The Flesh Tailor (36 page)

Gerry leaned back in his chair, an impish grin on his face. ‘OK. I just fancy some fresh air and a trip out to Cornwall will
do nicely. Pity the weather’s not better. Have you spoken to Otto Kramer yet? You got his number from Pat, didn’t you?’

Wesley performed a swift calculation in his head. Where Kramer lived was five hours behind the UK so he was bound to be up
and about by now. He found the number, punched it out and waited. Eventually the phone was answered by a woman and when Wesley
introduced himself and asked for Professor Kramer the answer was yes. He was in luck.

‘Hello, Inspector Peterson. Otto Kramer speaking. How may I help you?’ said a deep transatlantic voice that sounded surprisingly
youthful. In Wesley’s imagination he was speaking to a slightly older version of the dark-haired boy in the school photograph
but he knew Kramer was in his seventies and probably suffering all the usual indignities of age.

Otto Kramer sounded interested rather than wary as Wesley gave a brief outline of the situation, wishing he could see the
man’s expression. When he’d finished there was a long silence.

‘Hello, Professor. Are you still there?’

‘Yeah. It’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all.’

‘I know. And I’m sorry to rake it all up again. It must have been a difficult time for you and your father.’

There was another silence. ‘Yeah. We were the only members of the family to escape from the Nazis. My mom and my sisters,
they –’ His voice cracked with emotion. ‘They were taken to Belsen and …’

Wesley looked up and saw that Gerry was watching him. He turned away. ‘I’m sorry’ was all he could think of to say but it
seemed so inadequate.

He heard Kramer sigh. ‘Life goes on, I guess. So what is it you want to know, Inspector?’

‘A lady called Pat Beswick gave me your number.’

‘I’ve been in touch with Pat by e-mail. How is she?’

‘She seems very well. As I said, we’re investigating the murder of a local doctor – name of James Dalcott. We’ve discovered
that his mother was one of your fellow evacuees – she lived at Tailors Court and her name was Belle Haslem. She had a cousin
called Charlie who apparently disappeared in 1943. You remember a girl called Mabel Fallon at Tailors Court?’

‘Sure. I remember Mabel. When Pat arrived they became great buddies.’

‘Mabel told us you were with her when she saw Belle and a man called Miles Jannings behaving suspiciously. This was around
the time Charlie Haslem vanished.’

‘That’s right,’ Kramer said tentatively. ‘I don’t remember Mabel being with me – although it was a long time ago. But I certainly
saw them with a wheelbarrow. There was something in it, something heavy.’

‘A body?’

There was a moment of horrified hesitation. ‘I never thought it was anything like that at the time. The place was full of
heavy stuff. Sacks of feed and …’

‘I believe Belle Haslem made certain threats to make sure you kept the information to yourself.’

There was another silence. ‘If you’ve talked to Mabel, then you’ll know what Belle was like.’

‘Yes. But I wondered whether you could tell us anything more. Did you have much to do with Belle or Charlie?’

‘I knew them but I can’t say I had much to do with them. Belle wasn’t the friendliest of kids and I recall that Charlie was
more interested in hanging out with that soldier guy from the house than in mixing with the rest of us.’

‘Miles Jannings?’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘Did Belle hang round with Miles too?’

‘Sometimes. Knowing her, she probably thought he’d be useful to her in some way. She was like that.’

‘Nobody seems to have a good word for Belle.’

‘No,’ was the enigmatic reply.

‘She was murdered in 1957. Her husband was convicted and hanged.’

Wesley couldn’t quite make out the reply but it sounded something like ‘It doesn’t surprise me.’ But then if Belle had threatened
and bullied the young refugee, the news of her death would hardly come as an unwelcome shock.

‘What can you tell me about Charlie?’

When he answered he sounded as though he was choosing his words carefully. ‘I remember he was an odd kid. He caught this field
mouse once and he started killing it, very slowly. In the end I snatched it from him and put the poor thing out of its misery.
I used to hear that he did
things to other animals. I tended to keep well away from him.’

‘Of course,’ said Wesley with feeling. ‘Had he any distinguishing features? Anything unusual about him?’

‘Come now, Inspector.’ Wesley could hear a smile in Kramer’s voice. ‘It was a long time ago. He didn’t have two heads or anything
– he was just an ordinary kid. I remember he had curly blond hair – a bit girly-looking, I guess.’

