The Mechanical Devil

by Kate Ellis

  It was a job Trish Walton hated – going through hour upon hour of footage, watching the tedious comings and goings on the dates of the three murders. When there was no sign of their main suspect leaving the premises at the appropriate times, she did as Wesley requested and began to go through earlier disks. She wasn’t sure why he wanted it done but she braced herself for an afternoon of mind-numbing boredom while the September sun shone outside.

  After a while her concentration started to waver and she almost missed a small grey van pulling up at the gates of the Hall, only to be met by a familiar figure who looked around furtively before getting into the van’s passenger seat.

  Trish froze the image and scrolled back. It was him all right – she recognised him from the photo on the incident-room wall: Xander Southwark.

  The registration number of the van was clearly visible, and once she’d entered it into the system she called Wesley.

  Wesley was at the hospital sitting beside Pam while the machines keeping Della alive beeped with reassuring regularity. He held his wife’s hand but there was nothing he could say to comfort her, apart from telling her that Belinda Crillow was now in a secure psychiatric unit and would never threaten their family again.

  Not being allowed to use his mobile on the ward, he went outside every so often to check his calls and at 5.30 he found a message from Trish. When he called her back she revealed the identity of the van’s owner and he asked her to make some checks. After twenty minutes the answer came back and he felt a thrill of triumph. He’d found the missing link; the connection that made sense of everything. He needed to get someone up to Princebury Hall as soon as possible.

  Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard

  July 1995

  Henry Dyce then continues his story.

  ‘I leaped forward and smote the thing that let out a most human cry. I tore at the robes and the mask fell to reveal the face of a man. As Sir Matthew groaned I beheld my cousin, Simeon, in the rough grey robes of a friar and I demanded of him the meaning of the outrage.’

  According to correspondence between Oswald DeTorham and Henry Dyce, Simeon DeTorham was fond of gaming and found himself in debt to an Exeter moneylender. It seems likely that when he saw the success of Sir Matthew’s ‘little monk’ he hit upon a scheme to extort money from his brother’s tenants and neighbours.

  There is the question, of course, of how he secured Sir Matthew’s cooperation. First of all, the priest was dependent on the DeTorham family for his living – secondly there are hints that he knew something about Sir Matthew’s past that enabled him to put pressure on the priest. There are references in the coroner’s records to the death of Sir Matthew’s cousin in 1518. The inquest concluded that the cousin, aged twenty, drowned in the river while fishing but nothing was proved against Matthew, although he and his cousin were prone to arguing. It is possible that Matthew’s decision to enter the priesthood was a penance for committing murder and if Simeon DeTorham had his suspicions he might have used them to his advantage.

  Simeon disguised himself as the friar and used the information he overheard during the confessions of the sick to blackmail them or their relatives. There is no record of anybody challenging him but perhaps, in that society, it was difficult to refuse the demands of the lord of the manor’s brother.

  The scheme came to an end when Simeon died along with Oswald’s steward, Peter, in the fire which destroyed Lower Torworthy Manor. In his journal Henry Dyce speculates that the fire was started deliberately, perhaps by one of Simeon’s blackmail victims – but he admits he had no evidence for this theory.

  However, the will of Oswald DeTorham, discovered in the cathedral archives in Exeter, clarifies the matter.

  42

  For the first time Xander Southwark seemed unsure of himself. Back at Princebury Hall he’d been in charge but Tradmouth Police Station was Wesley and Gerry’s territory, and they’d chosen the bleakest interview room available to unsettle him further.

  ‘What did you say to the person in this van?’ Wesley pushed a still image from the CCTV over the table towards him. Southwark had brought his solicitor but the young woman looked uncomfortable. Wesley wondered whether she knew about his murky history in the world of the law.

  When Southwark didn’t reply, Wesley continued. ‘We know about the connection between Mary Tilson’s carer – the woman accused of her murder – and the person on the CCTV footage. Only the carer didn’t kill Mary, did she? Mary died to cover up the fact that her solicitor had been using his power of attorney to milk her bank account until it was almost empty. And that solicitor was you, wasn’t it, Mr Southwark?’

  Southwark held up his hands, the ghost of a smile on his lips. ‘I admit that I borrowed from clients’ accounts but I served time for it.’

  ‘Not for Mary’s case you didn’t.’

  Southwark shrugged. ‘You can’t prove anything now and you know it.’

  ‘I’ll repeat the question – what exactly did you tell the driver of the van?’

