The Cadaver Game (20 page)

‘Names?’

‘The artists were Ralph Button, Bobby-Jo Henchard and Daniel Parsland. The first two are still about on the art scene, but
Daniel seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. As for the locals who helped out with the digging, I can’t tell
you their names, but I remember Richard Catton was there. I had a PR girl called Cassandra at the time but I’ve no idea what
became of her.’

‘Thanks. I’ll need the contact details for your artist colleagues.’

‘My PR people will find them for you. I’ll get them to email them through.’

As Wesley handed Orford his card, he noticed that the artist’s hand was shaking a little and beads of sweat were forming on
his forehead.

When Wesley’s phone rang, Orford looked relieved, as though he’d been let off some imaginary hook. He hurried away, almost
breaking into a run, in his desire to put some distance between him and the police. Wesley answered his phone and heard Gerry’s
voice.

‘There’s been a development.’

Wesley saw that Neil was watching him intently. He turned away. ‘What sort of development?’

‘Scientific support have got into this Blood Hunt the kids were playing and you’ll never guess what.’

‘Surprise me.’

‘One of the scenarios in the game has a naked kid being chased by hunters around a wood. And when they catch him, he gets
blasted with a shotgun and fails to reach the next level. Sound familiar?’

It sounded familiar all right. Perhaps Barney and Sophie had just failed to reach the next level in Carl Heckerty’s game.

The Jester’s Journal

26 June 1815

Yesterday morning, before dawn, we buried Robert in a small clearing in the woods. It is strange to think that he will lie
there in the cold earth and nobody will ever know of his fate.

The heat affects me sorely, so that I can do nothing but lie beneath a tree and dream of novel ways to entertain my master
and his cousin. However, I fear the Squire has lost interest in my antics as he now simpers after my Lady Pegassa, as though
he would like to pull her strange and colourful plumage from her body. I tell him that she teases him and takes him for a
fool, and that it is only I who am permitted to be a Fool at Catton Hall. Yet he ignores my warnings and continues to dote
upon his prodigy.

Robert’s brother called upon the Squire today, demanding to know the lad’s whereabouts. He says he will not rest until he
has found his brother and if the clod is bent on causing trouble, he must be dealt with.

There are many ways to silence a man. It is merely a matter of selecting the correct method for the occasion.

The Steward’s Journal

30 June 1815

I tried to communicate with the Lady Pegassa today, but her inability to converse in the English tongue rendered the task
impossible. She seems afraid of someone or something and I must endeavour to discover the cause of her trepidation.

The parson, a scholarly man who knows much of geography and nature, has attempted to discover where she is from, but to no
avail. In the Squire’s absence he has visited often with maps and illustrations of strange tribes and artefacts, but none
seem familiar to the lady. His latest theory is that she is from some ship that sailed to the port of Tradmouth from the East
Indies. He believes that she came ashore and became lost, finding herself somehow on the wrong side of the River Trad. He
believes she is a highborn lady of her people, but who her people may be, he cannot say.

I think often of that kiss she gave me. Perhaps it is a custom of her tribe – a display of gratitude perhaps? Yet, as I lie
in bed, I think of her lips and I am unable to sleep for the anticipation of sin. I must be strong.

The gardener tells me that Robert has absented himself
from his labours since the night of the hunt. I made enquiries of his friend Nathaniel but he is afraid to speak openly, saying
only that Robert has gone away to the house of Henry Catton to tend his garden there. I saw the Squire’s cousin leave on horseback,
but I did not see Robert go with him.

There seems to be much fear in this house, and I feel it my duty to discover its true cause.

First thing on Wednesday morning, Richard Catton bent down to pick up the letter that lay on the fraying coir door mat. It
was a bill. It was always bills these days, and the old man was oblivious to it all.

Getting the holiday park up and running again was all that stood between the Cattons and bankruptcy. If it didn’t happen,
they wouldn’t survive. And now the discovery in the field had thrown Richard’s unsettled world into further turmoil.

