The Cadaver Game (21 page)

‘Kevin. I need to speak to you – urgently,’ said Catton as soon as he was within earshot.

Neil saw Orford’s face turn as pale as his wild shock of hair. He then hurried over to Catton who grabbed his elbow and led
him across to the other side of the field. Neil strained to hear what they were saying, but failed. Then the
conversation became more animated and Neil could make out every word.

‘Where’s Daniel?’

‘He went away.’

‘Why hasn’t he been in touch?’

He couldn’t make out Orford’s reply.

Carl Heckerty had been brought in late the previous afternoon. When Wesley and Gerry had questioned him, his solicitor had
been present, intervening every now and then when he felt boundaries were being overstepped.

Heckerty claimed that he hadn’t noticed any resemblance between the deaths of Sophie and Barney and the incident in the Blood
Hunt level where the losing player was shot dead. Game over. Wesley didn’t believe a word of it. And yet he kept asking himself
why the man would emulate a game of his own devising. It had only drawn attention to him. Unless it was some clever double
bluff.

He had an uneasy feeling that there was something he was missing about Carl Heckerty, a question he needed to ask. And halfway
through the interview, he’d suddenly realised what it was. ‘Did the kids have anything on you?’

Heckerty had pretended not to understand the question and Wesley had rephrased it several times before he finally got an answer.

‘No way,’ he’d said. ‘Those kids looked up to me. I’m their Game Master and we’re all good mates.’ Then a wary expression
had passed across his face. ‘Have any of them said anything?’

Wesley hadn’t answered. None of the kids involved in the games either online or in real life had said anything to
incriminate Heckerty in any way. On the contrary, they’d spoken of him as some kind of hero.

However, in his opinion, there was bound to be something dodgy about a man who encouraged young girls to prance naked through
woods, pursued by a gang of testosterone-filled males. But maybe he was allowing his own prejudices to cloud his judgement.
They had nothing on Heckerty apart from vague suspicions, and as he’d met all the conditions of his bail they’d had to let
him go.

The next morning Wesley sat in Gerry’s office picking over the details of Heckerty’s statement and examining the pictures
of Orford’s original Feast of Life which had been emailed through, as promised, when Gerry’s phone rang. Gerry looked tired
– more than tired, despondent – but the call from the constable on duty at Morbay Hospital brought a fresh sparkle to his
eyes. Keith Marsh was finally fit to talk to them.

During the long drive to Morbay Hospital, their spirits were buoyed up by the prospect of learning the truth about the dead
woman in Lister Cottage. She had remained an enigma for too long.

Marsh had been moved from Intensive Care to a High Dependency ward, a step in the right direction towards recovery. They were
relieved to find that Anne Marsh had gone out for some fresh air, as they knew Marsh would probably talk more freely if his
wife wasn’t there to hear. When they walked into the ward the patient was dozing, but as they dragged seats over and sat themselves
down by the bed, his eyes slowly opened.

‘Do I know you?’ The patient spoke in a hoarse, puzzled whisper.

It was Gerry who made the introductions and asked how
the patient was feeling. Then, when the niceties were over, he came to the point of their visit.

‘Last Friday you reported the death of a woman at an address in Morbay. This was a few hours before your accident. You didn’t
give your name but we traced the call to your mobile phone.’ Marsh lay there, staring up at the ceiling and Wesley could see
a tear creep out of the corner of his eye and trickle down past his ear onto the white hospital pillow, leaving a small wet
patch. ‘When our officers went to the address on St Marks Road they found a woman’s body. She’d been dead about a week and,
because of the warm weather, the body had decomposed, so identification’s been a problem. We were hoping you could help us.’

They waited for what seemed like an age then Gerry spoke again. ‘Did you hear me, Mr Marsh? We need to know about the woman
you found.’

Marsh turned his head, slowly and painfully. ‘Her name was Evie.’ He spoke in a rasping croak as if each word was an effort.

‘Evie Smith?’

‘You don’t get to know their surnames.’

Wesley looked at Gerry. ‘You mean she was a working girl?’

