He looked at her like a pleading puppy. They had gone out together in their first year at university but it hadn’t lasted
long. She had soon tired of Neil’s single-minded passion for his work. Through Wesley, she had come to know of many policemen
‘married to their job’, but Neil proved that the phenomenon wasn’t confined to the police force.
‘Okay. I’ll give her a ring tonight.’ Pam felt mildly exasperated.
‘By the way, I’m on the last leg of my PhD. I’ll be Dr Watson in the not too distant future.’ Neil looked down at the kitchen
table modestly. He was never one to boast of his achievements.
Pam summoned up a weak smile. ‘Congratulations. I’ll tell Sherlock when he gets in.’
‘Yeah. And if you’re not doing anything tonight there’ll be a few of us from the dig in the Tradmouth Arms if you and Wes
fancy coming down.’
Pam looked at Neil’s eager face and forced herself to smile again. He really had no idea how the other half lived.
It was 4.30 when Gerry Heffernan put his feet up on his desk and looked across at Wesley, who was sitting with his notebook
open.
He looked at his watch. ‘Mustn’t be too late tonight, Wes. Choir rehearsal at eight. What have we got so far, eh?’
Wesley cleared his throat. Gerry Heffernan’s nimble fingers were beating out a rhythm on the desktop; probably something the
church choir were rehearsing. It was always like this after a certain time on a Friday afternoon.
‘Jonny Shellmer’s next-door neighbours have identified him.’
‘Good.’
‘Unfortunately there was no sign of an address book among his belongings.’
‘It shouldn’t be that hard to track down his next of kin and associates. What else have you come up with?’
‘That woman we saw in Whitely. The neighbours said they’ve seen someone answering the same description visiting Shellmer on
a couple of occasions, possibly driving a small blue car.’
‘So the blonde in the red car wasn’t the only one. Some blokes have all the luck.’
Wesley smiled to himself. Heffernan had mentioned that Susan Green – a widowed American lady with whom he’d been conducting
a decorous semi-courtship for just under a year – was up in Scotland visiting her daughter, who’d just presented her with
her first grandchild. Perhaps he was missing her.
Heffernan was a gregarious man, always ready with a joke and a slice of canteen gossip. But since his wife’s death over four
years ago, and the departure of his two children for distant universities, he had led a solitary existence to which Wesley
suspected he wasn’t altogether suited.
Wesley returned his thoughts to police matters. ‘We’ve done checks on Terry Hoxworthy, the farmer who found the body. There’s
nothing known about him, and I reckon it was just bad luck that the body was dumped in that particular place. Rachel and Steve
have done a house-to-house in the immediate area but they haven’t found anyone who saw anything.’
‘Anything else?’
‘The Old Vicarage. It’s empty at the moment and we know Shellmer was taking an interest in the place. According to a mother
and son who are house-sitting, or whatever they call it, in the cottage near the gates, there have been quite a few people
up there, probably prospective buyers. I thought I might go over there now and have a look around, seeing as there’s a connection
with our victim. I’ll take Rachel with me.’
‘Good idea.’ The chief inspector scratched his tousled head and leaned back. ‘I’ll stop here and have a think. See what I
can dredge up from my memory about Jonny Shellmer. And I’ll get someone on to tracking down his next of kin.’
‘You do that,’ said Wesley as he left the office in search of Rachel Tracey.
Rachel, as usual, showed a remarkable degree of organisation. She flicked through her notebook and made her announcement.
‘Heygarth and Proudfoot are dealing with the sale of the Old Vicarage,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘If we’re quick we’ll
get there before they close.’
The estate agent’s office was only a few minutes’ walk from the police station. Wesley and Rachel marched
quickly, side by side, each fearing that the place would shut early on a Friday.
But their fears were groundless. Behind the large window filled with coloured photographs and tempting details of myriad local
properties, the electric spotlights blazed and a woman in her late twenties sat behind a computer at a sleek beech-wood desk.
A young couple wearing anoraks and denim jeans sat at the other side of her desk. Their faces were solemn, as though they
had just been told bad news.
As Wesley and Rachel entered the office, the couple rose to leave and ambled out silently.
