A Perfect Death (14 page)

‘What about the …?’ Bright nodded towards the area of charred grass in the corner of the field. It was still cordoned off with
blue and white police tape.

‘We can’t touch it just yet. Which is a pity. There’s a circular anomaly in that section I’d like to have a look at.’

‘How long—?’

‘No idea,’ Neil replied quickly. ‘The police said they’d give me the go-ahead but they’re taking their time. I’ve been instructed
not to disturb that area. There might still be forensic evidence, apparently. They said something about sending someone over …’

Bright frowned. Neil thought he looked worried.

‘Well, if that’s all, I’d better get on,’ Neil said. He knew he probably sounded rude but somehow he didn’t really care what
this man thought of him.

As Bright shifted from foot to foot with irritation, Neil could almost read his thoughts: it was his land and what right did
this scruffy archaeologist have to treat him like an unwanted intruder? Bright bristled for a few moments before deciding
that there was nothing to gain from holding up the dig any further. Time was money. He climbed back into the car, slammed
the door angrily and drove away.

As Neil watched his disappearing tail lights, his mobile phone began to ring.

‘Have you been trying to call me?’ said the female voice on the other end.

It looked as if he had caught up with Una Gibson at last. Now it was just a case of standing in the middle of a field and
shouting over the noise of the JCB engine while he tried to steer the conversation round to what Una knew about Ian Rowe.
But then Neil had always relished a challenge.

When he returned from the mortuary Gerry Heffernan stood for a while, staring out of the office window at the glistening river,
pondering the problem that had landed in CID’s lap over the past few days. He wondered whether they would discover anything
useful that afternoon when they kept Ian Rowe’s appointment with Sir Martin Crace. Gerry found that, as the meeting loomed
nearer, he was rather looking forward to it.

‘Gerry, we’ve got a visitor.’

He looked round and saw Wesley standing by Rachel’s desk. He had been rather subdued since
Rowe’s post mortem but now his eyes glowed with excitement and there was a keen look on his face; the look of a huntsman who
had just spotted his quarry. There had been a development in the case. Gerry had known him long enough to recognise the signs.

‘Who is it?’

‘The owner of the cottage. His name’s Jack Plesance. He’s waiting down in Reception.’

‘He might be able to tell us more about the dead man. A bit of a mystery man, our friend Rowe.’

Wesley was about to reply when Rachel hurried in and, from the look on her face, he knew she too had news.

As usual she came straight to the point. ‘I gave Nadia Lucas’s housemate another call to see if she’d turned up but she still
hasn’t heard from her. I asked her if she wants to report Nadia officially missing but she seems a bit reluctant. She says
she’d feel stupid if she’s just gone off for a few days to see friends.’

‘So when exactly did she last see her?’ Heffernan asked.

‘Last Tuesday. Nadia told her she was going out but she didn’t give any indication that she was going away.’

‘Does she know if Nadia has any family or …?’

‘Her parents are both dead and she’s never mentioned any brothers or sisters.’

Gerry looked at Wesley who was standing beside him with a concerned frown on his face.

‘So she disappeared last Tuesday?’

Rachel nodded.

‘That’s the day before that poor lass was found
burned in that field.’ He looked Wesley in the eye.

‘There’s no evidence to suppose … And it’s highly likely that she met Rowe to hand over the car when he arrived in England.’

‘I suppose you’re right. Go and see this housemate again, Rach. Find out everything you can about this Nadia Lucas.’

As Rachel hurried away he saw Paul Johnson hovering in the doorway as though he had something else to tell them. Gerry looked
up at him. ‘Hi, Paul. Anything new come in?’

‘Yes, sir. Morbay nick’s been on the phone. A woman’s been reported missing. She disappeared last Monday and she sort of fits
the description of that woman who was burned to death in the field.’

‘And she’s not been reported missing until now? Someone’s taken their time.’

Paul Johnson cleared his throat. ‘The woman who did the reporting’s asking for police protection.’

Gerry glanced at Wesley, who was watching Paul expectantly.

