A Perfect Death (23 page)

When Rachel told him, she could sense that he was reining in his temper – that if he let go of his emotions, his fury would
explode.

‘I want police protection for my wife,’ he said through gritted teeth.

Rachel noticed that his hands were clenched, as though he were about to punch someone. So she didn’t feel inclined to argue
that, with two murders on their hands already, resources were a bit stretched.

But Sheryl saved her from this embarrassing admission.

‘There’s no way I’m going to have some policeman watching my every move,’ she said angrily. ‘Now they’ve had a go they won’t
try again. Anyway, why should we give in to them? Why should we be intimidated? I’ll be quite safe now, I know I will. They’ve
made their point.’

Rachel only hoped she was right.

It was almost dusk and Wesley knew that Pam wouldn’t be expecting him home till well after the children had been put to bed.

Rachel had reported back from the Brights’. If their claims that they had nothing to do with the death of Ian Rowe were to
be believed, it looked as if the Pure Sons of the West had made their boldest move yet. However, the whereabouts of all the
Sons they knew
about had been checked and, so far, it looked as if they all had alibis. But alibis, Rachel thought, can be fragile things
– if they don’t have solid foundations, a little digging can make them collapse into dust.

In Rachel’s opinion, Mrs Bright was bearing up well and it was her husband who was panicking for the pair of them. She’d observed
that this wasn’t unusual. The female of the species can often be stronger and more rational than the male. In the interests
of good office relations, Wesley hadn’t cared to contradict her.

He heard a voice behind him. ‘You get off home, Wes. Busy day tomorrow.’

He turned and saw Gerry Heffernan behind him, arms stretching to the ceiling and mouth wide open in a yawn that wouldn’t have
shamed a gorilla.

‘Tired, Gerry?’

The answer was a grunt. ‘I’m getting off home myself and see if our Rosie has anything to report from the hostel in Neston
– she did a stint there today and there’s a note from Social Services that Yelena’s been moved there from Morbay.’

‘As long as the bastards who brought Yelena and Anya here don’t find out where she is.’ Wesley immediately regretted his words.
Gerry was probably worried enough about Rosie’s safety as it was.

Gerry didn’t answer. It was possible that Yelena’s friend had died horribly in Grandal Field and, if these men could do something
like that, they were dangerous, capable of anything. He knew that Gerry found it hard to come to terms with the possibility
of his daughter coming into contact with such things,
however remote, and Wesley could hardly blame him.

Wesley walked home, the day’s events running through his head, playing and replaying like a video. He was glad of the walk
up the steep streets. Not only did it keep him fit, it provided him with valuable thinking time.

It was a lovely evening and he passed a few strolling tourists as he walked through the narrow thoroughfares, breathing in
the scent of the flowers tumbling from well-kept window boxes. When he reached the top of the hill he turned to look at the
town below. The passenger ferry was scuttling across the river, its windows glowing with light, and the fairy lights strung
around the Memorial Gardens had just been lit. The pubs and restaurants were coming to life and the yachts bobbed contentedly
at anchor on the swelling tide. If he hadn’t been a policeman, he would have thought that all was well with the world.

But he knew otherwise. He focused his gaze on the other side of the river. Grandal Field wasn’t visible from where he stood,
not even in the daylight, and he felt somewhat relieved. But was it the Lithuanian girl, Anya, who’d died there, murdered
horribly by one of the men who deceived and used her? Or was it someone else? Someone mistaken for Sheryl Bright perhaps?
Or maybe it was the missing Nadia Lucas; the DNA results from the hairs taken from her room hadn’t come back yet. He’d get
someone to chase them up first thing in the morning.

Rachel and Paul had told him all about their conversation with Forsyte Wiley and the discovery of the letter
that had sparked Nadia Lucas’s search for the truth behind her mother’s death. Rachel had called Caroline Tay to ask if the
letter was at the house but Caroline couldn’t find it. Perhaps it had been hidden somewhere. Wesley resolved to organise a
proper search as soon as he could … unless Nadia turned up in the meantime.

He turned into his cul de sac and was pleased to see Neil’s old yellow Mini parked outside his house. He quickened his pace,
taking his house key from his pocket.

