A Perfect Death (10 page)

The enemies of these rosy-cheeked young pioneers were, of course, wealthy second-home owners – usually from London – who paid
phenomenal sums for small houses and occupied them only at weekends or during holidays, thus pricing the locals out of the
market.

As Gerry Heffernan and DC Paul Johnson listened to the arguments, they couldn’t help feeling some sympathy. Paul was still
stuck at home with his parents and there was little hope of Gerry’s son, Sam, a newly qualified vet, getting a home of his
own in the more
picturesque parts of Tradmouth.

‘The statements on your website seem pretty threatening,’ Gerry said, leaning forward over the interview room table.

‘Yeah, but that’s just to put the wind up them. To make them move out.’

The DCI caught Paul’s eye and leaned back. Paul was sitting awkwardly in a chair that was too small for his tall, lanky frame
and the DCI took pity on him. But it wouldn’t be long now. Chas Ventisard was soft as butter. He’d be easy to crack.

‘What do you know about the threatening letters that were sent to Sheryl Bright?’

‘Who’s Sheryl Bright?’ Chas asked, an expression of cherubic innocence on his face.

Gerry Heffernan glanced at Paul. ‘She’s married to the owner of Tradford Developments. He’s going to build houses on the Grandal
Field site. She received a couple of
billets doux
from your Pure Sons of the West threatening to burn her alive. Then a woman’s found burned alive on the very site her husband’s
developing. Now does that sound like a case of mistaken identity to you? ’Cause it does to me. Someone wanted Mrs Bright dead
but he – or they – killed the wrong woman. Doesn’t look good for the Pure Sons of the West, does it? Not after that fire last
night and all.’

Chas shifted in his chair, revealing a glimpse of pallid flesh between his T-shirt and his shorts. ‘I don’t know nothing about
it. I swear. And the Sons didn’t send them letters to that Bright woman. They wouldn’t. We’re a pressure group, that’s all.
We don’t go round hurting
people and that’s God’s honest truth.’

If Gerry hadn’t seen the photos of the charred corpse in the field with his own eyes, he would have believed him. But there
was always the chance that Chas wasn’t privy to everything the others in the organisation believed or got up to. For the umpteenth
time he wished that Sheryl Bright hadn’t destroyed those letters.

‘But you can see our problem, can’t you, Chas? The Pure Sons of the West do the threatening so we’re assuming that they’ve
done the killing as well.’

‘They didn’t. I swear on my mother’s—’

‘Well, they mentioned that cottage near Whitely on their website almost as soon as it happened and they knew the owner wasn’t
from round here so they’d been doing their homework. Do they keep a list of second homes or …?’

He hesitated. ‘Yeah. But they didn’t do it. They wouldn’t.’

‘A man died.’

Chas’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘That’s nothing to do with me. The Sons didn’t do it. I didn’t do it.’

‘Come on, Chas, you might as well tell us the truth. We’ll find out anyway from forensics and all that.’

Chas shook his head and Gerry knew he was getting nowhere.

He tried again. ‘Maybe your fellow Pure Sons of the West can help us. If you give us their names we’ll have a chat. Friendly
like.’ He gave Chas Ventisard his widest grin. Guaranteed to put him at his ease … or to scare the living daylights out of
him.

‘No comment.’

‘So tell us about Donna Grogen,’ said Gerry, watching his face carefully. ‘You and her were an item so you must have some
idea why she’s gone missing. We know from DNA tests that she isn’t the woman who died at Grandal Field but we’d still like
to know where she is.’

Chas’s eyes widened for a moment and he shook his head vigorously. ‘I don’t know where she is. If I knew anything, I’d tell
you.’

‘So what do you think has happened to her?’

‘Dunno. She was acting a bit weird before she went off. I asked her if there was someone else but she told me to piss off.’
Chas Ventisard looked Gerry Heffernan in the eye. ‘That’s all I know and that’s all I’m saying until you get me a solicitor.’

And those were the last words he said for the remainder of the interview.

Gerry always hated it when a suspect exercised his right to silence.

It was impossible to tell whether the charred human form on the stainless steel table was Ian Rowe. But the height and build
were about right.

Of course someone might have nicked Rowe’s passport and decided to use his name but the more Wesley thought about it, the
more unlikely that seemed.