Wesley walked up to the young woman, showed her his warrant card and introduced himself and Rachel before explaining what
they were there for.
The young woman, who said her name was Nicola, wore a dark suit, and her straight brown hair was cut in a businesslike bob.
She had the svelte look of a single woman with no one to care for but herself, a woman who was no stranger to the exercise
bikes and rowing machines in her local gym. Pam, Wesley thought, with her hectic teaching career and young baby, would have
regarded her with envy.
Nicola handed over the keys to the Old Vicarage without a word, her face an expressionless mask. Then she seemed to rouse
herself from her reverie and asked unenthusiastically whether they wanted her to go with them. Wesley assured her that there
was no need as they only wanted a quick look, then he thanked her and promised to return the keys as soon as they had finished.
‘Strange,’ said Rachel when they were halfway back to the police station.
‘What is?’
‘That Nicola never asked us why we wanted to look inside the Old Vicarage. You said it was in connection with a suspicious
death in the area, but she never asked any questions. Don’t you think that’s odd … sir?’
She added the ‘sir’ as an afterthought. Wesley smiled. He was still getting used to the title himself, and it sounded odd
coming from Rachel whom he knew so well – and with whom he’d shared so much.
‘Perhaps she knew we wouldn’t tell her much so she didn’t bother asking.’
‘I still think it’s a bit odd.’
‘Perhaps she doesn’t possess your natural inquisitiveness,’ replied Wesley. ‘In which case she’d make a lousy policewoman.
Good job she chose to sell houses for a living.’
Paul Heygarth emerged from the back office. ‘Is Jim Flowers about?’ he asked.
Nicola Tarnley looked up. ‘He’s doing a survey on that property on Newpen Road. He said he’d go straight home.’
‘He’s not coming back?’
‘No.’
Paul muttered something under his breath that she couldn’t quite hear, but she guessed it wasn’t complimentary.
‘What is it between you and Jim? You’ve been at each other’s throats for the past week or so.’
‘It’s none of your bloody business. Come into my office, will you. I want a word.’
The words were spoken casually but somewhere, buried beneath the calm, was a gritty edge. Nicola rose from her desk and took
a deep breath. Whatever was coming, she could deal with it. She walked slowly towards Paul’s office, each step on the thick
grey carpet taking her closer to her nemesis. She entered the office and closed the door behind her.
‘What did the police want?’ Paul stood up, glowering down at her. There was the hint of a threat in his voice but she stood
her ground.
‘The keys to the Old Vicarage.’ She held her head up confidently.
‘And you just handed them over?’ He started to move,
stalking round the desk towards her.
‘I hadn’t much choice, had I? I offered to go with them but they said it wasn’t necessary.’
‘You should have insisted.’
She could sense the pent-up violence in his words and she took a step backward. ‘The police are hardly going to damage anything.
And they said they’d return the keys as soon as they’d finished. Anyway, what could I have done to stop them looking round?’
He was getting closer, his hands clenched in tight fists.
‘You should have used your fucking brains, you stupid cow. You should have stalled them.’ He hissed the words with suppressed
anger.
Nicola backed away. ‘Don’t you ever talk to me like that. I’m handing in my notice as of now.’ Her heart was thumping in her
chest. He was still coming towards her. She backed towards the door. ‘There’s nothing for them to find. I don’t know why you’re
so worried.’
He was near her now. She could smell garlic on his breath, a souvenir of a good lunch. He raised his right hand and struck
her hard across the face.
She stared at him for a few moments, wondering how she could have been so stupid. How could she have wanted him? How could
she have put up with his arrogant fumblings and the unsatisfactory couplings in the back of his car? How could she have deluded
herself all those months?
His mood had changed. He was looking at her now, a slight smile on his thick lips. With a sudden movement, he grabbed her
round the waist and pulled her towards him, forcing his mouth onto hers.
‘Come on, Nicky, what’s the matter?’
Nicola gave him a hefty push which took him by surprise. He staggered backward then, taking her rejection as a challenge,
stepped forward again and put his arms around her shoulders. ‘What’s the matter? You’ve never objected before.’
‘You’ve never hit me before,’ she replied, wriggling out of his grasp.
