she couldn’t care less.

  ‘I might have got it wrong. Mind you I know he’s in the States ’cause I got a postcard from him yesterday.’ She delved in her bag and took out a postcard of the Statue of Liberty. Having a great time, it said on the reverse. See you soon. Luke xxx.

  ‘I didn’t think people of his age sent postcards any more,’ said Wesley.

  ‘It’s retro. He likes that sort of thing – very into vinyl records. Even his motorbike’s from the fifties. He loves that bike more than any woman – that’s one thing I know for sure.’

  When it was time to leave Wesley asked Shona to show him where Luke Wellings lived but when he knocked on the door Luke’s grandmother confirmed Shona’s story. Her grandson was in the States. And he’d gone there alone.

  There was nobody about when Pam parked her car in the drive, squeezing it in beside her mother’s VW Beetle. Della had parked too far over as usual, failing to anticipate that Pam and Wesley also needed space. As Pam manoeuvred herself out of the driving seat she was engulfed by tiredness. It had been a hard day at school and an imminent inspection only added to the stress.

  She was longing to get into the house to put her feet up and she hoped her mother had something planned for dinner. But when Della rushed into the hall to greet her she could tell something was wrong.

  ‘I’ve been trying to call Wesley but I keep getting his voicemail,’ Della said, grasping her daughter’s arm and propelling her into the living room.

  Pam noticed that the curtains were drawn across the French window, blocking out the view of the garden beyond.

  ‘Someone was in the bushes at the bottom of the garden. I was in here watching the lunchtime news and when I looked up there he was – dressed all in black with his hood up. He shot off through your neighbour’s garden – must have found a gap in the hedge.’ She took a deep breath. ‘If the kids had been here…’

  ‘They weren’t,’ Pam said, trying not to let her mother’s panic infect her.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Amelia’s having tea at a friend’s – she’s being dropped off later.’

  ‘What about Michael?’

  A shadow of fear seized Pam’s heart. Michae
l’s school was on the other side of the river. He caught the ferry back to Tradmouth then walked home up the hill from the middle of town, usually with his friend, Nathaniel. ‘He won’t like it but I’ll go down to meet him at the bottom of the hill,’ Pam said. ‘He’ll be with Nathaniel most of the way but once they separate he’s on his own.’

  ‘Be careful.’

  Pam would have liked to ignore her mother’s words of warning but she couldn’t. The steep, winding road out of the centre of Tradmouth became quiet as it neared their close at the top of the town, ideal for a stalker to strike.

  ‘Why don’t you go round and ask the neighbours if they saw anything?’ Pam said, delving in her bag for her keys.

  ‘I’ve already done it. Next door are still away and nobody else saw anything suspicious.’

  Pam was pleasantly surprised at her mother’s bout of efficiency. She found her keys then dropped them back in her bag. ‘It’s not worth taking the car. I’ll walk down to meet him.’

  ‘No. Don’t do that.’ Della’s words were barked like an order.

  ‘Why?’

  Della hesitated. ‘Because I saw a flash of metal. I think he had a knife.’

  Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard

  July 1995

  There are references to the DeTorhams’ steward, Peter, in correspondence found in the DeTorham muniment room at Princebury Hall and in the journal of Henry Dyce, which suggest something amiss. It is said that he failed to attend mass and the word ‘heresy’ is mentioned on two occasions – a serious matter at that time. There is a strong suggestion that Oswald was anxious to keep his steward out of trouble and a letter to his cousin Henry Dyce hints at a bond between the two men. That letter states that Oswald and Peter had known each other from childhood and in other correspondence Oswald describes his steward as being ‘as learned as myself’.

  Most of the written evidence, however, concerns events in the village of Lower Torworthy and it appears that the atmosphere in the village changed with the introduction of Sir Matthew’s ‘big friar’. Before 1533 the priest writes in the parish records about the day-to-day affairs of the community; the many saints and feast days the people of Lower Torworthy came together to celebrate and the use of the ‘little monk’ to heal and comfort the sick. After that date, however, although there is no mention whatsoever of a ‘big friar’ in church inventories or the parish records, other documents hint that it has become a focus of unease – even fear – in the locality.

