The Cadaver Game (35 page)

The light had faded by the time Wesley met Gerry and the others in the car park some distance from Fortress Point. On a summer
day the place was usually packed, but now the only vehicles there belonged to the police.

The Armed Response Unit vehicles made him uneasy. But if Marcus was in possession of a shotgun they had no choice. The boy
was a crack shot, who had played Blood Hunt with enthusiasm and poured out his murderous fantasies on paper. It was hardly
surprising that Marcus had eventually chosen to play the game for real.

After telling the ARU officers to keep out of sight until they were needed, Gerry led the way down the track to the fort.
Wesley walked beside him, cursing the fact that the gravel on the path crunched loudly beneath their feet. They didn’t want
to alert Marcus and alarm him into doing something stupid. They needed to keep things calm and make a quiet arrest.

Keeping their eyes focused ahead, they walked on briskly towards the shadowy, half-ruined buildings perched on the headland.
There was no sign of a vehicle parked near the entrance and Wesley hoped they had arrived first so they would have the advantage
of surprise. But he knew there were plenty of places nearby where a vehicle could be hidden from view.

They crossed the wooden bridge into the fort, passing the fenced-off area where Neil’s team were excavating, but Wesley didn’t
even give it a cursory glance.

A few hundred yards away, beyond a group of low stone buildings – some collapsed shells, others still roofed – the lighthouse
perched on the headland, sent out its bright, pulsing signal to unseen ships, and the beam lit up the fort for a few seconds
before it was plunged into darkness again. It also made them sitting targets for any lone sniper until they took cover.

To their left they could see the distant lights of Morbay glittering across the bay, all that brightness a world away from
this silent, ruined place.

The hollow click of a gun being loaded echoed through the quiet night air. Unmistakable. He was out there. And that place
of shadows would provide abundant shelter for the gunman. They pressed their backs against the rough stonework of the perimeter
wall and moved on further into the heart of the fort. Wesley could hear his heart thumping, sure they were being watched;
or, worse still, stalked by an unseen hunter.

They heard a shot cracking like a whip through the darkness. Wesley couldn’t tell where it came from, but the sound reverberated
around the walls. After a few seconds Gerry grasped his arm. They had to find Marcus but they couldn’t risk becoming his quarry.

Wesley heard a second shot followed by the sound of reloading. By his reckoning, it came from the roofless building near the
centre of the fort. From a previous visit he knew that it had once been an artillery store, and he wondered if the gunman
realised how appropriate his choice of shelter was. They moved closer, keeping to the shelter of the ruined walls and after
another shot rang through the night air, Wesley saw the brief flare of a match or lighter through one of the glassless windows.
He nudged Gerry and pointed at the flitting shadows of the ARU officers who were moving fast to surround the building. Wesley
edged his way along the wall until the doorway came into view.

Then he shouted Marcus’s name.

There was a long silence then the words ‘Piss off,’ drifted over the night air.

‘Come out slowly and put your gun down on the ground. There are armed officers surrounding the building so you’ve got no choice.’

‘Ooh, I’m scared.’ The voice was slurred. The boy was under the influence of something – and that made him unpredictable.

‘Why don’t you come out? We just want to talk to you.’

‘What about?’

‘Barney and Sophie.’

There was another lengthy silence before they heard the boy’s voice again. ‘Do you want to know who killed them?’

‘Why don’t you tell us?’

‘They deserved everything they got. Now go away and let me get on with my target practice.’

‘What do you mean, they deserved everything they got?’ They needed to keep him talking, to establish some sort of rapport.

There was a lengthy silence before the answer came. Wesley could hear the gentle sound of the waves lapping at the base of
the nearby cliff as he held his breath and waited.

‘Barney was going to betray me and I wasn’t going to let him do that.’

‘What about Sophie?’

‘Collateral damage. It happens.’

The words chilled Wesley’s heart. ‘You mean she got in the way.’

There was another long pause. ‘I couldn’t afford a witness, could I?’ The boy’s voice faltered and he suddenly sounded unsure
of himself, a lonely boy cornered like a huntsman’s prey.