  ‘I agreed to meet because I thought it’d get him off my back. He kept going on about how his mum had been accused of something she hadn’t done and died because of it. He said he’d found out I’d been the old lady’s solicitor and he tried to blame me for what happened. He concluded, quite wrongly, that as I’d been convicted of fraud in nineteen ninety-seven I must have stolen from Miss Tilson too – which was absolute nonsense. Anyway, it was over twenty years ago so I don’t know why he couldn’t just let it go.’

  ‘How did the meeting end?’

  ‘Amicably. I managed to persuade him I had nothing to do with his mother’s death.’

  Wesley leaned forward, putting his face close to Xander’s. He could smell mint on his breath. ‘I think you pointed the finger at someone else to get him off your back – someone junior who worked for you at the time. You’d tried to implicate him when you were arrested for fraud but it hadn’t worked.’

  There was no answer.

  ‘When you named Ian Evans you signed his death warrant. How did you know he was in Lower Torworthy?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘We’ve been going through the CCTV footage from Princebury Hall’s entrance and there’s one vehicle that turns up regularly – a small van with a flower design on the side belonging to a Sarah Shaw.’

  ‘She does flower arrangements for the Hall. What of it?’

  ‘I didn’t notice any flowers when I was up there. And when she was Sarah Booker she worked for you. Don’t deny it because we’ve checked.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You had an affair with her, didn’t you.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘She was only eighteen back then but the relationship’s still going on, isn’t it, Mr Southwark?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Sarah had a temp job at Jellicoe and Travers before she went away to university and Ian Evans was working there at the same time. Did Sarah recognise him in the village and tell you he’d turned up? You’d tried to shift the blame for your fraudulent activities on to Evans all those years ago. You saw him as a useful scapegoat back then and you thought you’d try the same tactic again.’

  ‘You can’t prove a thing, Inspector.’

  Wesley stood up, sending his chair clattering backwards. Gerry did likewise.

  ‘When can I go?’ Southwark’s question sounded confident, with a hint of boredom. But Wesley could see he was starting to panic.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Gerry barked as he followed Wesley from the room.

  Wesley stood in the lay-by where Andrea Jameson’s car had been found, gazing into Manor Field just as she must have done before she met her death. He could see Neil squatting by a newly dug test pit but he didn’t call out to greet his friend. He’d hoped his target would be there but he was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Have you called for back-up? The Armed Response Unit?’ Gerry asked.

  ‘I’ll ask them to meet us there. I
want this done discreetly. No sirens,’ he said before getting into the car to make the call.

  He set off slowly, feeling apprehensive. Their quarry had a firearm – a powerful hunting rifle according to Ballistics. At the moment they were the hunters but he knew how quickly the situation could reverse.

  It wasn’t far to their destination; just a mile down the main road then down a narrow track. When Wesley pulled up he saw the small grey van he’d watched on the CCTV footage; the one Xander Southwark had been filmed getting into the day before the double murder.

  Wesley could feel his heart beating faster as he headed for the front door with Gerry by his side.

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait for back-up?’

  ‘According to Neil there’s an old lady living here so I want to keep things low key if possible. Neil said it’s his mum – but that’s impossible.’

  ‘A gran maybe… or an aunty?’ Gerry suggested as he rapped on the door with his fist.

  To Wesley’s surprise the door creaked open and he saw Gerry hesitate before he stepped inside, shouting out a greeting, making it sound as if it was a casual call. But there was no answer.

  Gerry opened the living-room door and Wesley looked in, dreading what he might see. But the room was empty, although there was a half-drunk mug of tea on a side table – still warm.

  ‘He can’t be far away,’ Wesley whispered, gesturing towards the kitchen. But that was empty too, with unwashed dishes in the sink and a smell of stale cooking in the air.

  This left upstairs. Wesley stopped at the foot of the uncarpeted staircase and listened. But all he could hear was Gerry breathing behind him. He started to climb, aware of his footsteps clattering on the bare wood. If somebody was up there they’d have plenty of warning.

  He reached the landing and again all he could hear was distant birdsong. Gerry gestured towards the nearest door and Wesley pushed it open with his foot. It was a plain room with a neatly made single bed topped by an old-fashioned quilt; a room from the 1950s, immaculate with an almost military austerity.

  The next door led on to an inhospitable green-tiled bathroom, unaltered since its installation in the middle of the last century. Wesley paused before trying the final door and he felt Gerry nudge his arm.

  The contrast to the first bedroom was marked. This was a fussy, feminine room with clothes laid out on the double bed and a pair of tights draped over the back of the chair by the window. The wardrobe door stood open to reveal the clothes inside and the dressing table was strewn with make-up and bottles of perfume. Wesley stood in the doorway and stared, breathing in the scent of decay.