His father was still in bed. Later he’d be in the library surrounded by his old documents, working on the book that had become
his obsession. If he’d put half the effort into running Catton Hall that he put into his writing and research, the estate
might not be in such dire straits. But to Alfred Catton, the past was a friendlier place: a time when the Squire was ruler
of his domain and banks and taxmen knew their place.

Richard looked at the letter in his hand; a plain brown envelope with a window for the address, so unlike the brief messages
of affection he’d received during his relationship with Daniel. Those envelopes had been deckle-edged and the colour of Devon
cream, and his name had been inscribed in beautiful calligraphy because Daniel was an artist whose talent had governed everything
he did. Daniel had told him that Kevin Orford was a fraud, a con-man with scant talent and an eye on the bottom line. He had
claimed that Orford was jealous, and that was why he’d edged him out of the project. At the time the fact that he’d walked
out of the situation had made complete sense. But Richard had always wondered why he hadn’t confided in him, and why he’d
gone without saying goodbye.

When Richard learned that Orford was returning, he’d hoped for news of Daniel. But although Orford swore he knew nothing,
Richard could tell he was on edge, as though he was in possession of some terrible secret.

Since the discovery of the skeleton, he’d lain awake each night going over the events of that distant summer in his mind –
every moment, every word. Daniel had vanished around the time the picnic had been buried in the ground and he hadn’t heard
from him since.

Now he needed to know what had happened to him. And why the man who’d introduced him to love had abandoned him without a word.

At the morning briefing, Gerry said they needed to speak to Sophie and Barney’s friends again – the ones who’d played Blood
Hunt on their computers.

Rachel and Trish had already visited Marcus Dexter, and they knew each other well enough to sit in amicable silence
during the journey to Jodie Carter’s house on the outskirts of Neston. They drew up outside a large stone building that had
once been a farmhouse but, unlike at the farm where Rachel had grown up, there was no muddy machinery on display, no pervasive
smell of slurry and no sound of lowing cows, clucking chickens and barking sheep dogs. This place smelled of money rather
than muck.

The only concession to rural living seemed to be the new-looking stable block that stood to one side of the house. Rachel
could also see a paddock and a large ménage, set with jumps of varying height and difficulty. Rachel had ridden when she was
younger – she had even been a regular at local gymkhanas – but the facilities at her parents’ farm were nothing like the ones
she saw here. Her jumps had been cobbled together in one of the meadows out of wood and old tractor tyres found lying around
the farm.

Trish rang the doorbell, pressing it three times as if to emphasise the importance of their visit, and the door was opened
by a girl with a pixie face, poker-straight dark hair and tight jeans which emphasised her thinness. She looked at the newcomers
with studied boredom for a few seconds before standing aside to let them in.

It was Trish who did the talking while Rachel took in her surroundings. The floor was marble and the sweeping staircase was
thickly carpeted. Jodie led them through to a palatial kitchen where a large shocking-pink Aga occupied what had once been
a fireplace, and invited them to sit on a pair of tall bar stools by the granite counter.

‘I’ve already told the police everything I know.’ Jodie folded her arms and looked Rachel in the eye, daring her to contradict.

But Rachel wasn’t going to be put off by a kid with attitude. ‘I know, but we need to talk to you again.’

‘You’ve been to see Marcus, haven’t you?’

‘You’ve spoken to him?’

Jodie glanced at the tiny mobile phone she’d placed on the counter in front of her. ‘Yeah.’

Rachel knew that in the age of instant communication it was too much to hope that their visit would take Jodie by surprise.
‘So you’ll know what we’re going to ask.’

‘About the hunt.’

‘That’s right. I believe you’ve taken part in the hunts at Catton Hall yourself?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You didn’t mind being chased around with no clothes on?’ said Trish.

‘It was a bit scary at first, but it was a laugh. We got a hundred quid a time and the dogs who hunted us were really cute.
I love dogs.’

‘What about the men who hunted you?’

‘The Game Master made sure none of them stepped over the line, if you know what I mean. And I was with Marcus and Dun.’

‘You play Blood Hunt on your computer?’

‘It’s just a game.’ She sounded a little unsure of herself.

