by Kate Ellis
‘Inspector Peterson, this is Emily Boase – AJ Celebrations. We spoke last week. Remember?’
‘Of course. What can I do for you?’ he asked, settling in his seat, his pen poised over his notebook.
‘I’ve found something you might be interested in – a list of guests who were on that yacht when that poor girl was attacked. Would you like to see it?’
‘I would. Thank you.’ He felt a frisson of excitement. Phoebe Jakes had been in his thoughts on and off but he wasn’t sure how her assault fitted into his inquiry – if indeed it did.
‘I’ll send someone round for the list if that’s OK.’
‘Fine.’ There was a moment of silence, as if she had something else to say. ‘It features the usual suspects – businessmen and councillors and a smattering of local VIPs. But there’s one name I didn’t expect to see – a client I didn’t associate with that particular event. We organised a party at Princebury Hall – the place Andrea was going to when she was…’ There was a pause, as if she didn’t dare utter the word ‘murdered’ in case it released some terrible curse. ‘According to our records the invoice was sent to a Xander Southwark and Mr Southwark’s name was on the guest list for the yacht party – although it probably doesn’t mean anything,’ she added quickly as though afraid she’d just accused an innocent man of something unspeakable.
‘You were right to tell me. Thanks,’ said Wesley. He hadn’t liked Xander Southwark and he’d put this down to his fraudulent past, but perhaps the man was mixed up with darker matters than dipping into clients’ funds. ‘Tell me, was Jeremy Ovorard a guest at the party?’
‘His name’s not on the list but…’
‘But?’
‘Well, not everyone who was there would be on the list – not if Andrea gave them a personal invitation.’
The woman had begun to flounder – as though she was regretting her indiscretion. When she said she had to go Wesley decided not to press the matter for now.
As soon as he finished the call he broke the news to Gerry.
‘I want to find out more about Xander Southwark,’ he said. ‘Andrea Jameson was on her way to Princebury Hall when she was killed and she’d organised a party for him, although he claimed he didn’t know her personally. He’s also on good terms with Jason Fitch.’
‘He was a crooked solicitor and they’re ten a penny, Wes. I reckon his only crime nowadays is fleecing the gullible up at that Hall of his.’ Gerry gave a heavy sigh. ‘But if you think it’s worth following up we can put it on the list.’
Wesley returned to the report on the death of Alcuin Garrard and fifteen minutes later he called the station to request the file on the murder of the great-aunt, probably called Mary and possibly somewhere in Devon.
He hoped he wasn’t wasting his time.
Manor Field was no longer sealed off by police tape so Neil seized the opportunity to visit Dan Noakes’s farmhouse to tell him he was beginning an archaeological survey of the field. Dan seemed happy that things were moving, pointing out that, should any treasure be found, as landowner he’d be entitled to half the proceeds. The farmer was a man who knew the law of the treasure trove and he was delighted when Neil told him about the ring Charlie Perks had turned up.
Neil’s plans for a training excavation on the site the following spring were progressing well and he’d already persuaded his contacts at the university that it was an ideal place to let students loose with their trowels once the initial assessments had been done and the Dartmoor winter was over.
He’d also secured the services of Charlie and his metal detector to sweep the area in the hope of finding the big friar depicted in the strange carving on the church roof. If the small monk was buried in lead at the time of the Reformation, surely the larger one would have been interred with similar reverence. According to records he’d found, the manor house that had once stood in the field had been demolished in 1534 after suffering a fire and the usable materials had been salvaged to build Princebury Hall three miles away where the DeTorhams, their name later amended to Detoram, lived until the last of the line died in 2012, after which the place was acquired by Xander Southwark and his Well-being Centre.
He stood in Manor Field watching Charlie sweeping his machine over the ground. So far he’d turned up some barbed wire, a couple of ring pulls and a George V penny. But Neil was waiting for the big one – the powerful signal that would herald the discovery of the second figure, encased in a lead coffin like its little counterpart.
His phone rang and when he saw Annabel’s name on the caller display he experienced a surge of optimism.
She came straight to the point. ‘Neil, I’ve just come across a document that mentions your monk. It was written in the early seventeenth century, almost a hundred years after the events it describes.’ Neil could hear excitement in her voice. ‘It says the manor at Lower Torworthy was destroyed by fire and the good stones taken to build a new house at Princebury. It also claims that the then lord of the manor, one Oswald DeTorham, was forced to abandon Lower Torworthy because of “a mechanical devil which caused great trouble to the people of the village”. Any idea what it means?’