He thanked Colin Bowman, anxious to get away. He felt no inclination to accept Colin’s invitation to join him in his office
for a pot of Earl Grey. The truth was, he felt slightly sick.

As soon as he’d left the hospital, he took his mobile
phone from his pocket and tried his home number. Pam hadn’t yet heard the news of Rowe’s probable fate and he felt she ought
to know. But there was still no answer.

He stood on the pavement in the High Street, the slow-moving crowd of summer tourists parting around him. He wanted to talk
to someone, someone who’d actually met the dead man. And as Pam was unavailable, there was one obvious choice. He punched
out Neil Watson’s number and waited.

Neil answered after three rings. And he sounded delighted to hear Wesley’s voice. ‘Wes, mate. I was just going to ring you.
I got your text. That’s really weird about Ian Rowe. You’ve not set eyes on him for twelve years then he turns up out of the
blue when you’re on holiday. Weird,’ he repeated. In his mind’s eye Wesley could see him shaking his head in disbelief.

‘Where are you at the moment?’

‘Queenswear. Having a look at the Grandal Field site. Part of it’s still taped off by your lot as a crime scene but I didn’t
think there was any harm in a bit of forward planning.’

‘I’ll come and join you. It’s about time I had a look at the place for myself.’

‘Know who that poor woman was yet?’

‘Not yet,’ he said apologetically. The identification of the victim burned alive in Grandal Field was taking far too long,
in his opinion. ‘I’ll be with you in half an hour. That OK?’

Wesley hadn’t taken into account the queue for the car ferry. It was easy sometimes to forget about the
holiday season and the difference it made to the lives of Tradmouth’s residents. It was forty-five minutes before he managed
to locate the field and park up behind Neil’s distinctive yellow Mini.

He found Neil walking around the empty field, scribbling notes on a pad and taking photographs with a small digital camera.
Every so often he’d squat down and pick something up from the ground, examine it closely and put it back down where he’d found
it. He was so engrossed in what he was doing that he was unaware of Wesley’s arrival.

Wesley watched his friend for a while before shouting to him, then he saw Neil swing round, a broad smile of greeting spreading
across his face. ‘Hi, mate. Just having a look. I’ve got a load of students coming tomorrow to do some field walking. Then
we’re doing more geophysics.’

Wesley smiled to himself. It was typical of Neil to place archaeological concerns above everything else. ‘I’ve got some news,’
he said.

It seemed that Neil hadn’t heard. ‘I can’t get over you meeting Ian Rowe. Talk about small world. Not that I could stand him.
What’s he doing now?’

Wesley hesitated. Then he decided he’d better get it over with. ‘Actually he’s lying in the mortuary at Tradmouth Hospital.’

Neil’s mouth fell open. ‘But … but I thought you’d met him in France. I thought …’

‘Well, I did but … It’s a long story.’

Neil looked at his watch. ‘Fancy a drink? There’s a decent pub up the road.’

Wesley knew he should say no. But, on the other hand, if he delayed his journey back he might avoid the rush-hour traffic
on the car ferry. ‘OK. I’d better give Pam a ring first.’

Neil nodded. ‘How was the holiday anyway?’

‘Good. Apart from Ian Rowe.’

Wesley managed to speak to Pam this time and, when the call was finished, Neil looked at him, puzzled.

‘You didn’t mention Rowe. Does she know yet?’

Wesley shook his head. ‘She met Rowe in Carcassonne. I intended to tell her right away but now I think I should really tell
her face to face … pick the right moment.’

‘But he wasn’t exactly a friend, was he?’

Wesley had to acknowledge that Neil was right. Pam had been on little more than nodding terms with Ian Rowe and, although
she’d be shocked at the news of his death, she’d hardly be grief-stricken. But before he talked to her, he wanted to get things
straight in his head. And a chat with Neil would help him do just that.

The pub was ideal. Low-beamed and cosy, it served a good pint but, as both men were driving, they made do with shandy instead.
Wesley didn’t have to be a detective to know that most of the clientele were tourists. In the winter the landlord struggled
to keep going. What he made in the summer would tide him over for the whole year.

They found a corner table, tucked away from the main bar. It was quiet here. Wesley sat down and took a long drink. He was
thirsty.

Neil looked round. ‘Wonder how the new housing development will affect this place. Might not be good for the tourist trade
but I suppose there’ll be regulars all year round. Swings and roundabouts.’

‘How big’s the development going to be?’