‘I’m sorry, Nicky. I really am. It’s just that I’ve got a lot riding on that particular property; a big commission. My ex
has taken me for every penny I’ve got and I’m in a spot of bother – just cash flow. But I’ve got a few people interested,
so if the sale goes through quickly all my problems are solved.’ His voice softened as he did his best to sound contrite.
‘Sorry I lost my temper, Nicky. Can I take you to dinner tonight to make up for it?’ He looked at her appealingly, stroking
her hair.
‘I’ve got choir practice.’
Paul Heygarth smirked. ‘I can’t imagine you singing in a church choir. Give it a miss, eh?’
‘I’ll go where I want.’ She pushed his caressing hands away from her hair. ‘And I’m handing in my notice. I’m not putting
up with this.’ She put her fingers to her cheek, which smarted under her touch. ‘I’ve given you too many chances, Paul. I
won’t be back.’
Nicola rushed from the office, her hand shielding her stinging cheek. She grabbed her handbag and her jacket from the coatstand
in the corner and ran out into the street.
Even if Paul apologised again, even if he got down on his knees and begged her, she was never going back there. Never.
Wesley let Rachel drive to Derenham as she was better at negotiating the narrow Devon lanes than he was. They meandered up
the Old Vicarage’s winding drive and she brought the car to a stately halt by the front door.
Wesley climbed out of the car and studied the building. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘What do they call this style? Strawberry Hill Gothic,
isn’t it?’
‘Don’t ask me. But whatever it is I bet it’s on the market for quite a bit. Not many locals’d be able to afford it,’ she added
disapprovingly.
‘Neither would police inspectors – unfortunately,’
Wesley observed as he approached the front door, keys at the ready. He and Pam lived in a modern house with all the character
of a cereal packet. Pam would have liked something a little more interesting – and so would he, one day. ‘The woman at the
estate agent’s didn’t mention an alarm, did she?’
‘No, and there’s no sign of one. If a burglar came here, he’d think it was his lucky day.’
Wesley placed the key in the lock and turned it. The door opened and they stepped onto thick ruby-red carpet.
‘Nice,’ Rachel muttered, looking around the hallway.
‘Bit gloomy. You take upstairs, I’ll stay down here,’ said Wesley, displaying his powers of leadership.
‘What are we looking for exactly, er, sir?’
He saw a smile playing on Rachel’s lips. That was a good sign, he thought. Since the traumatic events of last September when
she had almost met her death at the hands of someone she’d trusted, she’d lost her natural ebullience. And mental scars, he
knew, took time to heal.
‘I haven’t a clue what we’re looking for,’ he said. ‘But no doubt we’ll know when we find it. If we find it.’
Rachel gave him another shy smile before disappearing up the rather grand oak staircase. Wesley stood in the hall, wondering
where to begin. He chose the drawing room first. After pushing open the heavy oak door, a monumental example of Victorian
domestic interior design, he stepped into the room and looked around.
The drawing room had a comfortable, lived-in feeling, and the traditional furnishings, though worn and not particularly fashionable,
looked expensively solid. It was the taste of the older upper-middle class, the retired judge or military man. Effortless
class without ostentation or unnecessary expense. Even though the walls were pale cream, the room seemed gloomy. North facing,
Wesley thought as he searched for the light switch which, when he found it, turned out to be a solid piece of pre-war engineering.
The place probably needed rewiring.
He looked down at the rich Persian rug which covered most of the floor. It was almost a shame to walk on such a work of art
but he stepped onto it and surveyed the room, his sharp eyes looking for something – anything – out of the ordinary. But there
was nothing. The place was spotless apart from a faded brown splash mark on the wall near the door. A spilt cup of coffee
perhaps. Accidents happened in the best-run homes.
He wandered through the dining room, crammed with heavy oak furniture, and into the kitchen. Dark oak again. The owners obviously
had a taste for it. He looked around and saw nothing out of place.
Then his eyes caught the telltale glint of glass on the floor by the back door. Sharp daggers of glass from a window pane.
It was the oldest trick in the burglar’s book: smash the glass, turn the key that’s been left conveniently in the lock, and
in. He drew a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket and put them on before trying the door. It opened smoothly. The place
was unlocked and anyone could have walked in.