About twenty yards down the lane, behind the barrier of police vehicles, was an area cordoned off with the constabulary’s
customary blue-and-white tape. Wesley and Heffernan climbed out of their car and began to walk towards the action.
White-overalled men and women swarmed over the field, absorbed in various tasks. Some knelt on the muddy ground as though
in prayer: a fingertip search. Wesley took a deep breath. The death must be more than suspicious. More than just a tramp’s
demise in a hedgerow or a hit-and-run.
They stood staring at this hive of industry for a few seconds before Heffernan asked to see the body. A young policewoman,
barely out of the school netball team, led them a little farther up the lane to a wooden gate. The cows in the field beyond,
a fine body of Jersey milkers, stood some way off, watching the activity with their great curious eyes.
Heffernan asked a constable stationed at the gate whether Dr Bowman had arrived. Colin Bowman, the genial pathologist who
attended whenever they encountered a suspicious death, was the man to provide the answers to their questions. But the enquiry
was greeted by the shake of a constable’s head.
‘Dr Bowman’s not here, sir. It’s a Dr Kruger. She’s examining the body now. She’s just over there by the hedge, sir,’ the
constable added reassuringly.
‘She?’
Wesley detected a wariness in his boss’s voice. ‘Dr Kruger’s a lady, sir,’ replied the constable, a little nervous.
Gerry Heffernan snorted in disgust, in Wesley’s opinion unreasonably. ‘I don’t care if she’s a member of the royal family,
I want Colin Bowman. Get someone to call him, will you? And don’t take no for an answer.’
‘Dr Bowman’s on holiday, sir. Someone said he’s in France.’ The constable who had hopes of joining CID, was glad to be able
to show off his aptitude for detection.
Gerry Heffernan muttered something incomprehensible which Wesley thought it best to ignore.
‘We’d better have a word with Dr Kruger, then,’ said Wesley firmly. He followed the young constable through the gate. A few
yards to the right, up against the thick
hedgerow, the product of centuries of nature’s work, the police photographer’s flashbulbs knifed through the gloom like lightning.
Wesley could almost feel the waves of disapproval emanating from Gerry Heffernan, who was shambling along behind him. He just
hoped that he wouldn’t take his disappointment out on the unsuspecting Dr Kruger.
It seemed they had timed their arrival well. Dr Kruger, a tall young woman with dark curly hair and a face which, although
not pretty, was pleasantly attractive, stood a few feet away from the body, removing her plastic gloves which, Wesley guessed,
meant that she had finished her initial examination. She wore jeans, a dark-coloured fleece and, sensibly, a pair of sturdy
green wellingtons. Wesley noted approvingly that she had come prepared.
He introduced himself and Heffernan. The doctor rewarded them with a friendly but businesslike smile.
‘Single gunshot wound to the head at fairly close range,’ she announced matter-of-factly. ‘Death would have been instantaneous.’
Wesley studied the body lying on the ground a few feet away. The dead man lay on his side facing the hedge. His slim form
was clad in black leather and faded denim; on his feet he wore clean blue suede trainers. His clothes weren’t brand new but
something about them told Wesley that they were expensive. The man’s hair was dark and fairly long; he couldn’t see the face
from where he was standing, and he was glad of this as he stared down at the shell that had once been a human being. He hated
looking into the faces of those who had suffered violent deaths.
The doctor squatted down beside the body and heaved gently at the dead man’s shoulder until the face was revealed: an old
face, far more furrowed with age and experience than the clothes and hairstyle suggested.
Wesley stared for a few moments at the neat black hole in the forehead, then he turned away. When he looked back he was relieved
to see that the face was hidden again.
‘Could it have been suicide?’ he asked hopefully. ‘No gun’s been found near by,’ said Dr Kruger. ‘I should think that rules
out suicide or accident.’
‘Anything else you can tell us, love?’ Heffernan growled. ‘Time of death, for instance?’
Dr Kruger gave the chief inspector a warning look. ‘I’d say he’s been dead approximately twenty-four hours – give or take
a few hours. That means he probably died some time on Wednesday afternoon.’
Heffernan grunted and walked away towards a group of scenes-of-crime officers; familiar faces. Wesley stood by Dr Kruger and
watched him go.
‘Is he always that rude?’ she asked.
Wesley found himself feeling apologetic. ‘Sorry about that,’ he mumbled.