‘What happened when Charlie vanished?’

‘I’m not sure, to tell the truth. One day he was there and the next he wasn’t. Belle said he’d been found another billet.’

‘Did you ever think that the thing Miles was carrying in the wheelbarrow could have been Charlie’s body?’

Wesley heard a sigh on the other end of the line. ‘I didn’t think so at the time. And I was a refugee, Inspector. When you’re
in that situation you learn not to ask too many awkward questions – especially when someone threatens to tell lies about you.
I had no reason to disbelieve Belle when she said Charlie had left the village and I didn’t make waves.’

‘Just one more thing, Professor. Did you hear anyone talking about a man called Simon Garchard who’d owned Tailors Court back
in the sixteenth century?’

‘Now that I do know about.’ Wesley could almost feel the relief at the change of subject. ‘The man we were billeted with was
a local historian. He told us all about Simon Garchard – my father was a doctor, of course, so he thought he’d be interested.’

‘Did you share the story with your school friends?’

The professor thought for a moment. ‘Yeah. I remember it gave me some cachet with my classmates.’

‘I presume Belle heard the story?’

‘She used to ask me all sorts of questions about it, her and the other kids. I admit I enjoyed scaring them with it. Body
snatchers, murder and dissections – kids just love that sort of thing, don’t they?’

‘I know what you mean. Did you ever go up into the attic room?’

‘Simon’s workshop – that’s what Mr Hilton called it. I went up there once but Miles caught us and went berserk. I never tried
to go up there again, I can tell you.’

‘Thank you, Professor. You’ve been very helpful.’ After a further exchange of pleasantries, he put the receiver down. Perhaps
he was getting his hopes up. Perhaps Charlie Haslem and the buried child at Tailors Court had nothing to do with Isabelle
Clipton’s death. Perhaps George Clipton, the cuckolded husband, had been guilty after all and he was seeing things that weren’t
there. Gerry Heffernan had always claimed that an over-active imagination was one of his failings.

He was about to make for Gerry’s desk to tell him about his conversation with Otto Kramer when Trish waylaid him. She’d established
contact with Miss Buchanan who’d just returned from Austria. She was in the process of unpacking so she’d be in for the rest
of the day and she’d be delighted to talk to the police any time. Trish hadn’t told her about Dr Dalcott’s death. It was something
that would be better said face to face.

When he arrived at the DCI’s desk, Gerry Heffernan raised a hand in greeting. He looked like a man with a lot on his mind.

‘You ready to visit Nanny Buchanan? Trish says she’ll be in for the rest of the day.’

Gerry stood up wearily, stretching with his hands in the
small of his back. ‘OK, Wes, let’s go and see Nanny. But I bet you a tenner we’ll hit a dead end.’

Wesley picked up his coat and waited while Gerry put his on, zipping it to the neck and saying that his lady friend Joyce
had warned him to wrap up warm. Wesley had to smile to himself – Gerry, the scourge of Chief Superintendent Nutter, was a
big softy when it came to the women in his life.

Even though the drive to Looe only took an hour it seemed long and arduous. As they drove towards Plymouth the sky was a uniform
battleship grey and the normally lovely landscape looked bleak and desolate. The favourable weather forecast proved to be
a work of fiction and when the rain started Wesley drove on, headlights blazing and windscreen wipers on full. He was glad
of the car heater. It looked cold out there.

After they’d passed through the outskirts of Plymouth and crossed the Tamar bridge into Cornwall, Wesley suddenly felt a little
lighter, more optimistic. But as he parked up, he could see the dark, churning sea lapping angrily against the harbour wall
and, once he was out of the car, the wind bit through his coat and the rain felt icy on his face.

‘Looks a bit rough out there,’ Gerry commented as he shivered.

Wesley didn’t answer. He kept his head down and rushed down the narrow lane towards Nanny Buchanan’s address – a tiny stone
cottage with leaded windows and a low door that led straight onto the street. He was relieved to see a welcoming glow of light
in the window.

‘Come in, gentlemen,’ Miss Buchanan said as soon as she opened the door. ‘You must be frozen. Cup of tea?’