‘Twenty houses. Half detached, half what they call cottage-style town houses.’

‘And I expect they’ll go for a good price.’

‘I’ve heard he plans to flog them for half a million apiece. But planning permission was given on the understanding that ten
per cent of them should be what they describe as affordable.’

Wesley almost choked on his shandy. ‘Affordable to whom? Russian billionaires?’

‘You’ve got a point there,’ Neil answered with a smirk. ‘Somehow I can’t see Jon Bright letting two of his money boxes go
to the peasantry for a knock-down price.’ He took another swig of shandy. ‘If he was going to be that generous, I might have
bought one myself. Now tell us about Ian Rowe.’

Wesley gave him an account of the bare facts. How Ian Rowe had accosted him as he and Pam were having a romantic evening stroll
along the ramparts of Carcassonne. How they had arranged to meet the next day and how Rowe was worried about someone he knew
– a woman called Nadia. Rowe had arranged another meeting the next morning but he hadn’t turned up. However, Wesley had obtained
copies of emails sent by Nadia which seemed to confirm Rowe’s story and throw up some intriguing possibilities. As he spoke
it helped to clarify things in his mind. Nadia
should really be the focus of his investigations. The car near Owl Cottage belonged to her so presumably Rowe had seen her
on his return to Devon. Or maybe things weren’t that straightforward.

Neil frowned. ‘This Nadia woman might have contacted him. If he found out she was in danger of some kind he might have come
rushing back.’

Wesley sighed. Neil could well be right. Perhaps Nadia was the reason for Rowe’s sudden return and not the letter from Sir
Martin Crace that he’d received on the day of his disappearance. ‘What do you remember about Ian Rowe?’

‘I remember he used to fancy himself. And he was more into mind-altering substances than archaeology. He dropped out after
he failed his second-year exams, didn’t he?’

Wesley nodded. Neil’s recollection of Rowe’s depart-ure from university was as vague as his own. By that time they were moving
in entirely different circles.

‘I remember he was a bloody pain when we did that fieldwork in Somerset. He was supposed to be recording our trench and he
was doing doodles of cartoon characters instead.’ Neil sounded quite indignant.

‘His heart certainly wasn’t in archaeology, I’ll give you that.’ He paused, collecting his thoughts. ‘It looks as if he might
have had some connection with Sir Martin Crace.’

Neil raised his eyebrows. ‘What sort of connection?’

‘I don’t know. But he claimed that he once worked for Crace and he did receive a letter from Crace’s PA on the day he left
Carcassonne. We found it amongst
his belongings. He had an appointment to see Crace the day after tomorrow – which I intend to keep for him.’

‘We
are
moving in high circles. Ask him if he’ll make a large donation to the archaeological unit while you’re there, will you?’
He frowned. ‘Somehow I can’t see a loser like Ian Rowe hobnobbing with someone like Martin Crace. Can you?’

‘No doubt all will be revealed.’ He felt the subject of Ian Rowe was exhausted for now. Neil didn’t know any more about the
man than he did. Which was as he’d expected. But a part of him had been clinging to the hope that Neil could remember something
relevant about the dead man or his friends that had passed him by. ‘When are you starting the dig?’

‘As soon as the field walking and the geophysics are done. The site was dug before, back in the nineteen eighties. But I can’t
find the reports.’

‘Probably filed in the wrong place.’

He saw Neil shrug. Filing, he imagined, wasn’t his strong point. ‘The director of the dig was a Dr Maggie March. She was killed
in a car accident shortly after the dig was completed.’

‘But there must be someone else you can ask.’

‘March’s second in command – a woman called Wendy Haskel – went missing the day after March died. Rumour has it that her clothes
were found on the beach at Littlebury. Suicide probably.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh dear, not a lucky dig, was it?’

‘You could say that. I’ve had everyone looking high
and low for the site reports but there’s no sign of them so it looks like I’ll have to start from scratch.’ A sly smile appeared
on his lips. ‘Still, that should hold things up a bit for Mr Bright. What is it they say about clouds and silver linings?
It’s a lovely spot. Sloping down towards the river; views of the water through the trees. Pity it’s got to be concreted over.
I’ve done some preliminary research. The estate belonged to a family called de Grendalle back in the middle ages – hence the
name Grandal Field, I suppose. From the geophysics, it looks as if there’s a whole manorial complex under there – high-status
site.’