‘Why don’t you come with us and we’ll call your father and your solicitor—’

‘I don’t want my father.’

‘Your mother then.’

The next words came out as a raw, primeval cry piercing the darkness. A statement of terrifying pain. ‘My mother’s dead.’

‘What does he mean?’ the DCI whispered, nudging him in the ribs.

Wesley didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the roofless building where the boy was hiding, cowering from the armed, black-clad
huntsmen who were closing in, their rifles aimed at their target.

All of a sudden another gunshot tore through the night and Wesley was aware of the ARU officers edging forward.

‘Go to hell,’ the boy yelled before he let off another shot.

Wesley heard the shotgun being reloaded, then everything went quiet. They stayed quite still, hoping desperately
that he would tire of this game. A match flared again and Wesley caught a whiff of cannabis in the air.

He could hear Gerry breathing beside him, forcing himself to conquer his natural impatience and wait. But it was the only
choice they had if they were all going to come out of this alive.

He saw a sudden movement and a dark figure appeared in the shadow of the artillery store entrance. He could make out the long
shape of a shotgun sweeping round to encompass the ARU officers. He heard the hollow click of weapons being readied and held
his breath, praying that the boy wouldn’t do something stupid.

An ARU officer barked the order. ‘Put your weapon on the floor and come out with your hands up.’

After a brief hesitation the boy let off another shot. Then a second shot followed, almost like an echo, and Wesley watched
as the boy collapsed to his knees and his gun clattered to the floor.

Wesley rushed forward and when he reached the boy who lay still and prone on the cobbled ground, he kicked the weapon out
of his reach, uncomfortably aware that the ARU weapons were trained on him.

He knelt and felt for a pulse. It was there all right but he could see a dark pool of blood on the ground, glistening in the
moonlight. ‘Someone call an ambulance,’ he shouted.

‘Already done,’ Gerry answered, approaching slowly. ‘Is he …?’

Before Wesley could answer, he heard a metallic clatter of something being thrown on the ground followed by frantic shouts
and the sound of running feet. He looked up and, in the lighthouse beam, he saw a figure dodging with the skill of an experienced
rugby player past the ARU officers
who were shouting and trying to block the way. The figure was making straight for them.

‘You’ve fucking killed him,’ it screeched.

Wesley struggled to his feet. ‘Hello, Marcus,’ he said. Then he took his torch from his pocket and squatted down again, turning
the injured boy over to get a proper look at his face.

They walked down the corridor towards the Intensive Care Unit at Morbay Hospital. It was a familiar route, one they’d travelled
many times before when Keith Marsh had lain there, hovering between life and death.

‘He might have been making it all up. He might just be upset about his dad,’ said Gerry.

‘Then why did he fire at us? And what did he mean about his mother being dead?’

‘Hopefully we’ll find out. They say he’ll live. He was lucky they didn’t shoot to kill.’

‘And Marcus was lucky that he dropped his shotgun before the ARU saw it or he might have been shot too.’

When they arrived at the entrance to the ward, they were told that Dunstan Price was unconscious. There was no way he was
up to receiving visitors apart from close family and he was certainly in no state to face police questioning.

His mother, they were told, was at his bedside. The mother who he claimed was dead.

It was Monday morning and Dunstan was stable after undergoing surgery. Wesley and Gerry hoped they’d be able to get past the
protective cordon of medical staff and speak to him, but they’d been told he was still unconscious.

In the meantime Len Price was still in custody, being
given updates on his son’s condition while his wife, Pat, kept her quiet vigil at the bedside.

All they could do for the moment was ensure all their paperwork was in order, and Wesley felt restless. The only items of
interest that had landed on his desk that day were a final confirmation from the lab that the bones in the picnic trench dated
from the early years of the nineteenth century and a notification from the CPS that Alfred Catton wasn’t going to face prosecution
for moving them. For some reason he was relieved that the old man wouldn’t have to undergo the stress of appearing in court.
After all, he hadn’t really done anyone any harm.

The office was hot and stifling and he needed some fresh air, so breaking the good news to Alfred gave him the perfect excuse.

