The Flesh Tailor (9 page)

‘I don’t blame you, Mr Tey,’ she said with sincerity as he opened the front door. If Tey and Charleen had lost one child,
there was no way they were going to see this new one threatened by what they thought of as a killer dog. If Tey was telling
the truth, she suspected that Tinkerbell’s days were numbered.

Tey led her into a small living room with over-busy wallpaper before walking to the foot of the stairs and calling Charleen’s
name. After his initial reluctance to answer the door, he appeared to have accepted the situation. And now the police were
there in the unthreatening form of Trish Walton, they were going to have to answer the
inevitable questions. As Trish sat down, she wondered what she should do about Nick Tarnaby. But she decided to let him stay
in the car if he wanted. She knew instinctively that she’d get more out of these two on her own.

Charleen entered the room, her eyes fixed warily on Trish who gave her an encouraging smile. When all three were sitting,
perched on a three-piece suite too large for the tiny room, Trish began by apologising for disturbing them.

‘I’m sure you’ll understand why we have to talk to you,’ she said gently. ‘Dr James Dalcott has been murdered. Shot.’ She
watched their faces but their expressions gave nothing away. ‘Why haven’t you been answering your door? Surely you want to
eliminate yourselves from the enquiry.’

‘We ain’t done nothing,’ said Tey quickly. ‘I didn’t want Charleen upset. I didn’t want any bother.’

Trish took a deep breath. ‘You knew Dr Dalcott. In fact you blamed him for the death of your child.’

Trish noted the glance that passed between the couple: a blend of pain and fear.

‘Yeah. We took Sean to the surgery and Dalcott said it was just a bug going round. Sean got worse and we called the ambulance
but it was too late.’

‘I can see why you’d be angry with Dr Dalcott,’ said Trish. She took a deep breath. ‘Look, I don’t like having to ask you
this but it’s a formality. We’re seeing everyone who might have had a grudge against Dr Dalcott, you understand?’

It was Charleen who spoke. ‘Yeah. But we had nothing to do with killing him. We wouldn’t do anything like that.’

‘Where were you on Saturday night between seven and eight o’clock?’

‘We were both here watching telly. Then about ten we went for a quick drink down the Exeter Arms.’

‘Any witnesses? Did anyone call round to see you?’ Trish asked hopefully. Somehow she didn’t like to think of this pair being
hauled off to the police station. But then perhaps it wasn’t only a misguided attempt to protect Charleen’s feelings that
caused Tey not to answer the door to the police. Perhaps they had something to hide after all.

‘Loads of people saw us at the pub but we were on our own watching telly.’ Charleen looked Trish in the eye. ‘And you can’t
prove otherwise.’

Trish might have explained that, if the police felt so inclined, they could take the place apart to look for any slight forensic
link between the couple and the crime scene, but she said nothing. In spite of her professional training, she couldn’t help
feeling sorry for them. They’d lost a child just as her own brother and sister-in-law had, and she knew only too well the
devastation it had caused to their lives.

Charleen broke the awkward silence. ‘If he hadn’t spent so much time at that bloody private clinic he might have been able
to pay our Sean more attention. Working all hours, he was, according to Ken next door.’

Trish leaned forward, all attention. This was something new. ‘What private clinic’s this?’

‘It’s over Podbury way. Ken Mold next door’s a handyman there. I mean we don’t speak to him much these days, not since we
complained about that bloody dog. But when we were talking to him he said Dalcott must have made a fortune from the work he
did there.’

‘And what work was that?’

‘No idea,’ Adam said quickly.

Trish saw him give Charleen a warning look.

‘We’ve told you everything we know,’ said Charleen in a weary whine. ‘Look, I’m tired. I want a lie down.’

Trish knew when she was being dismissed. But they’d keep. She stood up and made her way outside to join Nick Tarnaby. When
she reached the car she stopped and looked back at the small house, thinking that it hadn’t been altogether a wasted journey.

Neil had done his bit, walking up and down slowly with the bleeping machine, careful to keep in a straight line like a ploughman
creating a furrow. When he reached the edge of the area he stopped, turned and walked back to cover the next section. It was
painstaking work but he wanted to discover everything he could about those skeletons.

