The Cadaver Game (15 page)

‘Yes.’

‘What if someone knows about this squire and decided to revive the tradition of his manhunts? Perhaps that’s why the victims
were naked.’

Wesley took a sip of tea. Over the years his sister had displayed an irritating habit of being right about a lot of things.
But nobody can be right all the time.

Waiting. A murder investigation always involved waiting. For forensic reports; for vital witnesses to turn up; for all the
information gleaned from house-to-house visits, and interviews to be collated into some sort of comprehensible order.

Once Maritia had returned to the vicarage, Wesley had done his paternal duty and read the children a bedtime story. Getting
home at a reasonable time was a rare treat during a murder investigation but there’d been nothing more he could have done
at the incident room that night. He had spent all day sowing the seed and now he was waiting to harvest the results.

It was coming up to eleven now and he was sitting on the sofa with his feet up, sipping from a glass of Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon.
Pam sat in the armchair, watching the TV and when he saw that her glass was empty he got up and refilled it, disturbing the
kitten who had planted herself determinedly on his knee. Moriarty, who a few months before had been a small, giddy ball of
fur and energy, had now expanded into a sleek and elegant cat. And for some reason she always seemed to favour Wesley’s knee
over Pam’s. Pam reckoned that she was probably one for the men.

Pam took a sip from her newly filled glass and closed her eyes, a beatific smile on her lips. But her peace was shattered
when Wesley’s phone rang.

Her eyes flicked open and she sat up as he answered it, mouthing the word ‘Gerry’ to Pam who rolled her eyes and
sank back against the cushions. After a short conversation he ended the call.

‘Sorry, love, there’s been another shooting. I’ve only had one glass so I’m OK to drive.’ He kissed her cheek and she turned
away. ‘Don’t wait up.’

He picked up his car keys from the cupboard by the door and walked out into the summer night.

The Jester’s Journal

14 June 1815

Another hunt is arranged and I must recruit a pair of fine hares to provide entertainment for our gallant huntsmen. Two youths
have recently begun work in the Squire’s gardens and I plan to engage them in talk of money and adventure. Those two things
I am certain will prove sufficient bait to lure them into my trap.

How the steward moons after the Lady Pegassa. It is better than a play to watch him making cow eyes at her. Henry has sworn
that one day soon he will pluck our exotic flower and make her his concubine. Some think him a foolish and profligate young
man but others, like our sober steward, consider him to be the embodiment of evil. On this matter Wells and I are in agreement:
to my mind there is nothing foolish about the Devil. Satan always knows what
he is about and uses his poor dupes on earth with such great cunning, so that when they are committing wicked actions they
imagine they act from their own free will rather than out of compulsion. I understand Satan, for I have used such tactics
myself.

15 June 1815

I have uttered honeyed words to our pair of young gardeners and have tempted them from their Eden to play the quarry in our
hunt tomorrow night. Henry anticipates the event like an excited child and asks me, as he always does, why we cannot have
a female hare. I say, as always, that one day I will arrange it. He must be patient, for such things cannot be planned in
haste.

An emergency call had brought a patrol car to the spot where the young man lay, his face blasted away by lead shot. The fatal
incident – for that is what it was called in the official reports to base – had occurred in a patch of woodland near the village
of Whitely, three miles inland from Tradmouth.

The caller had refused to give his name but he’d spoken between sobs like a man in torment. His exact words were ‘A lad’s
been shot in the woods near Parr’s Farm. You’d better get there quick. I think he might be dead. Oh dear God …’ Then he’d
said no more and the line had gone dead.

Wesley met Gerry at the edge of the woods where the patrol officers were waiting for them. When Wesley had first worked in
the Devon countryside, after several years at the Met, he’d been struck by the impenetrable quality of the darkness. But once
he flicked on his torch, everything
became clearer. Colin Bowman and the crime scene team had already arrived and the two detectives followed the officers into
the trees, making for the distant patch of brilliance where the floodlights had been set up.

In a clearing, brightly lit like a stage set, the corpse was lying on his back, fully clothed in jeans and sleeveless T-shirt.
If his face hadn’t been a bloody mass of gore, he would have looked as though he were asleep.