‘Haven’t a clue,’ Neil replied. ‘But I want to find out.’
Pam had often been irritated by her mother’s behaviour in the past but now she was grateful for her company. Wednesday was one of her days off so if it weren’t for Della, she’d have been alone in the house with her fears, praying Wesley would come home early for once.
It was only ten o’clock but Della was already making suggestions about how they should fill the day, as though her daughter was a child to be entertained and distracted.
‘There’s a lovely little café in Neston,’ she twittered. ‘Their carrot cake’s to die for.’
‘Sounds good.’ Pam would have preferred to spend the morning with a good book but there was no arguing with Della once she’d made up her mind.
‘That’s settled then. I’ll drive.’
Pam had the uncomfortable feeling that her mother’s presence was making her revert to a childish state, willing to be ferried about to prearranged activities. She knew she should resent it but there was something comforting about having someone else assuming the burden of responsibility that was usually hers.
Della disappeared upstairs to get ready, leaving Pam staring out of the window. Since the incident with the tyres and the sighting of the stranger in the garden she’d found it hard to relax, although in front of the children she pretended all was well.
She jumped when the insistent chirruping of the phone on the side table shattered the peace of the room. She forced herself to pick it up and at first there was silence. But as she was about to slam the receiver down she heard a voice.
‘I’m watching you, bitch. I’m coming to get you.’
Letter from Thomas Chetham to Henry Dyce
May 1533
I hear your cousin Oswald is unwell and that his brother Simeon has assumed charge of the estate. My steward’s sister dwells in Lower Torworthy and she says Simeon is a bad master without fear of God or man and that the household prays day and night for their lord’s recovery.
Word has it the priest Sir Matthew brought his little monk to pray at Oswald’s bedside and with him also was a big friar, a miraculous machine like the other. When questioned Sir Matthew would say nothing of the origins of this new miracle but assured the servants that the use of both machines would certainly heal their master. I await news of the truth of this for it is said there is something strange and unnatural afoot.
I remain, sir, your loving friend
Thomas Chetham
31
When Wesley finished speaking to his wife he realised his hands were shaking.
‘Something the matter, Wes?’
He saw Gerry looking at him. Not wanting the whole of the incident room to overhear he approached the boss’s desk and lowered his voice.
‘Pam’s had a threatening phone call. Number withheld. Whoever it
was said they’re watching her and they’re coming to get her.’
‘No points for originality.’
‘You don’t need to be original to terrify someone.’
‘Look, Wes, you go home. I’ll get someone to trace the call.’
Wesley hesitated. Everyone was hard at work, all bent on bringing a triple killer to justice, and if he left now he’d feel he wasn’t pulling his weight. On the other hand his wife had been threatened.
‘That information you asked for about the murder of Alcuin Garrard’s great-aunt hasn’t come through yet,’ said Gerry as though he’d read his thoughts. ‘But it was nineteen ninety-five so it might take some digging out.’
‘I’m also waiting for more background on Xander Southwark.’
‘There you are then. Grab the chance to get out while you can. I’ll call you if anything important comes in. Go on. That’s an order.’
With a weak smile, Wesley did as he was told. But as soon as he reached the car his phone rang. It was Tradmouth Police Station and he answered, hoping for news about Jocasta Ovorard, preferably that she’d turned up safe and sound.
But the call had nothing to do with Jocasta or the recent murders. Rob Carter’s words on the other end of the line made Wesley’s heart sink.
‘Belinda Crillow’s been attacked again. She insisted on going back to her cottage after the last incident.’ He hesitated. ‘I reckon she’s only got herself to blame. If she’d —’
‘What happened?’
‘She answered the door and a man pushed his way into her cottage and threatened her with a knife. She sustained cuts to her arm but apart from that she’s just shaken. We’ve got a crime-scene team down there and she’s been taken to hospital for a check-up.’
Wesley froze. The violence was escalating.
‘She’s asking for you again,’ Rob continued. ‘Says she has something to tell you.’
‘If my name’s come up I shouldn’t get involved.’
‘She’s insistent. She’ll only speak to you.’
Wesley could hear relief in Rob’s voice, as though he’d be glad to rid himself of Belinda Crillow once and for all.
Wesley sighed. ‘Is she still at the hospital?’
‘They’ve released her and she’s staying at a B and B for the night while the CSIs finish at her house.’
‘I’ll speak to her as soon as I can. This needs sorting out.’