‘For God’s sake, don’t tell my wife. She has no idea that I …’

When all those condoms were found in the bedside drawer, Wesley had suspected that their victim had been in the throes of
a passionate relationship. But now they knew that the passion had been purely professional. He wondered if Tessa Trencham
knew how her house-sitter made a living.

‘Can you tell us what happened?’

‘I told my wife I was flying to Germany from Manchester Airport the Friday before last, but instead I drove down here to see
Evie.’

‘How long have you known her?’ Gerry asked.

‘About six months. Barry, one of my colleagues who’d been down here on business, recommended her. I got in touch with her
when I had to spend a week down in Plymouth.’

He began to cough a little. Wesley helped him to sit up and poured him a glass of water from the jug on the bedside trolley.
Marsh took it gratefully and sipped the liquid until he was ready to start again.

‘Evie listened to me … took an interest. I suppose I fell in love with her a bit, and I started visiting her whenever I could.
Anne’s busy with her own life and Evie became a habit I couldn’t break.’

‘So what happened when you visited her the Friday before last?’

There was a long silence before he answered. ‘We spent that Friday night together, and early the next morning I drove over
to Heathrow to catch my flight and left the car in the airport car park. I’d promised to visit her again on my way back from
Germany – I was going to drive up the M4, make a detour to Morbay, then drive back up north. Last Friday I went to the house,
as arranged, and when I couldn’t get an answer I was a bit worried – I mean, you hear of all sorts of things happening to
women in her line of business, don’t you?’

‘How did you get into the house?’ Wesley asked.

‘I knew she kept a spare key under the flower pot by the front door and when I got inside, the smell hit me. And
when I heard the flies, I knew something was terribly wrong.’ Another tear trickled down his cheek. ‘I went upstairs and found
her … like that … and I called the police to say she was there, but I didn’t leave my name because I didn’t want to get involved.
Then I went to the pub and had a few drinks to steady my nerves. I shouldn’t have driven, of course I shouldn’t. But then
I had the accident, and you know the rest.’

‘We need you to tell us everything you know about Evie,’ said Gerry. ‘Did she ever talk about herself? Did she ever mention
her children at all?’

‘Children? No. Did she have children?’ Marsh sounded quite shocked, as though the thought that his lady of the night could
be a mother was quite alien to him.

‘The house was rented by a Tessa Trencham. Did Evie ever mention her?’

‘She never mentioned anybody. She was a good listener and we talked about me most of the time. But she had only just started
to use that house and she said it was temporary. When I first met her she was living in another place nearby.’

‘We’ll need that address,’ said Wesley. He needed something – anything – that might give them access to the secret that was
Evie’s life.

‘Twenty-three Roly Walk. It was a two bedroomed town house. Nice little place. Very quiet street.’

‘Did she tell you why she left that address?’

‘Something about the lease running out.’

Marsh lay back on his pillow and turned his head away.

‘Did you kill her, Mr Marsh?’ Gerry asked. ‘Did it finally dawn on you that you weren’t the only one enjoying her services?
Did the thought of other men in her bed make
you lose control? She was strangled. Typical crime of passion, I’d say.’

‘You don’t understand. It wasn’t like that.’

At the sound of his raised voice a nurse appeared from nowhere, bearing down on them with an avenging fury. But before she
could scold them for disturbing her patient, the two policemen stood up.

‘We’ll be in touch, Mr Marsh,’ said Gerry as they left the ward.

The Jester’s Journal

23 July 1815

The Lady Pegassa is still with us, pampered and ogled by local society. When I suggested she should take part in our entertainments,
the Squire boxed my ears. How I long for the day when my master tires of the novelty and turns her out to shift for herself,
but I must be patient and bide my time.

This day I observed the Lady out walking in the gardens and watched from behind a bush as she issued forth a scream and ran
back to the house, as though the devil himself was after her. My curiosity aroused, I made haste to discover what had so alarmed
her and I came upon a man lurking in the trees. He was a handsome, dark-haired man of some twenty-five summers – hardly the
sort to inspire fear in the heart of a woman – but I thought he might be
some thief come to rob us, so when he hurried away I followed him, moving with great stealth.