‘She’s from Lithuania. The sergeant at Morbay nick who phoned me said she was scared stiff – in a right old state. She’s called
Yelena and it’s her friend who’s missing – name of Anya.’ He swallowed hard. Paul was never good at concealing his feelings.
‘It’s a nasty one, sir. They paid someone to bring them to London to work as waitresses. Only when they arrived they were
bundled into a van and taken to Morbay. Not that they knew it was Morbay – could have been anywhere. They were locked in this
house and not
allowed out. Injected with drugs and you can guess the rest. Last week this Anya vanished. Yelena managed to escape from the
house this morning and she was found collapsed and half naked near the sea front by a female community support officer. She
was petrified and she kept gabbling away in Lithuanian. It wasn’t till they managed to get a translator that the story came
out.’

The two men sat in stunned silence for a while. Gerry had thought all along that the burning had the feel of a punishment
killing – the action of men who tempted women over to the country with the irresistible bait of honest jobs and undreamed-of
prosperity, only to use them like lumps of meat once they had them in their power. Anya had probably done something to offend
her tormentors – perhaps she’d tried to escape. And if they’d caught up with Yelena she’d no doubt have met with the same
fate. Only she’d been lucky. She’d made it to safety.

‘Where’s Yelena now?’

‘She’s in a women’s refuge.’

Gerry gave a weary sigh. Refuges did their best but if Yelena’s captors were really determined – if she could blow the lid
on their operation – she might not be out of trouble just yet.

‘If this Anya is our body in the field, Gerry,’ Wesley said. ‘It means you were right all along.’

But Gerry Heffernan derived no satisfaction from his instincts being proved correct. ‘Well, if I am, it means our two murders
aren’t connected and we can concentrate on Ian Rowe,’ he said quietly. ‘Poor lass.’
He stood up. ‘Get an exact description of this Anya, will you, Paul? We’d better make sure, eh.’

‘Sad,’ said Wesley when Paul had closed the door behind him.

‘Mmm.’

‘Is your Rosie still helping at that refuge in Neston?’

The mention of Rosie in connection with the world of darkness and violence suddenly made Gerry feel uncomfortable. ‘Yeah.
She does two afternoons a week. But it’s mainly women fleeing from domestic violence. I don’t think they’ve had a case like
this … yet.’

‘If this Yelena’s moved to Rosie’s refuge in Neston, it might make her harder to find.’

‘And easier for us to keep an eye on her. I’ll get onto Morbay nick and suggest it … or somewhere even further from Morbay.
As soon as we get the chance we’ll visit this Lithuanian lass. But we’ve got to go and be nice to Sir Martin Crace first.’
He looked up at Wesley and grinned. ‘I’ll leave the small talk to you, eh.’

‘What about the Pure Sons of the West?’

‘What about them?’

‘Someone’s been threatening to burn Sheryl Bright alive so we still have to follow the mistaken identity theory. And it’s
not impossible that they had something to do with the fire at Owl Cottage.

‘Paul and Trish didn’t get to see Jem Burrows yesterday but they’re going to try again this morning. He’ll probably deny everything
but we can bring him in and put a bit of pressure on.’

Gerry rubbed his hands together. ‘Right. Jack Plesance is waiting for us downstairs. Time to have a word with him.’

‘Let’s hope he’ll throw some light on exactly what Rowe was up to,’ said Wesley quietly.

Gerry stood up and gave him a sympathetic look. ‘Hard to lose a mate,’ he said.

‘He wasn’t my mate,’ Wesley replied, almost in a whisper.

Jack Plesance was waiting for them in Reception, pacing up and down nervously. He was a wiry man, probably in his late forties
or early fifties, and he rather reminded Wesley of a terrier. He had grizzled hair and a pointed face and he didn’t smile
as he shook hands with the two policemen. But then, if your cottage has been burned down, there’s probably very little to
smile about.

Wesley led the way into one of the more comfortable interview rooms on the ground floor and ordered tea – the decent stuff
in china mugs, not the bilge-water that spurted out of the drinks machines. Plesance looked as though he could do with some
sort of pick-me-up.

‘Now then, Mr Plesance.’ Gerry Heffernan leaned forward and attempted a sympathetic smile which didn’t quite work. ‘Sorry
about your property.’

‘The house doesn’t matter. I’ve just been having nightmares thinking of Ian in there,’ Plesance said softly. He turned his
face away as though he was too embarrassed to express his feelings.

Wesley caught Gerry’s eye. It was time to drop the
bombshell. ‘His post mortem was carried out this morning.’ He saw Plesance wince. ‘And the results were a bit surprising.
It seems that Ian Rowe died as a result of the fire. And the evidence suggests that he was murdered.’

