The Flesh Tailor (21 page)

‘I’ve been watching the place.’

Something in Carl’s words made warning bells sound in Adam’s head. ‘Why?’

‘You’ll see. I found a way of getting into the grounds. There’s a piece of woodland at the far side of the house. You can
see all the comings and goings from there.’

‘And?’

‘I had these printed off.’ Carl produced a folder and
handed it to Adam. Inside there were twenty or so photographs. They were mostly of people arriving at the main entrance to
the Podingham Clinic. Adam took them over to the lamp and held them in the dim pool of light as he flicked through them.

‘I don’t understand. Why do you think these are important?’

‘Look more closely.’

Adam began to examine them one by one. Some faces featured regularly, presumably staff, and others only once or twice, sometimes
in ones and occasionally in twos, presumably the volunteers paid to test the drugs. The guinea pigs – just as Carl had been
once. ‘Go on, tell me.’

Carl selected another couple of snaps and handed them to Adam. ‘There’s a group of people. What do you notice about them?’

Adam found the relevant picture and stared at it for a while. ‘Don’t know. They arrived in a minibus but the other ones arrived
alone?’

‘The volunteers usually make their own way there. And they’re mostly young and short of cash – students and the like. But
this lot were brought there in a minibus and … well, they just looked different.’

Adam studied the photographs again. Carl was right. There was indeed something different about the group who arrived by minibus.
They were men and women, mostly young but a few were well into middle age. Some looked puzzled, others a little desperate.

‘When I was there the staff were all sweetness and light. Even though they did leave me like this,’ he added bitterly. ‘But
the way they spoke to this lot seemed different, like they were being given orders.’

Adam absentmindedly started to go through the pictures again. And when he spotted a familiar face he stopped. ‘This is Dr
Dalcott.’

‘Hardly surprising. He worked there. If he hadn’t, I might not have ended up like something out of the Night of the Living
Dead.’

Adam frowned. ‘Was Dalcott there when those people in the minibus arrived?’

‘I think so. Why?’

‘Don’t know.’

Carl took the photograph of James Dalcott from Adam’s fingers and tore it into pieces as Adam watched. ‘I don’t want a picture
of that bastard around the place.

He deserved everything he bloody got.’

Adam stared at him for a few seconds. ‘I can’t argue with you there. So why did you call me? What do you want?’

‘Something bad’s going on at the Podingham. I saw a stretcher being loaded into a van and there was a shape underneath a sheet,
completely covered up like a dead body.’ There was a long pause. ‘I’d like to finish that place. I’d like to let everyone
know what goes on there.’

‘Why don’t you tell the police?’

‘The police and I have never seen eye to eye. Besides, knowing them, they’d do me for trespass. Who are they going to believe
– a load of doctors who play golf with the Chief Constable or me? I’ve got form for burglary and handling stolen goods. They’re
just going to say I’ve got a grudge because of …’ His hand fluttered towards his face. ‘Besides, they’ll say that if I’m well
enough to go and spy on the Podingham place, I was well enough to kill Dalcott.’

‘And were you?’

Carl turned away. ‘It’s time you went.’

Wesley’s call was from Colin Bowman. He knew immediately who it was when he heard the pathologist’s cheerful greeting.

‘Just thought you’d like to know that I’ve completed my report on those skeletons. Would you like to come over and get it?’

Wesley looked at his watch. Now that he was working at Neston, Colin’s mortuary wasn’t just a short walk away as it was in
Tradmouth. ‘I’ll come over some time this afternoon. Is that all right?’

‘That’s fine. They do say that November is the month of the dead, don’t they, but I must admit that, apart from poor James
and all these bones Neil’s been digging up, things are a little quiet around here at the moment.’ There was a pause. ‘Actually
Neil called me an hour ago. They’ve just found two more skeletons but Neil’s pretty sure that they’re old.’ He paused. ‘Which
means it’s only the child that’s fairly recent. Strange, don’t you think?’

‘Very.’

Wesley wondered whether to tell Colin there and then what Nuala Johns had said about Simon Garchard and the possibility that
his murderous exploits might be linked to the bones. But he decided against it. He’d tell him face to face.

