A Perfect Death (7 page)

‘I’ll try anything once, love.’ He gave her his widest grin. ‘But first I’d like a chat. Your husband said you’ve been getting
death threats.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘You didn’t think to contact us at all?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, we didn’t take them seriously. Jon’s a property developer and in some people’s eyes that makes him
Satan’s right-hand man. What they don’t realise is that he intends to build affordable housing for local people. We didn’t
want to call out the police and waste their time. And isn’t wasting police time a crime or something?’

‘You wouldn’t have been wasting our time, Mrs Bright,’ Rachel chipped in. ‘We take any kind of threat very seriously. You
do know about the burned body that was found on your husband’s land?’

‘Of course. It’s terrible. But it can’t have anything to do with the threats I’ve been getting. They’re from the Pure Sons
of the West. Ever heard of them?’

‘We have now.’

‘Well, they’re just a bunch of pathetic inadequates who have a few drinks too many and start spouting off. They’ve never actually
done anything. All mouth and trousers, as my gran used to say.’

‘They threatened to burn you alive then a woman is
burned alive in Grandal Field. You’re not worried?’

She took a deep breath. ‘When you put it like that … But it can’t be these Pure Sons of the West. It’s not their style. They’re
harmless.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘It’s common knowledge. They’ve never done anything but talk. You must know that from your records.’

‘You can’t think of anyone else who might have a grudge against you?’

She shook her head.

Gerry glanced at Rachel. He had to admire this woman’s courage but he had an uneasy feeling that a little caution wouldn’t
come amiss.

‘How did they threaten you? In a phone call or a letter or …?’

‘I received two letters with Morbay postmarks. You know the sort of thing – words cut out of newspapers. How corny can you
get?’

‘You’ve still got them, I take it?’ Gerry asked hopefully.

But Sheryl Bright shook her head. ‘I put them on the fire. If you start taking that sort of thing seriously, they’ve won,
haven’t they. It was just someone playing games … and I wasn’t going to join in.’

‘Have you ever met any of these Pure Sons of the West?’ It was Rachel who asked the question.

‘No. Of course not,’ she said quickly.

‘You’re sure of that?’ Gerry asked.

Sheryl Bright nodded. But there was an uneasy look in her eyes. She wasn’t a good actress and, from her
reaction, Gerry began to suspect that she was more concerned than she cared to admit.

Gerry took the opportunity to look around the room. It was comfortable and stylish but there were magazines and papers strewn
around and an empty coffee mug stood on the sideboard. Not show-house tidy, but at least it had a homely, lived-in feel. The
walls were filled with watercolours of local scenes – good ones. The artist had talent.

‘Nice pictures,’ he said.

Sheryl gave a modest smile. ‘Thanks. They’re mine actually. I’ve got an exhibition soon in Neston.’ She picked up a couple
of cards from the sideboard and handed them to Gerry and Rachel. ‘Do come along if you get the chance. The more the merrier.’
She wiped her hands on her shirt. ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea or …’

Gerry thanked her and said he’d love one. And he’d have a go at unblocking her sink when he’d finished. Having met both Brights,
it seemed to him that they were an incongruous couple. Sometimes opposites attract but he was intrigued.

She disappeared into the kitchen and returned five minutes later with a tray of steaming mugs. When the tea had been drunk
Gerry glanced at Rachel. He knew she’d understood the signal. Keep her talking while I’m in the kitchen. Find out all you
can.

He stood up, took off his jacket to reveal the badly ironed shirt beneath and made a show of rolling up his sleeves. ‘I’ll
have a go at that sink then, love. Give us your plunger.’

Sheryl had left the plunger on the coffee table. She picked it up and handed it to the chief inspector. As he made for the
kitchen to do some impromptu plumbing, he was confident he could leave the real work to Rachel.

‘What time’s the flight?’

‘Six thirty. We’ve got plenty of time.’ Wesley looked round the hotel room, making sure they hadn’t left anything behind.

Pam slipped her hand around his waist and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘Not much. Unless you want to …’

‘No. I’m not bothered. We can just have a last wander around if you like.’