  ‘Looks like she’s popped out and she’ll be back any minute,’ said Gerry in a low whisper.

  ‘Doesn’t look like an old lady’s room,’ Wesley said. ‘Do you agree?’

  ‘Depends on the old lady,’ said Gerry. ‘Where is she?’

  Wesley took a deep breath. ‘Dead. This is a shrine. Let’s get out of here.’

  Gerry led the way downstairs. ‘Where now?’

  ‘His equipment’s not in the house but he must keep it somewhere.’

  Wesley found the back door unlocked. It led on to a small garden with a large brick outhouse at the end. The outhouse door stood open and as they approached Wesley could hear the sound of voices, then music; something from the 1960s. The radio was on.

  ‘We need that back-up, Wes. If we’re wrong Aunty Noreen’s going to moan about wasting her precious resources but we can’t take the risk.’

  ‘The ARU should be here in ten minutes. Let’s hang on till then.’

  They started to retrace their steps but before they could reach the house a figure appeared in the doorway. Now they had no choice but to play for time and hope for the best.

  Wesley fixed a smile to his face and stepped forward. ‘Sorry to bother you, Charlie.’

  Charlie Perks gaped at him. He was holding a metal detector and Wesley could see others behind him hanging from specially made holders around the outhouse walls like a small robot army ready to be activated for battle.

  ‘Can we have a word?’

  Perks squared up to them and slung his metal detector slung over his shoulder like a rifle. ‘What about?’

  Wesley hadn’t expected the aggression in his voice.

  ‘I’d like to ask you about your mother. She died in nineteen ninety-five, I believe?’

  Perks stared at the two policemen as though they were alien beings.

  Wesley moved forward. The back of the outbuilding was in shadow and he couldn’t make out what was by the far wall. ‘What was your mother’s name?’ he asked gently.

  Perks took a deep breath. ‘Judy.’

  ‘It was Judith Westminster. We’ve been doing some detecting ourselves,’ said Gerry, nodding at the machine. Wesley cursed his flippancy. The situation needed tact.

  ‘Why ask if you already know?’ Perks turned his back on them and walked into the outhouse.

  ‘This was your mother’s cottage?’ Wesley shouted at his disappearing back.

  Perks stopped abruptly. ‘I inherited it when she… passed away. What about it?’

  ‘She was Mary Tilson’s carer, wasn’t she, Charlie? She was accused of Miss Tilson’s murder. Arrested for a crime she never committed.’

  Perks swung round, his face suddenly animated. ‘The old lady’s solicitor said she’d been pinching things. They found jewellery but she didn’t know how it got here.’

  ‘Why wait so long to look for the truth?’ Wesley asked.

  ‘When she passed away I was only a kid so I moved to Birmingham to live with my dad – they’d split up when I was very little. A year ago Dad died and there was nothing to keep me in Birmingham so I came back here to her cottage. It was exactly as she’d left it – hadn’t been touched since… I feel close to her here. She speaks to me – says she wants me to clear her name.’

  ‘And have you?’

  Perks nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. I know who really killed Miss Tilson.’

  ‘And you hold that person responsible for your mother’s death too.’

  Perks looked at Wesley gratefully, as though he was glad he understood. But Wesley’s next words would shatter his assumptions.

  ‘You tracked down Miss Tilson’s lawyer and he told you a trainee solicitor called Ian Evans visited Mary Tilson regularly on his instructions. He told you this young man insinuated himself into Miss Tilson’s life and stole from her. He said Evans planted the jewellery he’d taken in your mother’s cottage when he thought he was about to come under suspicion. Xander Southwark suspected Evans was guilty but he had no evidence so he couldn’t say anything. A while later he was arrested himself so even if he had found evidence nobody would have believed him. Is that what Southwark told you?’

  Perks looked astonished, as though Wesley had pulled off a remarkable conjuring trick. ‘That’s right. Evans killed the old woman when she caught him stealing but it was my mum who got the blame.’

  ‘Southwark lied to you, Charlie,’ said Wesley. ‘Ian Evans was completely innocent. Southwark was convicted of fraud in early nineteen ninety-seven but eighteen months before that he’d killed Miss Tilson when she became suspicious and challenged him. Your mother was a handy scapegoat… as was Ian Evans when you came looking for the truth years later.’

  Perks took a step back into the shadows. ‘You’re lying,’ he hissed like a cornered animal.

  ‘You went to see Southwark to find out what really happened and he told you Evans was staying at the Shepherd’s Arms in Lower Torworthy. A woman who used to work at Southwark’s firm had seen Evans in the village and recognised him.’ He paused. ‘But you killed the wrong man, Charlie.’