When he entered the living room, Pam was sitting with her feet up, a glass of red wine in her hand. Neil looked comfortable
in the armchair and his glass was almost empty.

‘Have you heard about Jon Bright?’ was Neil’s first question. ‘He had his summer house burned down. It was those Pure Sons
of the West. They left a note.’

‘I know,’ said Wesley.

Neil looked vaguely disappointed, as though he’d been looking forward to breaking the news.

‘The Brights reported it. They’ve been interviewed. So have the Pure Sons of the West. But they all have alibis and they’re
denying everything.’

Neil raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, it can’t be the husband because he was with me. Loth as I am to put the bugger in the clear.
Think there could be a connection with the body in our field?’

Wesley never believed in lying to old friends. ‘We don’t know yet. We’ve not even got an ID on the body. The latest theory
is that it was a punishment killing of an Eastern European prostitute.’

Neil wrinkled his nose. ‘Wouldn’t have thought you got that sort of thing in a place like Queenswear.’

Wesley gave him a rueful smile, pitying his naiveté. ‘It’s everywhere now. Can’t get away from it.’ He’d had enough of work
and fancied a rapid change of subject. ‘How’s the dig going?’

‘Not bad. How soon can we excavate the crime scene? There’s a circular anomaly on the geophysics not too far from the spot
where … I’m sure there’s something interesting down there.’

‘Have you found out any more about the nineteen eighties dig yet?’

Neil shook his head. ‘I’m coming to the conclusion that Dr March had all the notes and records with her when her car went
up in flames, which is a shame. We could have done with those records.’

‘Mmm.’ Wesley thought for a few seconds. ‘As a matter of fact Dr Maggie March’s name cropped up in one of our investigations.’

Neil sat forward, suddenly interested. ‘Really?’

‘I told you Ian Rowe knew this girl called Nadia Lucas. She met him while they were both working for Sir Martin Crace.’

‘Yeah. Go on,’ Neil said, impatient to learn about the March connection.

‘Well, it turns out Nadia Lucas is the daughter of Maggie March’s second-in-command on the Grandal Farm dig, a Dr Wendy Haskel.
Nadia lived with her father, who died a couple of years ago, but recently she’s been trying to find out what happened to her
mother.’

‘Karl Maplin told me she’d killed herself.’

‘That was the verdict at the inquest. She left a note and her things were found on the beach at Littlebury but her body was
never found. Mind you, it’s quite common for bodies to go into the water around that part of the coast and never emerge. According
to Gerry it’s something to do with the currents.’

‘So Maplin’s right. She did herself in – no mystery there. Except why she did it.’

‘What if the two women were an item?’ Pam said after a few moments. ‘And Haskel killed herself out of grief when she heard
her lesbian lover was dead?’

The two men looked at her, waiting for further pearls of wisdom.

‘You need to talk to people who knew them,’ she continued. ‘Archaeology’s a small world so it shouldn’t be too hard to track
them down.’

Wesley smiled, feeling rather pleased that Pam’s interest in the case, sparked by their little foray into mystery in Carcassonne,
was continuing.

‘Nadia hired a private detective to find out what really happened to her mother,’ he said. ‘Maybe he’s the man she mentioned
in those e-mails she sent to Rowe. But now she’s vanished and the only thing we know is that Ian Rowe borrowed her car to
drive to the cottage where he met his death. Or she drove him there and abandoned the car for some reason.’

‘So let me get this straight,’ said Neil. ‘You think this Nadia might have killed Ian Rowe?’

Wesley suddenly experienced a feeling of hopelessness. Was Nadia a suspect or a potential victim? Or did
she have nothing to do with the case at all? Had she merely gone off somewhere and lent Ian her car while she was away?

Suddenly he remembered that the photographs he had taken from Nadia’s locker at the university were in his inside pocket.
He took them out and handed them to Neil. ‘Have a look through these and see whether you recognise any people and places.’

Pam got up and stood behind Neil’s chair so she could see the images for herself but she gave up after a while as they meant
nothing to her. Neil, on the other hand, was starting to look rather excited.

‘I recognise some of these people. There’s Karl Maplin. I mean, he’s a lot younger and he’s even got hair but it’s him all
right.’ He pushed the photograph in Wesley’s direction.