He came to the stream and as he bent down to take a drink I saw that his clothes were dirty and ragged, as though he had been
sleeping out of doors. After a time I revealed myself, and he seemed most shocked for he had thought himself alone and unobserved.
He gazed upon me with terror, but when I assured him that it was not my intention to betray his presence to my master, his
fear diminished and I ventured to ask him his business.

At first his manner was guarded, but soon he began to talk freely, revealing that Pegassa was his stepsister – the daughter
of the man his mother had wed some two years since – and the girl was, as I suspected, no foreign princess, but a stonemason’s
daughter from Exeter. This man had, he claimed, visited Catton Hall some weeks ago but had been told that his stepsister was
not here. Then he searched the country round about and received word of a young foreign lady at the hall who matched his stepsister’s
description precisely. According to this stepbrother, her name is plain Peggy and she has always been in possession of an
adventurous spirit. How I laughed at her bold deception. I believed the truth of his tale, but there would be no entertainment
in a simple reunion between brother and wayward sister. Perhaps I will persuade him to stay, for Henry returns tomorrow and,
while we are blessed with fine nights, he is keen to hunt again and if one of our hares was to stumble, it would be as well
to have a ready replacement to hand.

When I gave the man leave to sleep in the stables, he asked me to say nothing of our conversation to Pegassa. Perhaps I do
not believe his story after all.

Wesley had obtained the address of the anonymous caller who reported the shooting of Jimmy Yates. The phone was registered
to a Craig Walker who lived near Jimmy on the Winterham Estate.

Even police dogs were known to patrol in pairs on that particular estate, but as everyone in the incident room was busy with
their investigations, he had no choice but to go alone.

Walker lived in a small pebble-dashed council semi with a dirty white UPVC front door. An old Land Rover with a spotlight
fixed to the back stood in a paved front garden where the weeds poking up between the concrete slabs provided the only hint
of greenery.

It was the school holidays and a gang of hooded kids was hanging around the patch of sparse grass opposite Walker’s house.
Wesley could almost feel their eyes watching him. A well-dressed black man was a rarity in their part of the
world. From the hostile stares, he guessed that they knew he was police. He just hoped all his tyres would still be inflated
when his visit was over.

He knocked on the door and after half a minute it opened to reveal a small man, thick-set, like a pit bull terrier, with a
shaved head and an entertaining array of tattoos.

‘Mr Walker?’ Wesley held out his warrant card for the man to inspect.

Walker didn’t answer. He just stood aside to let him in, looking like a man who was resigned to his fate, whatever that was.
He led Wesley through to a small room with the sort of busy floral wallpaper that was the height of chic back in the 1980s
and a pair of cream leather sofas too large for their surroundings. The effect was claustrophobic and the decor did nothing
to relieve Wesley’s incipient headache. But he took out his notebook and sat down when invited.

‘We’re here about a call we received reporting the shooting of Jimmy Yates. It came from a phone registered to you.’

Walker sat down on the sofa opposite, head bowed, the picture of repentance. Wesley waited for the man to speak and after
a while his patience was rewarded.

‘Look, I admit I made the call. But I never shot him.’

‘Tell me exactly what happened?’

Walker leaned towards him like a penitent making his confession. ‘Me and Jimmy were out that night doing a bit of lamping,
shooting vermin and that. Just for a laugh. Just for sport.’

‘Do you do this often?’

‘Oh yeah. And before you ask, I’ve got a licence for my gun. Proper cabinet and all that.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ said Wesley soothingly. ‘Go on.’

‘Well Jimmy had already bagged a couple of rabbits and put them in the Land Rover, and he’d just wandered off for a piss when
I spotted a fox and fired, but I reckon I missed and it got away. I knew Jimmy was somewhere nearby but I couldn’t see him
’cause he’d gone into the trees. I think I might have heard him say something but I can’t be sure about that. Then I saw the
fox again. It was limping, so I must have winged it. Anyway, I shot at it again and then I heard this sort of yelp. I thought
it was the fox at first but when I looked it wasn’t there, so it must have got away again. I’ve been going over and over what
happened in my head and now I reckon I might have heard a second shot – like someone had fired a moment after I did. You see,
at first I thought I’d shot Jimmy by accident, but when I saw the state of him … I was using a .22 rifle and I could tell
he’d been killed with a shotgun, so there was no way it could have been me.’