As soon as he arrived home he was greeted by Della, who appeared to be in a state of panic while Pam sat calmly at the kitchen table, sipping coffee.
Before he could talk to his wife, Della took his arm and dragged him into the hall. ‘She’s taking it too well. She’s in denial.’
For once Wesley had to agree with his mother-in-law. ‘I’m going to ask our crime prevention people to install a panic button and I’ll get a patrol to keep an eye on the house. In the meantime can I ask you to stay a bit longer – just till this is sorted out?’
A satisfied look appeared on Della’s face, as though this was what she’d been angling for all along. Without waiting for her reply he joined Pam in the kitchen and sat down. ‘Did you recognise the voice on the phone?’
‘I think it was disguised. I couldn’t even tell whether it was a man or a woman.’ She began to twist a strand of hair in her fingers, something she did when she was tense.
‘I’ll ask someone to trace our incoming calls. Should have done it ages ago when the silent calls started.’ He put out his hand to touch hers and she grasped it tightly.
‘I’m frightened, Wes,’ she said in a whisper. ‘I don’t feel safe here any more. And the kids… What if he does something…’
‘Michael always comes home with Nathaniel – and I’ll pick Amelia up on the days you’re not at work if you like.’
‘There’s no need. She’ll be with Jane and she won’t mind bringing her to the door. I don’t want the kids to see I’m frightened.’ She looked at him intently. ‘You must have some idea who’s doing this? It must be someone with a grudge against you. I don’t move in that sort of world but you do.’
She was right. Over the course of his working life he’d encountered people who’d think nothing of terrorising an innocent woman in her own home to get back at the man who’d helped to put them behind bars. But try as he might he couldn’t think of anybody who might be responsible for recent events.
‘I’ll speak to Gerry again; see if he can think of anyone – someone who’s recently been released from prison perhaps.’ He suddenly thought of Belinda Crillow and the man who’d attacked her. His name had been mentioned. He needed to talk to her as soon as possible to see if she could provide a better description.
‘I’ll call in at the station and arrange things,’ he said, squeezing Pam’s hand.
‘I need to get out of the house. Della suggested lunch in Neston but I’ll have to back in time for the kids. I don’t want them to know about this, Wes. They’ve been through enough with my operation and…’
‘Hopefully the sight of a patrol car parked outside will put our friend off. And I’ll see about that panic button.’
They both stood up and he took her in his arms. ‘Sorry.’
‘What for?’
‘For bringing my work home like this.’
Perhaps it had been a mistake to choose Newquay as their hideaway. The weather was good for September so the place was still full of surfers. And they all had eyes in their heads and access to social media.
Going off-grid had been Luke’s suggestion. No mobile usage; no cash cards or credit cards; taking casual work with no questions asked to get the money to live on once the cash they’d taken with them ran out. He’d seen it on some reality show and Jocasta had agreed it was a great idea. She’d laughed when she’d watched her father making the TV appeal, pretending he was too distressed to carry on speaking. He’d let the police inspector sitting next to him do most of the talking. The inspector was black, rather good-looking with a sympathetic manner, and he’d sounded a lot more sincere.
There was an ancient portable TV in the little flat above the chip shop Luke had blagged for the duration in return for working a few shifts, and he liked to watch the local news – just to see what they were saying about them. It had been a laugh at first, keeping one step ahead of the cops, then one day the news bulletin announced that they were looking for her because she might be a vital witness in a murder case. That was when things turned serious.
Luke had asked her whether she wanted to speak to the police but she’d been adamant that she knew nothing about the murder apart from what she’d seen on the TV. She’d sensed that Luke hadn’t believed her but he hadn’t argued.
It was almost time for him to start his shift in the chippy. Jocasta had found herself work in a souvenir shop on the beach selling buckets and spades and general holiday tat and he reckoned she had a better deal, even though she had to start earlier in the morning. At least she didn’t smell of chip oil all the time and she didn’t have to endure the heat that built up in the glass-fronted shop over the evening.
Maybe they’d move on soon. Somewhere exciting like London – although the last thing Jo wanted was to bump into her father. She hated him with a vehemence Luke couldn’t quite understand. Every time he’d tried to find out more from Tabitha during the rather satisfying times they’d spent in bed together, she’d changed the subject.
He was coming down the stairs from the flat when he heard the boss’s voice. The owner of Pride’s Fish and Chips was a small wiry man with thin black hair that looked as if it had been plastered across his scalp with oil from his fryers.