Colin was bending over the body and he looked up as they approached. ‘He was shot from about six feet away, similar to the
pair over near Catton Hall. But this time most of the shot ended up in his face, poor lad.’

‘Any ID?’ Gerry asked.

One of the constables produced a plastic bag with a small card inside. ‘Membership of a snooker club in Morbay. He had his
phone on him too.’

Wesley took the card from the man and read the name printed on it. ‘Jimmy Yates. Do we know anything about him?’

‘Yes, sir. He’s known to us. Petty stuff. Possession of Class B drugs, shoplifting, burglary, criminal damage. He’s only eighteen.
Someone’s gone to break the news to his mum. She’s known to us and all. A few convictions for soliciting when she was younger,
but nothing for the past five years.’

Wesley’s eyes were drawn to the boy on the ground. He appeared younger than his eighteen years but that was probably because
he was small, around five foot six, and thin. The poor lad had hardly had a good start in life – or a good finish.

‘Has anyone spoken to the people in those cottages we passed down the lane?’ Gerry asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ said the oldest patrol officer. ‘One of the householders said he heard some shooting around 10.20 p.m. – he was
certain of that because he checked the time. About five minutes later he heard the sound of a car engine. Then he heard another
vehicle, and when he looked out of the window he saw a Land Rover shoot past, heading towards the village. He said it had
one of those spotlights on the back. He reckons it was poachers or kids messing about shooting things. Lamping, he said. There’s
a lot of it about and summer evenings bring them all out for a bit of sport.’

Gerry thanked him and returned to Wesley’s side. ‘The shots were heard shortly before the emergency call came in.’

‘Do you think this might be linked to the Catton Hall murders?’

‘Do you?’

Wesley stared at the dead boy. ‘The victims were the same age but that’s about all they seem to have in common. This one was
reported as an accident and no attempt has been made to hide his identity.’

His sister’s talk about the naked manhunts at Catton Hall all those years ago suddenly leapt into his mind. But surely wicked
squires and ghostly hounds were dreamed up to entertain the tourists? For a moment he wondered whether to mention it but he
dismissed the idea and looked at his watch.

‘Let’s go home and get some sleep,’ said Gerry. ‘Briefing first thing tomorrow. Seven o’clock.’

It is often said that tomorrow never comes, but it came all too quickly for Wesley.

When he’d got home the previous night he’d needed to
unwind after encountering Jimmy Yates’s pathetic corpse so he’d finished the bottle of wine. By the time he’d got to sleep
it was almost one o’clock and when the alarm went off at six the next morning he fought a strong temptation to turn over and
go back to sleep, or to snuggle against Pam’s sleeping body and blot out the world for another couple of hours. But as he
left the house and walked down the hill into the heart of Tradmouth, the fresh air on his face woke up his sleepy brain like
a strong helping of caffeine, and when he arrived at the incident room he felt alert and ready to begin another day.

Gerry called the troops to attention at five past seven, armed with a selection of photographs of Jimmy Yates, dead and alive,
which he pinned up on the notice board alongside the other crime scene pictures.

‘James Yates, aged eighteen, commonly known as Jimmy. Address on the Winterham estate on the outskirts of Morbay. Record of
fairly minor offences and the proud possessor of one of the first ASBOs in the Morbay area. No father to speak of; mother
has form for prostitution. Question is, what was he doing lying in a wood with half his face shot away?’

Trish put up her hand. ‘I’ve been thinking, sir. There’s a lot of poaching about. And lamping. Doesn’t Parr’s Farm belong
to that rock star?’

Rachel swivelled round in her chair. ‘Yes. He’s taken to organic farming and become a pillar of the community in his old age.’

‘From drugs and rock and roll to the Parochial church council in one easy step,’ said Gerry.

Rachel pressed her lips together. They were getting sidetracked. ‘I do remember reading that he has a herd of deer.’

Wesley caught on fast. ‘You mean Jimmy was poaching?’

‘It’s possible. But it’s more likely he was out lamping,’ she said. Being a farmer’s daughter, she was the fount of all knowledge
on rural matters. ‘They use lamps to dazzle the animal, then the poor thing’s an easy target. A lad like Jimmy would probably
think nothing of shooting some unsuspecting fox or rabbit like that but serious poaching’s usually done on an industrial scale
these days; they even bring refrigerated lorries along to take the carcasses away and gamekeepers have been threatened. Just
ask any wildlife officer.’