  It is necessary, therefore, to consider why any reference to the ‘big friar’ is omitted from official records and whether something was happening that needed to be concealed; perhaps something the superstitious villagers regarded as evil.

  29

  When Wesley ended the call he turned his head and saw Gerry watching him.

  ‘Something the matter?’

  ‘Della thinks someone’s been watching our house.’

  Gerry walked over to Wesley’s desk and sat down. It wasn’t a conversation he wanted the whole incident room to hear.

  ‘She’s always been inclined to overdramatise, hasn’t she?’

  ‘I take your point but Pam believes her and Belinda Crillow’s attacker mentioned my name. Then there’s Pam’s tyres.’

  ‘This latest thing’ll be some opportunist toe-rag looking for drugs money.’ Gerry was doing his best to reassure but he didn’t sound altogether convincing.

  ‘It’s not easy to get into our garden from the back.’

  ‘Neighbours see anything?’

  ‘Next door are away on holiday.’

  ‘There you are then. An opportunist cut through their garden to try his luck. If I were you I’d make sure next door hasn’t been broken into when you get home.’

  Wesley knew Gerry was right. It was possible his absent elderly neighbours had been targeted but he hardly liked to ask Pam or Della to go and check.

  Trish Walton’s voice interrupted his thoughts. She sounded breathless, as if she’d just received some momentous news she couldn’t wait to share.

  ‘There’s been a sighting of Jocasta Ovorard in Newquay.’

  Wesley found it hard to share her excitement. There had been so many sightings of Jocasta since the appeal and they’d all come to nothing. ‘Can you get the local nick to check it out?’

  But Trish didn’t move. ‘The witness who contacted us took a picture on his phone and Newquay emailed it to us. It’s her this time, I’m sure it is.’

  Wesley followed Trish to her computer where she brought up the image on the screen and stood aside triumphantly to give Wesley a better view. The girl in the picture certainly resembled the photographs he’d seen of Jocasta Ovorard – the poker-straight hair; the sulky expression that suggested she found everything and everybody around her unworthy of her attention. She was sitting alone at an outdoor table in front of a café with a dark drink in her hand and a peevish look on her face. A man’s leather jacket was draped over the back of the chair opposite and the café’s name was quite clear – The Thirsty Lobster.

  ‘What do you think?’ Trish asked.

  ‘Do you have a contact number for the person who took the picture?’

  Trish produced a scrap of paper. ‘He’s down here on a surfing holiday for a couple of weeks. He saw the appeal and he thought he’d better call it in.’

  ‘Good of him.’

  Trish smiled. ‘He’s an off-duty copper from up north – couldn’t break the habit even on holiday. Want me to call him?’

  ‘Yes please. And after you’ve spoken to him can you call Newquay? If it is her she must be staying somewhere.’

  ‘Are you going to let her father know?’

  He couldn’t help recalling his conversation with Shona Pepper. Perhaps there was a good reason why Jocasta didn’t want to be found. ‘Better not get his hopes up until we’re sure,’ he said.

  He needed to tell Gerry about this latest development and found him talking on the phone. Gerry’s side of the conversation was monosyllabic and gave nothing away but Wesley could see the light of anticipation in his eyes.

  ‘Kyle Ball’s been found and he’s being brought in,’ said Gerry after he’d finished. ‘I said we’d meet him over in Tradmouth in an hour.’ He looked at his watch.

  ‘There’s been a sighting of Jocasta Ovorard.’

  Gerry looked underwhelmed. ‘Another one. Where’s she got to now? The Amazon jungle?’

  ‘Newquay. An off-duty policeman took a picture on his phone. I think it’s her this time. I’ve asked the local station to follow it up.’

  ‘Good. If we find her safe and well it’ll get her dad off our backs.’

  An hour later they were back in the interview room at Tradmouth Police Station, the scene of their encounter with Jason Fitch a few days earlier. Fitch’s place was now occupied by a man with the face of a belligerent baby and bulging, tattooed muscles. His flesh had turned beetroot-red in the Spanish sun. He looked the type who’d think sunblock was for sissies.