This was what Wesley wanted to hear. He’d been afraid that Pam might want to take their hired car to some Cathar stronghold
they’d missed out of their itinerary. A final stroll around the old city and a leisurely lunch would suit him fine.

She began to close her suitcase, muttering that she’d bought too many souvenirs and presents. Wesley watched her as she sat
down on the case in an effort to get it fastened. After a bit of a struggle she succeeded and a grin of triumph appeared on
her face.

But Wesley’s mind wasn’t on luggage. ‘You know when we looked in Ian Rowe’s room … did you notice a passport?’

Pam stopped what she was doing. ‘No. I can’t say I did. Anyway, it’s hardly surprising. He’d packed up all the possessions
he’d wanted to take and buggered off.
He might have gone back to England to see this Nadia. When you get back maybe you can check her out.’

Wesley smiled to himself. It seemed that this little mystery was gnawing away at Pam’s imagination. Perhaps now she might
understand how he felt about his work.

‘At least those e-mails tell us he wasn’t lying.’

‘It looks that way. But I didn’t trust Rowe when we were students and I see no reason to change my opinion now.’

‘Will you follow it up when we get back?’ She wasn’t letting the matter drop.

‘Do you think I should?’

‘You could have a word with that professor Nadia works for.’

‘I don’t know what’ll be waiting on my desk when I get back to the office. It’d just be my luck if there’s been a spate of
bank robberies while I’ve been away.’

‘Or serial killings.’

Wesley looked at her and saw that she was smiling. ‘Don’t joke about things like that. It happens.’

Pam kissed him again. Sometimes Wesley took things so seriously. ‘Look, why don’t we have lunch again at the Auberge de la
Cité where Ian worked. Perhaps someone’s heard from him by now.’

‘Or we could have another word with his housemate, Thierry.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘Maybe not.’

Pam gave a small shudder and said nothing.

After leaving their bags behind the reception, they made their way to the Auberge de la Cité, where they ate a good lunch
and had another word with the waitress,
who told them that nobody had heard from Ian Rowe since the morning he’d disappeared.

After a final stroll around Carcassonne, they made their way to the airport. For his own peace of mind, Wesley resolved to
carry out a discreet check to see whether a Nadia Lucas was working for a Professor Yves Demancour at Morbay University and,
if so, whether she was alive and well. But he doubted whether his and Rowe’s paths would ever cross again.

And somehow, he didn’t mind in the least.

Owl Cottage was nothing special: slightly run down with pink washed walls in need of a coat of paint and a shabby glass front
door circa 1960. Not thatched, with no roses round the door, it was ideal for the first-time buyer willing to do a bit of
work. But it would still be way beyond the pockets of most locals.

The owner had bought it in the spring intending to do it up and add it to his portfolio of holiday lets: a cosy little retreat
from urban life. But he’d been so busy running the business that he hadn’t got round to organising the tradesmen and now he
was planning to wait for the winter when work was scarce and prices were lower. Or alternatively he might bring in some of
the Eastern Europeans who’d worked on his other houses. They were good. And, what’s more, they were cheap.

Owl Cottage had been empty for a few months now – damp patches in the living room and an army of ants marching across the
kitchen floor hardly being conducive to relaxed weekends away in the country-
side. The place was a dump. But the owner had no objection to letting mates use it if they were desperate enough to put up
with the basic living conditions.

But the mind of the hooded figure peeping through the letter box wasn’t on the cottage’s deficiencies as he opened the petrol
can. Holding the letter box open, he sprinkled some petrol inside and then splashed some on the rag he was holding. Then he
stood quite still for a moment breathing in the fumes before setting the rag alight with a cheap disposable lighter and pushing
it through the letter box.

He scurried back and watched from the bushes as the golden flames began to leap and dance at the windows. And as soon as he
was sure the fire had taken hold, he ran off into the night.

In Tradmouth’s town records covering the twelfth and thirteenth centuries there are several accounts of ships laden with pilgrims
setting sail from the port. Stephen de Grendalle might have sailed on one of these ships bound for the shrine of San Diego
de Compostela in Northern Spain. There were carved cockleshells on his impressive tomb in Morre Abbey (alas, destroyed during
Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries), which indicates that he must have made that particular pilgrimage at least once.