‘And does he call all women “love”?’
‘Usually.’
She looked Wesley up and down. ‘Is he racist as well as sexist? I bet he gives you a hard time, does he?’
‘No. We get on quite well, actually. You’ve just caught him at a bad time,’ said Wesley, wondering why he was feeling so protective
of his boss’s reputation. ‘He was expecting to see Colin and … well, DCI Heffernan likes what he knows.’
Dr Kruger nodded. ‘Doesn’t everyone? I’ll forgive him this once.’ She gave Wesley a wide smile, and he noticed that it had
transformed her face from merely attractive to beautiful. ‘My name’s Laura, by the way.’ She held out an ungloved hand and
Wesley shook it firmly.
‘Wesley Peterson,’ he said.
‘And what shall I call the chief inspector?’
‘He’ll answer to the name of Gerry.’
‘Oh, I might just call him “love”,’ said Laura Kruger with a mischievous glint in her eye.
‘Has the body been moved?’ asked Wesley, returning to police matters.
‘Yes. I don’t think it’s been here long. It was drizzling
until about ten this morning. The ground’s fairly damp but the body’s dry. I think he was kept somewhere else then he was
dumped here within the past few hours. And if you want any more evidence for my theory, look at those shoes; they’re far too
clean for someone who’s been tramping round fields, don’t you think?’
Wesley looked down at his own shoes, now in need of a good polish, and nodded in agreement.
‘We’ll have to see what forensics come up with,’ she continued. ‘And I’ll do the post-mortem tomorrow morning. Is that all
right?’
Wesley said that was fine, then he looked down at the body again, willing it to give up its secrets. ‘Any clues to his identity?’
Laura Kruger shook her head. ‘There was a set of keys in his trouser pocket and some money. Nothing else.’
‘Who found him?’
‘The farmer who owns this land, a Mr Hoxworthy. It gave him a bit of a shock. He was in this field first thing this morning
fetching the cows in for milking, and he’s certain the body wasn’t there then. He’s gone back home if you want a word, but
I don’t think he’ll be able to tell you anything. He said he didn’t recognise the dead man.’
‘Where does he live?’
Laura pointed into the distance. In the rolling landscape one green hill folded into another, but the long stone farmhouse
was built on rising ground, easily visible from the field.
‘That’s the house over there. You get to it down the lane. You pass a big old barn and then go down a track to the left. I
reckon that you can see this field from there, but Mr Hoxworthy said he hadn’t seen anything suspicious. His theory is that
someone dumped the body here from a passing car, and I reckon he could be right.’ She gave Wesley a shy smile. ‘I’m doing
your job for you.’
Wesley returned the smile. ‘A lot of my colleagues could do with your observational skills.’ He paused and stared down at
the body.
‘That jacket didn’t come cheap,’ Laura observed. ‘Could he have been a drug dealer; gangland killing come to rural Devon?’
‘He was still a human being,’ said Wesley quietly, almost in a whisper.
Neither spoke for a while as they contemplated the unfortunate man who had ended his earthly existence at the foot of a hedgerow
like some medieval vagrant. It was a sad end, thought Wesley, to leave this world violently with only a field of cows for
company.
The mortuary van had arrived. Its occupants, discreet as trusted butlers, moved swiftly as they prepared to transfer the mortal
remains of the man in the leather jacket to their unobtrusive black van.
Gerry Heffernan wandered over to watch, standing silently as the sad little procession passed. The body was carried on a trolley,
packed inside a zip-up bag which reminded Wesley inappropriately of the bags used by pizza delivery-men to insulate their
wares. Heffernan stepped forward, stopping the trolley’s progress, and unzipped the bag so that he could have a last look
at the dead man’s face.
Everyone stopped what they were doing, frozen until the DCI delivered his verdict.
‘I’ve seen him somewhere before,’ he pronounced with a confident jollity that Wesley considered inappropriate for the occasion.
‘I know his face. Hang on, it’ll come to me.’ He screwed his chubby face up as he mined his memory.
Wesley watched him expectantly. If the dead man had been a customer of the local constabulary in the past, dredging up his
details would be a piece of cake once the DCI provided them with a name.
‘I know,’ Heffernan pronounced to all who cared to hear. ‘He looks just like that pop singer. Back in the late sixties, early
seventies. What was his name?’