When he’d ended the call Wesley closed his eyes. More skeletons. He almost wished that Neil would stop looking for them but,
presumably, the Persimmons didn’t want any corpses left in the grounds of their new home to be
unearthed by an unsuspecting workman or gardener at some point in the future.

He felt like getting out of the crowded incident room. It really was too cramped to accommodate all the officers working on
the Dalcott case. And besides, it was modern, soulless, and all he could see out of the window was the traffic flashing past
on the main road through the raindrops on the double glazing.

He suddenly remembered that Trish Walton had cornered him earlier, saying that the boss wanted them both to pay a visit to
Roz Dalcott’s flat in Tradmouth. This suited him fine. The Persimmons would keep. He was about to look for Trish when he saw
Gerry Heffernan looming in the doorway.

‘Wes. A word.’

Wesley followed him out into the corridor.

‘I hear you’ve been chatting up sexy blondes down in Reception.’

‘One sexy blonde. Her name’s Nuala Johns and she’s the journalist who was asking awkward questions at the press conference.’
He summarised their conversation and a smirk spread across Gerry’s plump face.

‘She knows which buttons to press, doesn’t she? All that stuff about this Elizabethan doctor. She’s dangled her bait and now
she’s trying to get you on her hook.’

Wesley had to acknowledge that Gerry was probably right. Nuala had discovered his interest in archaeology and what better
way to reel him in than to tantalise him with a historical mystery? ‘His name was Simon Garchard,’ he said quietly. ‘And there’s
a possibility that he had something to do with the skeletons at Tailors Court. Neil’s found two more, by the way.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. News travelled fast. ‘But there’s one skeleton that definitely isn’t linked to this Simon character
– the kid with the filling. The toy car and the snake buckle have been sent off to the lab but we’re still waiting for the
verdict.’

‘Wonder what the Persimmons think about their garden turning out to be a mass grave?’

‘I don’t think it’s a very good introduction to country life.’ He raised a hand as though he’d just recalled something important.
‘I almost forgot – the results have come back on the samples of cloth I took from the attic at Tailors Court.’

‘Well?’

‘Traces of animal blood, which fits with what Esther Jannings said about her husband experimenting on animals up there.’

‘Sir.’

Wesley looked up to see DC Paul Johnson’s tall athletic body filling the doorway.

‘I’ve been through Harry Parker’s phone records,’ he said. ‘He’s been calling a pay as you go mobile number rather a lot.
I rang it and a man answered. Then I asked if Syd or Brian were there and whoever was on the other end asked who was speaking
– sounded really worried. I said it was the car hire company.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘I just asked if everything was OK with the car. Courtesy call, I said. And I asked them if they were still at the address
in Tradington. They asked me how I got the number and I said it was on our records.’

‘And did they believe you?’

Paul shrugged. ‘I think they fell for it. He said they were still at the address.’

Gerry looked as though he was about to punch the air in triumph. ‘We’ve got him. Harry Parker’s been in contact with Syd and
Brian. He lied to us and that puts him right back in the frame. Anything else?’

‘The phone I rang has been traced to the Morbay area – Banton.’

‘Thanks, Paul. Get in touch with Morbay nick, will you? Ask them to keep a lookout for the car.’

Paul hurried back into the incident room and Gerry followed slowly, Wesley by his side.

They were met by Nick Tarnaby. He stood blocking their way with a sheet of paper in his hand.

‘I’ve talked to Mabel Cleary’s daughter about that letter. She faxed me a copy.’

Wesley had been meaning to follow up the Mabel Cleary lead but he hadn’t had time. He thanked Nick who grunted in reply and
once he’d handed the paper over, he turned on his heels and returned to his desk. Wesley read the letter with Gerry leaning
over his shoulder.

‘So the friend who’s invited her down here is called Pat but no surname and no address.’ Gerry rolled his eyes. ‘How many
Pats do you think live in the Morbay area?’

Wesley didn’t answer.

‘I suppose we could put out an appeal.’

Wesley considered the suggestion. ‘Two girls called Pat and Mabel who were evacuated to Tailors Court during the War. Why
not? It’s the sort of thing local radio and TV does all the time – human interest. No need to mention the skeletons.’