It is my theory that on one of these occasions, for reasons we can only guess at, he made a detour north to the Languedoc
region of France. Perhaps he went with others, eager to fight in a crusade – any crusade – in order to win salvation for his
soul. Only this particular crusade wasn’t against the unbeliever. Rather it was against the Cathars or Albigensians, as they
were sometimes known. This was against men and women who considered that they had discovered a purer, more perfect, form of
faith without the corruption of worldly ritual.

And, from the evidence, it seems that this encounter with purity was to change Stephen de Grendalle’s life for ever.

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

It seemed strange to be back in Devon. But good. Wesley hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the children and the first thing
he and Pam did was to call at Belsham Vicarage to see them.

Even though Wesley’s sister Maritia had, as yet, no children of her own, she seemed to have coped admirably, taking time off
work to look after her nephew and niece. Her patients and the surgery, she said, could get along without her for a few days.
Besides, she assured her brother a little too brightly, she’d enjoyed the break from her busy routine. However, the strain
on her face and the forced nature of her smile told him that the past week hadn’t been as smooth and uneventful as she claimed.

It was a short drive home from Belsham with the children chattering in the back. Wesley’s initial guilt at leaving them melted:
they seemed to have enjoyed themselves during their absence. Perhaps a little part of him wished that they’d missed their
parents more.

After sorting through the stack of post on the doormat, Pam went off with the children to put the kettle on, leaving Wesley
staring at the telephone.

He resisted the temptation for a few minutes but eventually he picked up the receiver and dialled Gerry Heffernan’s direct
number.

‘Wes, great to hear from you, mate. Good holiday?’

‘Great, thanks. What’s new?’ Wesley had lowered his voice.

‘You’ve missed all the excitement.’

‘What excitement?’ Wesley sat down on the chair in the hall, sneaking a look at the kitchen door. Pam was still fully occupied.
But she’d soon be on at him to unpack so she could get the washing machine on. He hadn’t got long.

‘Some poor woman’s been burned to death in a field on the outskirts of Queenswear. According to Forensic someone poured petrol
on her and set her alight.’ He paused. ‘She was still alive when he did it. Colin thinks she was tied up.’

Wesley took a deep breath. ‘Any suspects?’

‘A few possibles. It was on the site of a proposed new development – they’re going to build houses there and our theory is
that the two things could be connected. The developer’s a bloke called Jon Bright. His receptionist’s gone missing and his
wife’s had anonymous letters threatening to burn her to death.’

‘Sounds straightforward then. All we have to do is find out who sent the letters.’

‘Oh, we know that already. It’s an organisation called the Pure Sons of the West. Ever heard of them?’

‘Can’t say I have. I take it they’ve been brought in?’

‘It’s on my list.’

‘Has the dead woman been identified?’

‘That’s the problem, Wes. At first we thought the victim might be this receptionist, Donna Grogen – her boyfriend’s one of
these Pure Sons of the West so there’s a connection. But, according to DNA tests, it’s not her.’

‘Definitely?’

‘Definitely. And Bright’s wife doesn’t seem particularly bothered by the death threats. Either that or she’s putting a brave
face on it. But I suspect she knows more than she’s telling us.’

Wesley was distracted by shouts of ‘daddy, daddy’ as Michael emerged from the kitchen and hurtled towards him with outstretched
arms.

Gerry heard the commotion. ‘You’d better go. How soon can you come in to work?’

Wesley cradled the telephone receiver in his shoulder as he allowed himself to be dragged along the hall. ‘First thing tomorrow
but I’ll have to square it with Pam. I’m supposed to be off for another couple of days, remember?’

‘I’m sure you can use your charms,’ the DCI said with a chuckle. ‘See you first thing in the morning then.’

Neil Watson hated files and paperwork. He hated having to deal with all that crisp white paper when all he really wanted to
do was scrape the earth away with a trowel to reveal hidden and wonderful things. Wonderful to him, at any rate – shards of
broken pottery and the remnants of a few old walls would mean nothing to most people.