The faces around him were blank. The majority of the officers there hadn’t even been born at the time he
mentioned. Wesley, numbered among the young, assumed an expression of polite interest, like a child whose grandparents were
reminiscing about the Second World War.
‘He was in the local paper the other day. He’s moving down here and he gave some money for a new village hall in Derenham.
I’m sure it’s him. He was quite well known – lead singer. What was his name?’
The young officers standing around shook their heads. Laura Kruger shrugged her shoulders. It was before her time.
‘It’ll come to me.’ Heffernan wrinkled his brow in concentration.
Wesley waited, willing him to remember: a name for their corpse would save a lot of time. But the boss shook his head. It
had been on the tip of his tongue but the more he thought, the more the name retreated into the mists.
‘Come on, Wes,’ Heffernan said suddenly. ‘Let’s get Rach and Steve over and start interviewing the neighbours, see if they
heard anything suspicious. Someone’s bound to have heard a gunshot.’
‘This is farming country,’ said Laura, stepping forward. ‘Every farmer has a shotgun.’
‘But he wasn’t killed with a shotgun, was he?’ said Heffernan, looking down at the body impatiently, still searching his memory
for the name to fit the face.
‘No. Probably some small handgun, but …’
‘So the noise might have been different. Someone could have noticed an unusual shot.’
Laura nodded. She hated to admit it but the DCI had a point.
Suddenly Heffernan’s face lit up. He grinned at the others triumphantly, like a man who had just made a great discovery: something
on a par with Archimedes’ bath water or Newton’s apple. ‘Jonny Shellmer.’
All eyes were on him. Most looked puzzled. It was Wesley who asked the question everyone below forty was longing to ask. ‘Who’s
Jonny Shellmer?’
‘Lead singer of Rock Boat,’ Heffernan answered, as though this were obvious. ‘Ruddy heck, it’s like working in a flaming kindergarten.
Have none of you heard of ’em?’
Among the blank faces, a middle-aged uniformed sergeant at the back of the group put up a tentative hand. ‘Whatever happened
to Rock Boat, sir?’ he asked.
Heffernan looked relieved that he wasn’t the only one who recalled the heady days of the sixties. ‘Search me. Where do flies
go in wintertime and where do rock groups go when they’re past their sell-by date?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘Wonder how Jonny
Shellmer ended up shot dead lying in a field full of cows.’
‘If it is Jonny Shellmer,’ said Wesley, wondering if his boss’s fit of nostalgia was affecting his judgement.
‘Well, it doesn’t half look like that picture of him I saw in the paper the other day. I noticed it specially.’ Heffernan
shuffled his feet. ‘I used to be a bit of a fan in the old days.’
Wesley smiled but made no comment. At least they had a name, a starting point; although he’d keep an open mind about the dead
man’s identity. But he was the right age and he was wearing what Wesley, in his limited experience of such matters, would
expect an ageing rock star to wear. But it was possible Heffernan might be on the wrong track completely, and it would be
up to him, as usual, to steer him back onto the steep and narrow path of known facts and common sense.
Heffernan nodded to the undertakers and they zipped up the bag: the next time they would see the body, it would be lying on
the mortuary slab. Wesley shuddered at the thought.
‘Right, then, love. See you at the post-mortem,’ Heffernan said to Laura, narrowly avoiding a large soft cowpat as he made
for the gate.
‘I’ll look forward to it … love,’ Laura answered, giving Wesley a most unprofessional wink.
*
Lewis Hoxworthy could see the field next to the lane from his bedroom window. He sat on his bed and watched the activity.
It had started about an hour ago when his dad had returned to the house in a rare old panic. Of course, nobody had thought
to tell Lewis what was going on, but he knew that, whatever it was, it was big. Police cars passed along the lane, more and
more of them, blocking the way.
They had found something. And Lewis felt uneasy.
He could have gone right up to the window to get a better view, but he stayed on the bed out of sight as some survival instinct
told him to make himself inconspicuous, invisible. This wasn’t difficult for Lewis: there had been times when he had felt
that he was the most invisible boy in his year at school; the one nobody noticed and everybody ignored. But things would be
different now.
He surveyed the posters on his bedroom walls. Knights in full armour and glossy cut-away sections of medieval castles. Above
his bed, a knight on his charger rode into battle; an image so vivid that as he gazed at it he could almost hear the snorting
of the great warhorse and the clattering of the shining metal armour.