A Perfect Death (35 page)

‘What made you think they were together? Did you hear them talking at all or …?’

Rowe shook his head. ‘I just assumed they were. No particular reason.’

Wesley took his phone from his pocket. ‘Sorry, Ian, but I really need you to make a proper statement down at the station and
we might need to ask you some more questions.’

Rowe stood up, sending his stool flying back.

‘You don’t believe me. You think I killed that bloke at the cottage.’

‘You ran away from the scene.’

‘I was scared. I thought they might be looking for Mum’s diaries and they’d torched the place to destroy any evidence. And
I’m here now, aren’t I?’

Wesley raised his hands in a gesture of appeasement. ‘OK, OK. But we need to find out who killed the man in the cottage and
you’re our only witness. We need your help.’

Wesley’s words seemed to work. Rowe sat down again and Pam gave him a weak smile. She asked him if he wanted a cup of tea
but he shook his head.

Wesley had gone out into the hall to make the call to Gerry. Rowe was trusting him, she thought. Just like people trusted
Sir Martin Crace. But then she realised she’d misjudged the situation. Rowe was perched on the edge of his seat, as if preparing
for another quick getaway.

Wesley returned to the kitchen and sat down. But Ian Rowe stood up.

‘I’ve changed my mind. I’m going,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the …’ He nodded towards his empty plate.

‘Don’t you want to establish if Sir Martin’s your father?’ said Pam. ‘If he takes a DNA test—’

‘You know, Pam, I’m starting to wonder if it’s worth the hassle.’ He grinned. ‘And there’s always another time, eh. Wait till
the dust settles.’

‘I thought you wanted police protection,’ said Pam.

Rowe looked at Wesley. ‘I did but I don’t think I fancy being banged up in a cell for the night. I should have known better
than to trust a copper.’

Wesley stood up and took a step towards him. ‘Ian, if you’re really in danger, we can help you. And if you’re telling the
truth you have nothing to fear.’

‘Now where have I heard that one before?’ He began to make for the back door. ‘I’m off back to France. I’ll be safe there.’

Pam opened her mouth to ask how he planned to get there without money or passport but thought better of it. Tradmouth harbour
was packed with yachts ready and able to glide over the Channel. It would just be a matter of hitching a ride, and Rowe had
the smooth talk to pull it off.

But Wesley had other ideas. He rushed over to the door and blocked the way. ‘Sorry, Ian. I can’t just let you go off like
this. You’re a vital witness in a murder inquiry.’

Pam saw Rowe square up to her husband and she was suddenly afraid. Rowe was slightly taller and
better built, and, although Wesley was probably the fitter of the two, Rowe had the look of a street fighter who didn’t care
about playing by the rules.

The two men stood there for a few moments, staring each other down, before the spell was broken by the sound of the doorbell.
Pam dashed out to answer it, her heart thumping, hoping that it would be Gerry and not Neil, who would, she knew, be useless
when it came to any form of physical conflict.

When the door swung open, she saw Gerry standing there, a uniformed constable behind him. ‘Where is he?’ he asked as he stepped
in. Then he looked at her. ‘You OK, love?’

‘I’m fine. But if I were you, I’d get in there quick,’ she said, nodding towards the kitchen. ‘Wes is trying to stop him leaving.’

Gerry gave the constable an ‘after you’ look and the pair disappeared into the kitchen. She stayed in the hall. This was police
business, she thought, and if Rowe was going to put up any resistance, she didn’t want to be there to witness it.

Five minutes later the constable led Rowe out to the car with Wesley and Gerry following behind. Pam caught her husband’s
eye and he paused, an apologetic look on his face.

‘I’ll try not to be long,’ he said, touching her hand.

‘You haven’t eaten yet.’

He gave her a rueful smile. ‘I’ll have it when I get back.’

‘Whenever that is,’ she mumbled under her breath.

Wesley didn’t hear, or he chose to ignore it. As she
stood in the hall she could hear Ian Rowe’s raised voice quite clearly as they left the house.

‘By the way, Nadia told me she didn’t die, you know. She said it was the other way round.’

But Pam had no idea what he meant.

