The Cadaver Game (34 page)

He was about to sit down when Rachel walked into the incident room. He caught her eye and she hurried over to his desk. Her
expression was serious as she pulled up a chair and sat down. He could smell her perfume, the one she always wore. He had
bought Pam a bottle for her birthday.

‘Pat Price knows her husband’s here being questioned,’ he said. ‘But I think someone should speak to her, see if she knows
anything. Do your parents know the family?’ The
Traceys, having farmed in the area for generations, had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the local farming community and it occurred
to Wesley that it might come in useful.

‘I’ve never heard them mentioned. Maybe they keep themselves to themselves. Some people do. Do you believe Price’s story?’

Wesley sighed. ‘I don’t know. He swears he didn’t kill her.’

‘But someone did. And she could have made big trouble for him.’

‘When we asked him if he knew what she did for a living he denied it. In fact, he seemed genuinely shocked.’

‘Maybe he found out and that’s when he lost it.’ She gave him a mischievous smile. ‘Hurry up and get him charged, won’t you.
I could do with a drink tonight.’

‘Even if he admits everything it’s a bit early to be celebrating, and we mustn’t forget that Paul’s lost his cousin.’

Rachel looked a little guilty. She wasn’t usually so thoughtless but the workload was getting to them all. ‘I’ll go and have
that word with Pat Price,’ she said.

He watched as she hurried out of the incident room. When he looked round he saw Paul sitting at his desk. He appeared to be
engrossed in some paperwork but Wesley sensed that his mind was elsewhere.

‘Paul, I’ve got a job for you.’ He scribbled something down on a piece of paper and passed it over to him. ‘Can you check
this out for me?’

Paul took it and gave an earnest nod. ‘OK.’

‘How’s your aunt?’

Paul shook his head. Wesley knew it had been a stupid question. He heard Trish’s voice just behind him. He hadn’t heard her
approaching and the sound made him jump.

‘Sir, I’ve been checking out that artist, Kevin Orford, like the boss asked,’ she said. ‘It turns out he’s got form. Assaulted
a woman five years ago. Domestic. She was his girlfriend and they had a row. She ended up with two cracked ribs. Think it
might be important?’

‘Thanks, Trish. Let the boss know, will you.’ He watched as she walked over to Gerry’s office and knocked tentatively on the
open door, as if she feared some frightful beast might emerge from behind the desk and devour her. Then he began to consider
the implications of what he’d just learned. Orford had a record for violence and if he’d approached the house from the other
direction, away from the CCTV camera’s intrusive gaze, there was a chance he could have gone back. But, on the other hand,
all his instincts told him that something about Price’s story didn’t add up, and he had the best motive of all to murder his
ex-wife.

The phone on his desk began to ring, so he answered it, hoping it was good news. But it turned out to be someone from Uniform,
reporting that there had been a break-in at Jimmy Yates’s house. It had been treated as a routine matter but, in view of Jimmy’s
recent murder, the constable thought that the investigation team should be informed, just in case. Wesley thanked him and
put the phone down, grateful that somebody had used their initiative and made the connection.

He told himself the break-in probably meant nothing. Burglary was a regular occurrence on the Winterham Estate – almost like
postal deliveries and a visit from the bin men. However he decided to send Trish to have a reassuring word with Mrs Yates.
He could rely on her to be sympathetic.

No sooner had Trish left the office than his phone rang again. He took a deep breath and picked up the receiver.

‘Incident room. DI Peterson speaking.’

There was a long silence and he waited patiently. It took some people a while to pluck up the necessary courage to speak to
a police officer. He could hear Gerry’s voice in the background, complaining about somebody’s incompetence. He pressed the
phone closer to his ear and listened.

Eventually his patience was rewarded and he heard a breathless female voice. ‘This is Jodie Carter … Sophie’s friend. I’ve
got something to tell you.’

‘What is it, Jodie?’

‘Sorry, I’ve made a mistake. It’s nothing.’

He heard the dialling tone and stared at the instrument for a while before trying to return the call. But Jodie wasn’t answering.

Whatever had been bothering her, she had lied when she’d told him it was nothing. She’d sounded frightened.

They’d been granted more time to question Len Price and Gerry planned to resume first thing the next morning. The suspect
needed a break, and so did they.