This got the reaction Wesley had anticipated. Jack Plesance’s small grey eyes widened in shock. ‘Fucking hell. I mean … oh
God. I don’t believe it.’

‘We think whoever killed him knocked him unconscious first, set the place alight and left him to die.’

For a while Jack Plesance was speechless. Wesley concluded that either the man was an extremely good actor, or he could be
wiped off their list of suspects.

‘How long have you owned the cottage?’

Plesance straightened his back and took a deep breath. ‘I’ve had it for about a year. I own a few places down here – holiday
lets. Owl Cottage was a good buy. It needed some work doing and I was going to make a start on the renovations this summer
when I could get down for a week or two.’

‘Why Devon?’

Plesance hesitated for a moment before answering. ‘I’ve got family down here.’

‘I see.’

‘I mean family are important, aren’t they?’

Wesley looked at him curiously. There was something slightly sad in the way he’d said the words. Perhaps there was an estranged
wife down here he was desperate to stay in contact with … children he hardly saw. He didn’t feel inclined to enquire further
so he moved on to the next question.

‘What is it you do?’

‘I’m a property developer. I do up places and sell them, mainly in the Midlands. Then there’s the holiday lets down here.’

‘Beats working,’ said Gerry with what sounded like envy.

‘It can be quite hard work, believe me.’

‘But you hadn’t got round to renovating Owl Cottage?’

‘I’ve been so busy with my other properties it slid down my list of priorities. You know how it is.’

Gerry glanced at Wesley then cleared his throat. ‘So you were charging Ian Rowe for the privilege of staying in your property?’

Plesance shook his head. ‘As a matter of fact I wasn’t. The place was hardly in a state to let out. I said he could stay there
for a few days while he was in the area. That’s all. Favour for a mate.’

‘I take it the cottage is insured.’

Plesance nodded. He was a businessman. He wasn’t stupid enough to take the risk of leaving an empty property uninsured, especially
with the likes of the Pure Sons of the West around.

‘So what happened? How did Rowe get in touch with you?’

‘He phoned me. Said he was ringing from Plymouth. He’d just arrived on the ferry and he had some business here. He wanted
somewhere to hole up for a while, as he put it. He asked if the cottage was free.’

‘And you let him know where the key was. Very
generous,’ said Gerry, slightly incredulous. ‘He’s an old friend, is he?’

‘I’ve known him for a while, yes.’

‘How did you meet?’ Wesley asked, curious.

‘I worked for Sir Martin Crace. I’d trained as a surveyor and for ten years I had a job dealing with Sir Martin’s property
portfolio. Then when my dad died a couple of years ago I decided to move back up to Birmingham and start my own business.
I met Ian when he was working as Sir Martin’s driver and we shared a flat in Dukesbridge for a while.’

Wesley said nothing. At least this solved one little mystery. Rowe had been a driver – not Sir Martin’s PA as he’d claimed.
It made Wesley wonder how much of what Rowe had told him had been fantasy or exaggeration.

‘You stayed in touch?’

‘Yeah. He’d call me from France from time to time and he’d let me know if he was in the country. And we met up when I was
on holiday in France. He was living in Toulouse then, working in some café. Bit of a free spirit was Ian.’

Wesley nodded. Professor Demancour had described Ian Rowe as a free spirit too.

‘When exactly did you last speak to him?’

Plesance thought for a moment and recited the date Rowe had left Carcassonne. Rowe must, Wesley thought, have set off for
Devon when he received Crace’s letter and called Plesance up to arrange his accommodation as soon as he reached Plymouth.

‘Did you know someone called Nadia Lucas?’

‘Nadia? Oh yes. She was a clever girl. Too clever for what she was doing.’

‘She was a secretary, I understand.’

‘That’s right. I couldn’t understand it really. She’d been at some university doing research – a doctorate, is it?’

Wesley nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘She said something about her funding running out but …’

‘You didn’t believe her?’

Plesance shrugged. ‘What do I know about that sort of thing? She could have been telling the truth for all I know. Anyway,
she worked for Crace for a while, typing his letters and doing his filing. Then she left and got a job with some French professor.
I don’t know how she put up with the bitch but—’