The mobile phone belonging to Jem Burrows had been placed in a plastic box in the custody suite. When it began to ring, the
custody sergeant stared at it, wondering whether to ignore it or give in to the temptation of answering. After a while the
overly cheerful ring tone – a lively electronic salsa – started to get on his nerves and he pressed the button that would
silence the tiny instrument.

‘Hello,’ said a female voice on the other end of the line. ‘Where are you? Have the police spoken to you again?’

The custody sergeant hesitated. ‘Er, yes.’

‘What did they say?’

‘Nothing much.’

There was a long pause. ‘Jem, are you all right?’ He could hear suspicion in her voice. He’d been rumbled.

The line went dead. But when he called up the details of the last call he found it was in Jem Burrows’s list of numbers.

He smiled when he saw the name, picked up the phone on his desk and punched out DCI Heffernan’s number.

I’m rather surprised that the fatal letter still exists. I thought that Stephen de Grendalle would have destroyed it, torn
it to pieces in a fury. And yet he might have kept it as evidence, something tangible to confront Jeanne with, and it somehow
became lost amongst his other papers. Here is the text (translated from Norman French, so we can surmise that the writer was
a man of some status and education).

‘Your adulterous heretic wife met with Walter Fitzallen on the morning of the Feast of St Mary Magdalene in the wood behind
your estate. I myself saw them together. One who wishes you well.’

To a man like de Grendalle, this anonymous note must have been devastating. How he must have loved the woman he rescued from
the flames of Minerve. How this accusation of infidelity must have eaten away at him like a worm in his heart.

(From papers found in the possession of Professor
Yves Demancour)

Wesley turned over, wrapping the duvet around his
body, and kissed Pam on the nose. She stirred a little and reclaimed the duvet with surprising violence.

‘I’m going into the office early,’ he whispered in her ear.

She opened her eyes wide and sat up. ‘You were there half the night. Your dinner’s still congealing in the microwave.’

‘Gerry and I got ourselves a takeaway from the Golden Dragon. We didn’t starve.’

‘I never thought you would. So where’s Ian Rowe?’

‘Enjoying the lavish hospitality of our luxury custody suite.’

‘Is he being charged?’

‘He’s just being held for questioning at the moment but I reckon a charge of withholding evidence and breaking into Professor
Demancour’s flat will do to be going on with. Demancour reported the break-in – it seems Rowe put the wind up him badly.’

‘Well, at least we know Rowe didn’t kill Nadia Lucas. It happened when we were in France.’

‘Mmm. That’s one thing we can be sure of.’ He thought for a few moments. ‘But I’m still not sure he’s telling the whole truth
about what happened at the cottage. He says he saw this mysterious figure. I tend not to believe in mysterious figures. They’re
far too convenient in my opinion. Far more likely he killed Wade himself and did a runner, panicking when he found he’d left
the car keys in the burning building along with all his stuff. It’s just a matter of proving it.’

Pam didn’t answer. A small voice had just broken the early morning peace. Amelia was awake and hungry.

Wesley dressed and grabbed a quick breakfast of cereal and orange juice. He felt impatient to get to the station that morning
although he wasn’t sure why.

As he was about to leave, Pam came downstairs to make breakfast for herself and the children. He put his arms around her and
kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled of shampoo, something herbal and wholesome. ‘I’d better go,’ he whispered. ‘See
you this evening. Not sure what time.’

She gave him a resigned smile, the smile of a policeman’s wife who had heard it all before. At that moment their days in Carcassonne
seemed a whole world away.

The walk down the hill to the centre of Tradmouth gave him a chance to think. Denis Wade had broken into the cottage, possibly
on the orders of Sir Martin Crace or Eva Liversedge. It was easy to imagine Rowe, frightened and panicking, hitting the security
man over the head and setting the cottage alight to hide his crime, only realising later that he’d left his belongings and
the keys to Nadia’s car upstairs – and by then the fire had spread to the staircase, making it impossible to retrieve them.

It would have been unplanned, a spur-of-the-moment crime like so many others. And yet a little voice in Wesley’s head was
telling him that it was more complicated than that; that there was some connection to Nadia’s gruesome death in Grandal Field.
Although he couldn’t see what that connection could be.

His mobile rang and he looked at the name of the caller. Neil. It wasn’t like him to call so early in the morning so it must
be important.

‘Wes. I was trying to get hold of you last night.’