Wesley saw the earnest determination in her eyes. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s a growing problem.’

‘Then why isn’t more being done about it?’

Wesley had no answer for that so he returned to the immediate problem. ‘We know Jimmy wasn’t out alone because someone made
the call. The phone’s being traced, and the location the call was made from.’

‘That fits with the lamping theory,’ said Rachel. ‘He will have been with mates. All they’d need is an old Land Rover with
a spotlight fixed to the back. There were no dead animals near the scene so they’d probably only just begun their evening
when it happened.’

‘Could he have been shot by accident?’ Wesley asked, hoping it was a possibility. With everything they had to deal with, the
last thing he wanted was another murder on his hands.

‘Perhaps. Or maybe there was a falling out.’

‘We need to find out whether there’s any link between Sophie and Barney and Jimmy Yates,’ said Gerry who had been listening
with interest.

‘Surely not.’ It was Paul who spoke. He sounded a little
defensive, as though he was unwilling to acknowledge that his dead cousin might have been tainted by any connection with Jimmy
Yates’s shady world.

‘There are similarities, so we’ve got to check, Paul,’ said Wesley gently.

Paul looked away.

‘We’ve got Tom from scientific support going through the kids’ computers,’ said Gerry. ‘Maybe he should have a look at Jimmy’s
while he’s at it. The lad’s bound to have one that fell off the back of some lorry or other. Anything else?’

Wesley spoke. ‘We need to talk to Richard Catton. He hasn’t called me back so I’m wondering if he’s trying to avoid us for
some reason.’

Gerry pulled himself up to his full height. ‘Right, we’ll corner him today. And all that woodland up at Catton Hall needs
to be searched.’

‘Is anyone still trying Tessa Trencham’s number?’ Wesley asked.

Rachel raised her hand. ‘I’ve left about a dozen messages on her voicemail but no luck yet.’

‘Keep trying,’ Wesley said as he looked out of the window. It was a beautiful morning. Outside he could see the ripples on
the surface of the river glinting like jewels in the sun. Another visit to Catton Hall would break up the day nicely.

There was always a chance that one or more of Barney and Sophie’s former classmates at Corley Grange would be able to throw
light on some secret area of their lives that they hadn’t been willing to share with parents or teachers.

Trish had already interviewed seven of them and she was growing a little tired of being told how ‘great’ and
‘amazing’ the dead pair were. The concept of never speaking ill of the dead had clearly filtered down through the generations.
Or maybe it was something innate in all human beings. Maybe it was a primeval fear that if you angered the dead they could
return and do you harm.

A few of the kids mentioned that Dunstan Price was part of the group Sophie and Barney used to hang around with and therefore
Trish decided to leave him till last.

His address was Bidwell Farm and it was situated between the village of Belsham and the outskirts of Morbay where the grey
industrial units of the business park nibbled away at the open countryside. It wasn’t a million miles from the Winterham Estate
but, driving up the muddy track away from the main road, you’d never have known.

When she drove through the gates she was surprised to discover that this was very much a working establishment. Some of the
other Corley Grange students she’d interviewed had lived at addresses which had ‘farm’ in the title, but these had turned
out to be immaculate farmhouses, improved and extended beyond recognition, with maybe a few acres attached to accommodate
a paddock and spotless stables for a few pampered horses. Their owners had been incomers, mostly from London, who had come
to Devon in pursuit of the rural idyll. But Dunstan’s place was different. A battered Land Rover stood beside an old Nissan.
No top of the range cars here. Here there was real muck, real smells, rusty farm machinery and piles of tyres. The genuine
countryside experience.

She parked her car and picked her way over the muddy cobbles to the front door. The farmhouse windows hadn’t been cleaned
in a while; the frames looked as if they could do with a coat of paint, and Trish found herself wondering
how this place went down with Dunstan’s school friends. Or perhaps he didn’t bring them here. Shame about lack of material
possessions can be a powerful emotion at that age.