Wesley left for home at eight thirty, but before leaving the station he went down to the custody suite and peeped into Price’s
cell. The man was lying on his mattress with his eyes shut but Wesley had sensed that he wasn’t asleep. If he was charged
with murder he’d have to face the ordeal of the trial and possible life imprisonment for his single act of madness. The sight
of him lying there made Wesley sad.

He left the police station and the town centre, now packed with tourists roaming the streets in search of a restaurant, and
walked back home up Albany Street. When
he passed Dickens’s cottage the lights were on and the blinds were open, but there was no sign of the man; if there had been,
he might have been tempted to stop for another word. He passed that cottage twice a day and each time he was reminded of Marcus
Dexter’s story. But all the evidence against him was circumstantial: they needed something solid if they were to going to
make an arrest. He hoped their luck would begin to change soon.

His walk home in the evening sun gave him a chance to go over the events of the day in his mind. Trish had seemed troubled
when she returned from visiting Mrs Yates. The house had been broken into all right. Mrs Yates had returned from the supermarket
to find a broken back window and a mess upstairs, but as far as she could tell, nothing had been taken. Jimmy’s room had appeared
to be the burglar’s main target. It had been turned upside down; the drawers had been emptied onto the floor, and the contents
of the wardrobe scattered about. Even the mattress had been thrown to one side. If the place hadn’t already been tidied to
within an inch of its life, the chaos would have been a lot worse. But as it was, there hadn’t been much of Jimmy’s left in
there.

Mrs Yates had blamed kids. But Trish could tell that the room had been systematically searched. Somebody had been after something.
Perhaps it was time they had another look through Jimmy’s meagre possessions, Wesley thought. However, that would have to
wait till tomorrow.

The break-in apart, Trish had seemed a little concerned about Mrs Yates’s mental state. She had gone on about her Jimmy being
a good lad – it wasn’t true what some people said about him. When Trish had asked her to explain, Mrs Yates had shaken her
head and said it didn’t matter. But,
Trish knew it mattered deeply to her, because it was at the forefront of her mind at her time of grief.

Rachel too had been rather subdued when she’d returned from Bidwell Farm. Pat Price hadn’t said much. In fact she’d sat there
in silence, giving monosyllabic answers to Rachel’s gently probing questions. Rachel thought that she’d seemed more angry
than distraught, as though Price had gone off to visit his ex-wife just to irritate her. It was hard to predict how people
would react under stress, and having your husband arrested on suspicion of murdering your predecessor must be up there on
the list of all-time stressful experiences. But Pat had been firm about one thing: Len Price might have had a heated quarrel
with Karen, but he wasn’t capable of murder, no matter what the provocation. Rachel hadn’t been sure whether she was trying
to convince the police, or herself.

Dunstan had stayed with his mother throughout her visit, a quiet, watchful presence, and Rachel had been struck by his sudden
maturity, as though he’d realised that Pat might need him now. If Price’s guilt was proved, Dunstan would have to assume the
mantle of ‘man of the house’, which on a farm is an onerous role to fall on young shoulders. Perhaps all his plans to go to
university would have to be put on hold. If so, Wesley couldn’t help feeling sorry for the lad.

And then there were the annoying loose ends. Jodie Carter had sounded frightened when she’d called him and he’d half expected
her to ring back, but there’d been no word. On top of that, Paul hadn’t yet come up with the information he’d asked him to
check out. And that was something he needed to know.

He reached the cul-de-sac of modern detached houses at
the top of the town, all with shiny cars parked in their neat front drives. Kevin Orford would have despised the suburban
scene, he thought, as his own house came into view. But he tried to put work out of his head for the time being. Tomorrow
he would sacrifice his Sunday and return to the incident room, so he resolved to make the most of his leisure time while he
could, even though Jimmy Yates and the two teenagers who’d died at Catton Hall kept intruding into his mind.

Pam came out into the hall to greet him and stood on tiptoe to give him an absent-minded peck on the cheek. ‘How’s it going?’
she asked, a note of anxiety in her voice.

But before he could answer Michael and Amelia burst into the hall.

‘Moriarty’s caught a mouse,’ Amelia announced proudly as he put his arm round Pam and led her back into the living room.