Had they been lovers – an older man and a young woman killed by a jealous husband? Or had they been disposed of by relatives
for an inheritance perhaps? Had they died as a result of a vendetta or a robbery? Or had their deaths been concealed for some
other reason? There were so many possibilities and Neil felt that he couldn’t rest until he’d found out more.

He wasn’t sure why but the possibility that there might be more bodies buried down there waiting to be discovered kept nagging
at the back of his mind. However, at two-thirty, just when the sky turned a deeper grey and it started to drizzle, he handed
the equipment to another member of the team and made for the house. Tony and Jill Persimmon hadn’t been out to see what was
going on, which Neil thought was unusual: most people who have archaeologists working on their land can’t keep away.

He passed the kitchen window on his way to the front
door but, seeing the room was empty, he stopped for a moment and stared inside. There was no sign of the old keys on the worktop,
which was hopeful, Neil thought. Perhaps the Persimmons’ indifference to the house’s history had been feigned. Perhaps they
had found the right key and were exploring the attic at that very moment. And if so, he wanted to see it for himself.

He rang the doorbell and waited. For an age nothing happened and he looked around at the bare trees fringing the fields. A
lazy buzzard circled over a distant copse with murder in its heart – prey would be thin on the ground now winter had arrived
and the fields lay dormant, waiting for the spring. He watched as it plunged downwards in pursuit of a small furry victim.

After a while he heard footsteps from within the house, echoing faintly on the bare oak staircase. He straightened his back
and wiped his grubby hands on his coat absentmindedly as the door opened to reveal Jill Persimmon. He saw an expression of
impatience flash across her face, swiftly replaced by one of cold politeness.

‘I said I’d be back to try those keys.’ He gave her what he hoped was a charming smile, impossible to resist.

Jill hesitated for a moment. ‘Tony’s tied up with work. He’s in the middle of bidding for a contract so we haven’t really
got time for …’

‘No need to bother him. I can take them up there myself and try them in the lock. There might be something behind that door
that could tell us more about the history of this place. If I can get proof that those skeletons are old you won’t have the
cops crawling all over the place asking intrusive questions,’ he added, hoping this would do the trick.

She suddenly looked concerned. ‘Have you found more skeletons?’

‘The geophysics can only give us some idea of whether the ground’s been disturbed. To see exactly what’s down there we have
to dig.’

She said nothing as she stood aside to let him in and when she’d shut the door she delved into the pocket of her jeans. The
three keys she held out were plain and rusty, one large and two smaller. He was tempted to snatch them before she changed
her mind but, with an effort of selfcontrol, he took them from her and thanked her politely, saying he wouldn’t be long.

‘I’ll come with you,’ she said. ‘I suppose I’d better see what’s up there.’

Although he would have preferred to do his investigating alone, it was her house so he smiled and said, ‘Of course. No problem.’

Jill disappeared into the kitchen and returned carrying a large rubber torch in her left hand. Nothing was said as the pair
climbed the stairs and made for the upstairs room containing the staircase cupboard. Neil took the keys and torch from her
and climbed the rickety steps, aware of her eyes on him as he once again entered the attic. He passed quickly though the first
two rooms and began fiddling with the lock of the mysterious door that had so piqued his curiosity. It was a few minutes before
he got the largest key to turn stiffly and he hesitated for a few moments, staring at the door as though it was the sealed
entrance to Tutankhamen’s tomb; a place containing wonderful things. Then he pushed the door open and stared ahead into the
roof space before stepping through the doorway and shining the torch around.

A table with bulbous legs stood in the centre of the room, shrouded beneath a layer of dust, and an array of corroded tools
and instruments hung from hooks on the far wall, although Neil couldn’t quite make out what they were.

‘What’s in there?’ said Jill tentatively. She had followed him but had stayed on the other side of the door and Neil had almost
forgotten she was there.

‘Come and have a look,’ he called back.

As she entered he realised that he was rather glad not to be alone. There was something odd about this room. Perhaps a sense
of evil, although he didn’t believe in that sort of thing.

He studied the table. It was old, battered and probably made of oak. The legs looked decidedly Elizabethan and tiny tattered
fragments of rotten cloth still clung to one edge.