The skeleton’s identity still remained a mystery, but he hoped that Alfred’s researches might provide the answer. He’d wondered
whether to call in at the fort to see Neil while he was over on that side of the river. But when he recalled the events of
Saturday night – the sound of shots bursting through the darkness and the boy collapsed and bleeding on the ground, fighting
for his life – he knew he couldn’t face returning to the place just yet.

When he reached Catton Hall Alfred himself answered the door. He was wearing reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

As soon as he was inside, Wesley broke the news of the CPS’s decision and he saw a look of relief pass across the old man’s
face.

‘That is good news. Thank you for coming in person. I’m sure you must be so busy.’ He paused. ‘I heard there was an incident
up at the fort on Saturday night.’

Wesley gave him an apologetic smile. ‘It’s not something I can discuss just yet, I’m afraid, but you might be able to cast
some light on the identity of that skeleton that caused you all the trouble. Our tests have confirmed that it dates from the
early nineteenth century, and I know you’ve been researching the history of this place.’

As Alfred ushered him along the dimly lit panelled hall, his expression was almost gleeful as though he’d been transfigured
by the prospect of sharing his knowledge with a kindred spirit.

When they reached the library, Wesley perched himself on a rather uncomfortable chair and waited while Alfred rummaged through
a heap of books and papers. Eventually the old man’s lips formed a triumphant smile and he sat back, his hands clasped behind
his head.

‘Imagine yourself back in the time of the Napoleonic wars,’ he began. ‘The owner of Catton Hall in those days lived in his
own little fiefdom, unaware of the Enlightenment and much else that was going on at the time. He even kept a jester.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows.

‘Known as Silly John. According to the vicar of the day he was a nasty piece of work and he organised hunts for his master.
Only the Squire and his cousin, Henry – who is my direct ancestor, by the way – considered hunting foxes rather old hat; they
preferred to hunt human beings. Naked human beings. Usually workers from the estate. There were one or two fatalities, but
because of his almost feudal status nobody dared to complain. In a way it must be rather nice to have that sort of power,’
he added wistfully.

‘Is that where your son and Carl Heckerty got the idea for their hunts from?’

‘Oh, the story of the hunts has been common knowledge around these parts for many years. Henry Catton was reputed to have
made a pact with the devil. He was buried in a caged tomb so that his spirit couldn’t escape, and it’s still said that he
hunts with his pack of ghostly whisht hounds on All Hallows Eve. All rubbish of course and there are enough ghostly hounds
in Devon to fill Battersea Dogs Home three times over. But I digress. The trouble started when a young woman turned up unexpectedly
at Catton Hall. She spoke no English and she was taken for a foreign princess. But it turned out she was just a Devon girl
with a vivid imagination and a lot of chutzpah.’ He chuckled. ‘She had them all fooled. Then one day she was found murdered
and the jester, Silly John, got the blame.’

‘Was he guilty?’

Catton raised a hand. ‘I’ll come to that. The girl’s stepbrother had turned up a few days earlier and shortly after her death
he was killed in one of the hunts.’ He handed an old, leather-bound book to Wesley. After the hunt, the Squire died as a result
of a fall from his horse and he made a full confession. This is the Vicar’s account of events.’ Alfred pointed to the book.
‘If you’re wondering where that body I found in the pets’ cemetery came from, the answer’s in here. Please take it and see
if you come to the same conclusion. But do make sure you return it, won’t you.’

‘Richard says you’re writing a book on the subject.’

‘Yes. A local publisher’s shown an interest. I’ve recently found another volume of the Jester’s journal in the muniment room.
I haven’t read it yet but when I do …’

‘I’d be interested to read your book when it comes out.’

Alfred looked rather gratified. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll get
round to finishing it, but when I do, I’ll make sure you get a copy.’

Wesley thanked him and picked up the old volume carefully. He stood up to go and turned to face Alfred who still sat, half
hidden by his papers. ‘We never did manage to trace Daniel Parsland, you know.’

‘He was a free spirit. He could be anywhere. But it’s all ancient history. Dead and buried.’ He stood up and shook Wesley’s
hand before showing him off the premises, shuffling slowly ahead, chattering inconsequentially.