Gerry snorted. ‘Journalists aren’t daft, Wes. As soon as the name Tailors Court’s mentioned …’

‘Then we just say the Tradington area. Do we tell them that Mabel’s daughter thinks she’s gone missing?’

‘That could be the story. Where is Mabel Cleary? I’ll get onto the press office and tell them to contact the local media.’
He looked at Wesley, mischief in his eyes. ‘Unless you want to do it.’

Wesley shook his head. He’d had enough of being the focus of media attention for one week. ‘I’ll leave it to you, Gerry.’
He looked at his watch. ‘It’ll be too late to get it on tonight’s bulletins but we’ll manage tomorrow’s.’

He saw Trish Walton walking towards him, reminding him that it was almost four o’clock – time to go and pay Roz Dalcott and
Harry Parker a visit in Tradmouth. But first he’d call in and see Colin at the mortuary to pick up the report.

Wesley drove the ten miles to Tradmouth with Trish in the passenger seat and parked in the police station car park in what
he’d come to think of as his own space. When he announced that he was going to walk the short distance to the hospital mortuary,
Trish turned a little pale and said she wanted to go up to the CID office to check on a few things. Wesley didn’t argue. Mortuaries
weren’t to everyone’s taste.

It was quite dark as he walked past the boat float and the street lights were reflected golden on the black rippling water.
The shop windows in the High Street looked bright and inviting and Christmas decorations had begun to sprout here and there
amongst the displays like early crops. The Town Council had already strung Christmas
lights across the narrow street although they hadn’t yet been lit. It wouldn’t be long to the Festive Season, Wesley thought
– too much food, over-excited children and Pam exhausted with Christmas productions and parties at school. There were times
when he thought that Scrooge might have had the right idea after all.

When he arrived at the hospital he pushed open the swing doors that led to the mortuary – situated round the back of the building
so as not to alarm the customers.

Colin greeted him with a welcome cup of Earl Grey – just what he needed to keep out the November chill.

‘Your friend Neil obviously thinks I haven’t got enough to do. I’ve just taken delivery of two more skeletons,’ Colin began
in the same casual way as most men would discuss buying a case of wine. ‘One female, probably in her early twenties, and a
youngish man. The female had borne a child. But Neil did have one piece of good news.’

‘What?’

‘You mean he’s not told you?’

Wesley experienced an unexpected pang of disappointment that he hadn’t been the first person Neil chose to share the news
with, whatever it was. But then he’d been busy all afternoon – and Colin had been there at the scene. ‘No. What is it?’

‘He found an Elizabethan coin a couple of inches above one of the new skeletons and he doesn’t think the ground has been disturbed
since the burial.’

‘But the child, Colin. That’s still our problem.’

‘Ah yes, the child. It’s a boy, by the way. The DNA profile’s just come back.’

Wesley sighed. ‘We’ve had someone going through our
records of all missing children over the past seventy years. There are a few possible candidates but …’

‘If the child was buried at Tailors Court, it’s safe to assume that he had some connection with the place. It’s hardly the
sort of location a random killer would choose to dump a body. Too far from the road and, even though you can’t see that particular
spot from the house, it’s still too close for comfort.’

Wesley knew Colin was right. The answer to the puzzle had to lie at Tailors Court. But, much as he’d have liked to concentrate
on the death of the owner of those small, pathetic bones, the shooting of James Dalcott was being treated as more urgent.

‘Want to see the bones? They’re all here,’ Colin said as though he was offering a special treat.

Wesley felt he couldn’t really say no. He followed Colin through two sets of swing doors into a white-tiled room with six
steel trolleys arranged in neat rows. Each trolley was covered by a white sheet and beneath each sheet Wesley could make out
the lumpy shape of a human skeleton. Colin walked round the trolleys folding the sheets to one side to reveal the bones beneath.
The skulls lay there grinning up at them in silent greeting as Colin folded his arms and surveyed the scene.

‘Quite a gathering. The only question is, how did they come to be buried without benefit of clergy in the grounds of Tailors
Court?’

Wesley decided it was time to share what he’d been told about Simon Garchard with the pathologist. He was a medical man after
all, and he’d be able to tell him if what Nuala Johns had told him was nonsense.