He walked on tiptoe towards the end of the room where the rusting objects dangled. At first sight he’d assumed they were the
tools of a butcher’s trade. But on closer inspection, he wasn’t so sure. Besides, in his experience no farmer would ever carry
animal carcasses on such an awkward journey to the top of the house.

Suddenly he wanted to get out of the place. He wasn’t usually over-imaginative but he had an uneasy feeling in the pit of
his stomach.

At some time in the long history of Tailors Court, something dreadful had happened in this strange, still attic room. Neil
was sure of it.

Transcript of recording made by Mrs Mabel Cleary (née Fallon) – Home Counties Library Service Living History Project: Reminiscences
of a wartime evacuee.

Mrs Jannings lay propped up on her pillow and I had to go in to her and say hello. She had long grey hair and her face was
pale as death. Her lips were the same colour as the rest of her skin and her eyes were really light blue. My big brother who’d
just joined the navy used to tell me ghost stories and laugh when I screamed and wouldn’t go upstairs alone. Well, this Mrs
Jannings looked exactly like a ghost from one of his stories. She was even wearing a long white nightie.

I stood there in the doorway and the lady pushed me forward saying something like ‘Mrs Jannings, I’ve got an evacuee for you.
A little girl like you asked for. Her name’s Mabel. How are you feeling?’

The ghost lady – because that’s how I’d started to think of her – raised her hand weakly but said nothing. I looked round
at the lady who’d brought me and saw that she looked a bit cross and that she didn’t know whether to leave me there or not.
I hoped she wouldn’t.

Then the ghost lady spoke in a little high voice. ‘You can leave her. Mary will look after her. We need the help.’

‘If you’re sure,’ the other lady said. I could tell she wasn’t happy.

‘Get Mary to show her the room,’ Mrs Jannings said. ‘She’ll have to make the bed.’ When she looked at me I saw that her eyes
were cold and watery. ‘Can you cook?’

My mum had taught me to do potatoes and carrots. I couldn’t do nothing fancy but I nodded all the same.

‘And clean?’

I nodded again.

‘Find Mary,’ she said, turning her head away from the lady. ‘She’ll see to her.’

The lady took my hand and squeezed it. Then we went to find Mary.

Wesley and Gerry stood in James Dalcott’s living room and looked around. They had edged their way through the hall, avoiding
the bloodstains on the parquet floor, the slick of spilled wine, now dried to a sticky mess, and the Forensic team’s markings.
But, much to Wesley’s relief, they had seen no trace of death elsewhere in the house.

‘So what exactly are we looking for?’ Gerry asked, scratching his head.

‘I’m not sure. According to Harry Parker, Dalcott had some mysterious obsession. With the past, he said.’

Gerry grunted. ‘Like your mate Neil and his archaeology?’

‘I got the impression it was something a bit more … sinister.’

The DCI looked sceptical. ‘Well, whatever it is, the search team didn’t think it was sinister enough to comment on when they
went through the place.’

Wesley didn’t answer. Gerry had a point. He’d been in a hurry to get there and look through Dalcott’s things but now he wished
he’d taken the time to visit Roz Dalcott and ask her exactly what her boyfriend had meant by an obsession with the past. He’d
been too impatient, which wasn’t normally one of his failings.

As he began to search he experienced a feeling of disappointment. All the important papers – phone records, bank details and
any personal letters – had been taken off for further investigation. If there was anything unusual or irregular about the
victim’s financial affairs they’d soon know, just as they’d know whom he’d been contacting in the days before his death. But
Wesley had a feeling that there was something else to find – something seemingly innocent that the officers conducting the
initial search had overlooked or thought unimportant.

He started to rummage through the Georgian bureau that stood in the corner of the room but found nothing of interest in the
top two drawers. However, when he opened the bottom drawer he saw a dark-blue cardboard folder which he took out and opened.
Inside were several copies of birth, marriage and death certificates, photocopies of census entries and, enfolding them all,
a large sheet of paper folded into several sections. When he carried it over to the dining table and spread it out, Gerry
Heffernan came up behind him and placed a large paw on his shoulder.