Wesley felt a little cross with himself. Of course it was a much younger Professor Maplin – why hadn’t he recognised him?
‘Anyone else?’

Neil frowned and studied the photographs in his hand again. ‘Yeah. These were taken so long ago it’s not easy to tell but
I’m sure this is Bill Waites and this one’s Chris Drifield. And that woman there, her face is familiar but I can’t remember
the name. I’m sure I’ve come across a couple more of them on various digs I’ve taken part in but I can’t say there’s anyone
here I know well apart from Maplin. He’ll be the one to ask. He’ll know them all.’

‘What about the locations? Anything familiar?’

Neil studied them again and after a while he looked up. There are some I don’t recognise but I’m sure
these are Grandal Field. The way you can see the river through those trees. Look.’

Wesley leaned over to get a better view. Neil was right. It did look like Grandal Field. He wondered whether any of the group
pictures were of the team who carried out the excavations there back in the 1980s. And if so, which picture. He picked up
the photographs of the people again. There were several of them – all of different teams. He studied the women in particular,
wondering which of them were Maggie March and Wendy Haskel. But speculation was a waste of energy. He needed to speak to Karl
Maplin.

‘I discovered something rather interesting,’ Neil said, interrupting Wesley’s thoughts.

‘What?’

‘You know I told you that the site was connected with the de Grendalle family? Well, apparently there’s a legend attached
to the place.’

‘Go on.’

‘A knight went off to the crusades and brought back a bride. Anyway, he found out she was being unfaithful to him so he burned
her alive because she’d been a heretic. Then he found out he’d made a mistake and she hadn’t been having it away with someone
else after all. And he was so remorseful that he gave all his property to Morre Abbey.’

‘I heard something similar from Professor Demancour at Morbay University. He and Nadia Lucas were researching the story. Mentioned
a woman called Jeanne de Minerve.’

‘I think the bloke who told me about it got it from a
book of local legends. “The Burning Bride”, the chapter was called.’

Wesley said nothing for a while then he looked up, his eyes glowing with excitement. ‘So there’s an old story about a woman
being burned to death on the site and last week a woman was found burned to death in the same place. It can hardly be a coincidence,
can it?’

‘The killer must know the story,’ said Pam. ‘He must do; there’s no other explanation. This burning bride business has some
sort of significance. Maybe the victim was unfaithful to the murderer in some way.’

‘I think we’ve cracked it,’ Neil said, pouring himself another glass of wine. ‘Mind if I leave the car here tonight?’

‘Why not?’ Wesley mumbled in reply.

Neil had ended up staying the night on the sofa. After the second bottle had been opened it had seemed rather churlish to
chuck him out to walk down into the town and catch the late night ferry across the river.

The two men walked down to the centre of Tradmouth together, leaving Pam to give the children their breakfast. But for once
she didn’t seem to mind. It was the school holidays and, besides, the story of the burning bride seemed to have captured her
imagination. She’d even asked Wesley to keep her up to date with developments.

Neil and Wesley parted on the waterfront and, when Wesley arrived at the CID office, he found that Gerry Heffernan was already
there in his glass-fronted lair, sitting frowning at the report he was reading. He stood
up when Wesley opened his office door. Something had happened.

‘You’ve missed all the excitement, Wes. We’ve got a name for our body in Grandal Field.’ He paused, as if he was announcing
the winner of some film award, keeping his audience in suspense.

‘And?’

‘The DNA results have just come back. There’s a match to the hairs Rachel took from Nadia Lucas’s hairbrush.’

Wesley sat down heavily on the chair beside Gerry’s desk. Somehow he hadn’t expected this. Somehow he’d convinced himself
that their dead girl was some unfortunate Eastern European prostitute, a victim of the times and the avaricious nature of
man. But Nadia Lucas? What had she done to deserve such a fate?

Men have always been fascinated by the idea of lost treasure and, not surprisingly, the legend of the Burning Bride has its
own mention of missing gold.

According to the tale, Jeanne brought some Cathar treasure over with her from her native France, but, needless to say, no
such treasure has ever been found. Yet who knows, it might still lie beneath the Devon earth somewhere to be discovered by
somebody wielding a trowel or a metal detector.