‘It’s what cats do. They’re natural hunters,’ Michael said philosophically. Wesley told him he was right. Sometimes you couldn’t
fight against nature.

The young cat was lying on the sofa, exhausted by her murderous efforts. He picked her up and when he sat down in the space
she’d warmed for him, she punished him for the disturbance by sinking her claws into his leg and purring loudly.

The remainder of their evening was uneventful apart from a drunken phone call from Pam’s mother, Della, saying how much she
was missing the children. Pam had taken the call and Wesley had watched her listen to her mother’s excuses, her face expressionless.
Pam wouldn’t back down. She didn’t want her children exposed to her wayward mother’s influence any more; to her unsuitable
boyfriends and her habit of downing a full bottle of wine while babysitting. She’d overstepped the mark on too many occasions
and Pam’s patience was exhausted. When she’d finished the call he said nothing. It was up to mother and daughter to be reconciled
in their own time – but Wesley felt a small pang of guilt that he wasn’t in any hurry for that to happen.

By half past ten he was completely relaxed and anticipating a good night’s sleep. But the insistent ringing of his mobile
phone put paid to all that and he sat up straight, suddenly alert.

‘It’s Jodie Carter,’ said a breathless voice on the other end of the line. ‘Sophie’s friend.’ The explanation was unnecessary.
Wesley remembered all too well who she was – and he thought the use of the word ‘friend’ wasn’t entirely accurate: there hadn’t
been much love lost between the two girls.

‘I was expecting you to call back earlier,’ he said. ‘Look, can this wait till tomorrow?’ He looked at Pam and saw that she
was frowning with disapproval.

‘No. I think he’s going to do something stupid.’

‘Who?’

Silence.

‘If it’s important, tell me now and maybe I can do something about it.’

Another long silence followed and he was afraid she’d changed her mind. Perhaps he shouldn’t have tried to put her off. He
was relieved when he heard her voice again.

‘Marcus said he wasn’t up at Fortress Point on the night Sophie and Barney were killed, but now he’s admitted he was. It’s
not far from Catton Hall.’

‘OK. Slow down. What was he doing at Fortress Point?’

‘He sometimes takes one of his dad’s guns up there to do
some target practice. He told me he’s going up there again tonight. I thought you should know.’

‘Why’s that?’ Wesley’s heart was beating a little faster.

Jodie hesitated, then the words came out in a rush. ‘He had that big bust up with Barney and … I think he killed them.’

‘You’ve done the right thing telling me, Jodie,’ he said. ‘Leave it with me. And Jodie?’

‘What?’

‘Don’t get it into your head to go up there, will you?’

The line went dead, and Wesley stared at the phone for a few moments before replacing the receiver. Then he made another call.
He needed to speak to Gerry.

The Jester’s Journal

31 July 1815

He was making for the hall, and we ran him to earth by the wall that separates the rose garden from the wilder parts of the
Squire’s land. I surmised that he was heading for the stables to fetch his clothes and flee, but now the hounds had him trapped
as he searched for the gate that would lead to freedom.

We had him there at bay, the hounds barking and baring their teeth, awaiting their master’s orders. Our hare cowered at the
foot of the wall, breathless and exhausted, shielding his face as though he expected blows to rain down upon him. I dismounted
and shooed the hounds away before stepping forward to grab the man’s hair, and when I looked up at Henry I saw his eyes shining
with anticipation.

‘Shall he be shown mercy?’ I called out.

‘No mercy,’ the Squire cried.

Humphrey had been hanging back but now he brought his horse nearer. ‘We have had our sport. I say mercy.’ There was a tremor
in his voice, as though, despite his warlike occupation, he had no stomach for what was to come.

Henry grabbed the reins of his mount and began to lead him away as the Squire signalled me to take the cudgel from my belt
and prepare for the climax of our entertainment.

As I brought the instrument down on our quarry’s trembling limbs, his screams pierced the night air, mingling with Henry’s
laughter as he drew his sword and made deep cuts in the pale flesh while his victim squealed for mercy. And as I raised my
cudgel to dash out our quarry’s brains, I heard the voice of the Squire urging me on. He was not to be denied his vengeance.