This was exactly what both men needed. They took their coats off as invited – Nanny told them sternly that if they didn’t,
they wouldn’t feel the benefit when they went out again – and settled down by a roaring fire. There was no sign of unpacking
and Wesley suspected it would have been dealt with already, swiftly and efficiently.

The first thing that struck Wesley about Enid Buchanan was her energy. She might be in her late seventies but she was rarely
still, rushing to and fro to fetch tea and biscuits, making sure her guests were comfortable and rearranging any object she
considered out of place as she went. She had short grey hair, cut for practicality rather than glamour, and intelligent eyes
that missed nothing.

‘I’ve been very lucky, gentlemen,’ she began as she finally settled in an armchair by the fire. ‘As soon as I retired from
one career, I was asked to share my experience with a new generation, as they put it, and appear on television.’ Her lips
turned upwards in a conspiratorial grin. ‘Actually one of my children – I mean the children I looked after; I always think
of them as my own, you see – is now a senior TV producer and he was kind enough to think of me. Anyway that led to the publishing
deal and, as you see, I’m still making myself useful. Nobody could ask for more, really, could they?’ She smiled and Wesley
noted that she had a wide gap between her two front teeth: some said it was a sign of good luck.

‘They certainly couldn’t, love,’ Gerry said with what sounded like admiration.

‘Now what is it you want to ask me? I must admit that my time with the Cliptons wasn’t the happiest period in my life. The
little boy, James, was a sweet wee thing but the mother … Of course when James came here I chose my words carefully. I didn’t
want him to spend the rest of his life
knowing that his mother couldn’t give tuppence for him, did I?’

‘James Dalcott came to see you?’

‘Yes. It was just before I went to Austria. We had a lovely long chat. He seemed a nice man and I was happy he’d turned out
so well after what he’d been through. Of course he asked me all about his mother’s death and I answered his questions to the
best of my ability. He’s promised to visit me again when I returned from Austria.’

Wesley and Gerry looked at each other. She’d been away so she hadn’t heard the news and it was up to them to break it. After
Gerry told her as gently as he could, Enid Buchanan sat for a while, her hands folded neatly on her lap. Then she closed her
eyes for a moment as if in prayer, and when she opened them she gave a small shudder. ‘Have you any idea who killed him?’

‘We’re hoping you might be able to help us.’

‘Of course. If I can.’

‘What can you tell us about Isabelle Clipton?’

‘I take it you’ve read the transcripts of her husband’s trial?’

Wesley nodded.

‘Well, I feel there’s little I can add. She was a selfish young woman; only concerned with her own pleasures and not in the
least bit interested in poor little James. I was very relieved when the Dalcotts offered to adopt him. Mrs Dalcott was Dr
Clipton’s sister. She was a very nice woman and she couldn’t have children of her own.’

‘It worked out well all round,’ said Gerry.

‘Yes. It did. Of course the reflected notoriety didn’t do me any good at first but, after an awkward couple of months, I managed
to obtain a new post with a family up in
Yorkshire – two lovely little girls.’ The memory made her smile again.

‘Have you kept any photographs of your time at the Cliptons?’ Wesley asked.

Miss Buchanan stood up and walked over to a large bureau in the corner of the room; rather like the one he’d seen in Dr Dalcott’s
house. The drawers were filled with photograph albums. From the ease with which she found the right one, Wesley suspected
they were all arranged carefully in date order – all her families; a life of being mother to other women’s children.

She carried the open album over to the two detectives and sat down.

‘This is James. He was a very calm baby.’ She looked straight at Wesley. ‘You think these pictures might help find his killer?’

‘It is possible that his death’s connected to something in his mother’s past, yes.’

Miss Buchanan nodded and continued. ‘This is Mrs Clipton with James.’

She pointed to a posed photograph of Isabelle Clipton, just recognisable as the adult Belle from the school photograph he’d
seen. The child was sitting on her knee but she was holding him at arm’s length and she didn’t look comfortable in the situation.
There was no love there, Wesley thought. Or perhaps he was just seeing what he wanted to see.

Miss Buchanan turned to another picture. Father and son this time. George Clipton was smiling and hugging the little boy sitting
next to him. If anyone loved the child, it was his father. Wesley suddenly felt sad that George Clipton had never had the
chance to watch his son grow up.