‘Sorry. I was a bit tied up. Last night was, er … interesting. Ian Rowe turned up at our house unexpectedly. He’s been taken
in for questioning.’

Neil swore softly. ‘So what’s he done exactly? Did he kill that bloke in the cottage or what?’

‘I’ll tell you about it when I see you. It’s a long story,’ said Wesley, not quite sure how to answer. What exactly
had
Ian Rowe done? He still had the feeling he hadn’t learned the truth.

Neil cleared his throat. ‘Er, I don’t know if it’s important but Jem Burrows’s car is still parked on the lane near Grandal
Field.’

Wesley’s heart sank. Traffic matters were hardly his concern.

‘I thought I’d better tell you because I saw it there when Sheryl Bright turned up after everyone had gone home a couple of
nights ago. I never saw any sign of Burrows but it’s odd, isn’t it?’

‘Very odd. You didn’t see them meeting or …?’

‘Can’t say I did, mate. Sorry.’

Wesley ended the call, pondering the implications of Neil’s revelation. It was possible that Sheryl Bright had been meeting
the leader of the group who’d allegedly threatened her; a man she must have met before because he’d worked in her garden.
Things were coming into focus at last and he couldn’t help smiling to himself, hoping that people he passed as he walked wouldn’t
think he was mad.

It was a beautiful day and the tourists were out in force, ambling along the esplanade, staring out over
the river to Queenswear, while cars circled the boat float in search of a precious parking space. The Memorial Gardens looked
positively tropical with their glossy palm trees. On the surface it seemed that all was right with the world but Wesley knew
otherwise. A sergeant in summer shirt sleeves greeted him as he entered the police station and Wesley raised his hand in acknowledgement.
But there would be no holiday atmosphere in the CID office. Not with their current workload.

Nevertheless, Gerry Heffernan looked remarkably cheerful when he arrived, positively bubbly, with a twinkle in his eye that
told Wesley there’d been a development in his absence.

He beckoned Wesley into his office and there was a wide grin on his face as Wesley cleared a pile of forms off a chair before
making himself comfortable.

‘You’ll never guess,’ the DCI said, leaning forward conspiratorially.

‘Surprise me.’

‘Sheryl Bright made a call to Jem Burrows’s mobile phone last night while he was in the cells contemplating the error of his
ways and I got someone to check out Bright’s life insurance. If he pops off, the wife cops for a fortune.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ve just had an interesting call from Neil.’ He told Gerry the gist of Neil’s revelations and
the DCI gave a low whistle. ‘So can we assume that they’d arranged an assignation? That all the threats and anonymous letters
were meant to put us off the scent?’

‘I always thought there was something a bit theatrical about them,’ Wesley said. ‘All those letters cut out of newspapers.
And why did she burn the first few she got? Looking back, that should have rung alarm bells.’

‘But both Sheryl and Burrows have solid alibis for Jon Bright’s murder.’

Wesley said nothing. At that moment those alibis were the only reason that both Jem Burrows and Sheryl Bright weren’t in the
interview room being questioned about Jon Bright’s murder. And the situation was starting to annoy him. Once they had the
Bright case wrapped up, they could concentrate on the murders of Nadia Lucas and Denis Wade. Although the similarity of the
three deaths hadn’t escaped his notice. Death by fire. Was there a connection? It was a question he kept asking himself but,
as yet, he had no answer.

Ian Rowe and the death of Nadia Lucas had been on his mind since the previous night. In fact he hadn’t slept well because
he’d been turning over all the possibilities in his mind.

Nadia had met her death by fire near the spot where a young woman was said to have died back in the thirteenth century. Nadia’s
mother had been involved in the excavation of that particular site thirty years ago and Maggie March, the woman in charge
of the dig, had died in a burning car. Fire. The same motif again and again. Death by fire. Just like Jon Bright.

The ruins Neil had uncovered at Grandal Field dated from a time when heretics were burned because the fire was meant to purify
their souls. He didn’t know
why this thought suddenly occurred to him but he couldn’t help feeling it was significant in some way. But how and why, he
still had no idea.

Wesley had been so deep in his own thoughts that the ringing of Gerry’s phone made him jump. The DCI picked up the receiver
and listened to the person on the other end of the line. Gerry had never been one to conceal his feelings so Wesley could
tell at once that the news was exciting.