‘In the game a character is shot exactly like your friends were.’

For a split second a flash of panic appeared in Jodie’s eyes. ‘So?’

‘We think their deaths might be connected with the game.’

‘I don’t know anything about how they died. I wasn’t there.’

‘We never said you were,’ said Trish. She allowed a moment of silence before she asked her next question. ‘Could any of your
other friends have gone there that night?’

‘What did Marcus say?’ The question was cautious.

‘He said he was in his room all night. His parents were out so he’s got nobody to vouch for him.’

When they’d spoken to Marcus, Rachel had known he was lying because he’d changed his story rapidly as soon as Trish mentioned
that they were able to trace what websites he’d been using. Rather than being on his computer all evening, he’d claimed he’d
spent the time reading. She hadn’t believed a word of it, and now they needed Jodie to fill in the blanks.

She held her breath and waited, watching Jodie fidget with her phone. ‘Two of your friends have been killed. Don’t you want
whoever did it to face justice?’

‘You don’t rat on mates,’ Jodie said, pressing her lips together in a stubborn line.

‘Not ratting on your mates is OK at school, Jodie. But this is different. This is murder.’

Jodie’s hand went to her throat and suddenly the confident young woman became a frightened little girl. ‘I don’t want to have
to say anything in court.’

‘I’m sure it won’t come to that,’ Rachel said, rather surprised at the smooth way she was able to bend the truth. ‘Why don’t
you tell us what you know?’

Jodie breathed deeply, staring at her phone. Rachel waited for the decision to be made, hoping it would be the one she wanted.

‘Marcus fancied Sophie. More than fancied, he was obsessed with her. He used to follow her round, but she
wasn’t interested. Then she started going out with Barney and …’

‘And what?’

‘Him and Barney had a fight. Marcus just went for Barney and a couple of the other lads had to pull them apart.’

‘When was this?’

‘The last week at school, just before we finished for the summer. Look, I don’t want to get Marcus into trouble. He’s a bit
hot-headed but he wouldn’t actually—’

‘You’re probably right,’ said Rachel with a reassuring smile. ‘But we’ll still have to speak to him about it. Do you know
if Marcus has ever used a shotgun?’

Rachel saw the colour drain from the girl’s face. ‘His dad has an estate near Dukesbridge and he runs shooting weekends for
people from London – business people. Marcus helps out and teaches them how to shoot and all that. He says some of them are
really useless, haven’t a clue.’

Rachel slid off the stool and slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘Thanks, Jodie, you’ve been a great help. You weren’t in touch
with Marcus on the night Sophie and Barney died, by any chance?’

Jodie shook her head. ‘I was talking to another mate on Facebook, but when I tried Marcus he wasn’t there.’

Rachel saw Trish give the girl a sympathetic look.

‘We’ll be in touch,’ she said.

And as she left, Rachel felt she’d just been party to a betrayal.

‘We’ve finished all the crime scene stuff and the police have given us the go-ahead to continue the dig.’

Neil thought the news would cheer Kevin Orford up, but
the artist’s face remained solemn and it was a while before he broke his silence. ‘Have they any idea who it is?’

‘We know it’s a male and he was probably in his mid to late twenties when he died.’ He paused, watching Orford’s face and
wondering why he looked so uneasy. ‘You were here when the trench was filled in. You must have some idea how he got there.’

Orford looked away and shook his head.

‘You disappeared sharpish when it was found.’

‘I … I was in shock.’

‘Your colleagues, were they in shock as well?’

Orford looked up at Neil, as though he’d just realised he was being gently mocked. ‘Anybody who isn’t in the habit of digging
up human remains would have found the whole business disturbing.’

Neil could see Orford’s fellow artists approaching over the field, each carrying a folding chair that they set down in silence.
They sat in a row, almost in the same position they had occupied before the discovery of the bones had upset their carefully
staged tableau. When the cameras came out again, Neil straightened himself up. He was on show.

He was about to resume digging when he saw Richard Catton approaching across the grass, making straight for Orford and his
seated line of friends with a look of intense determination on his face.