Wesley looked at Gerry. ‘The bitch?’
‘Eva Liversedge. Crace’s PA and prize cow. No wonder Nadia left. She was a nice girl, Nadia. But a bit odd, if you know what
I mean.’
Gerry Heffernan leaned forward. ‘We don’t know what you mean. Why don’t you tell us?’
‘She was very quiet.’
‘It’s not illegal,’ said Gerry.
‘That’s it really. She was just a bit odd. But nice.’
‘You’ve spoken to her recently?’
Plesance shook his head.
‘We’ve been trying to find her but she seems to have disappeared. She went off last week and nobody knows where she is. Any
ideas?’
Plesance shrugged. ‘Can’t help. Sorry.’
‘Did Ian mention her to you?’
‘He might have said something about not being able to get in touch with her but, to tell you the truth, I was only half listening.
I didn’t know her well.’
‘Was she close to Ian?’
‘Yeah, she seemed to be. I don’t know what it was between them. Could have been sexual, of course, but I didn’t think so at
the time. They did a lot of whispering in corners, if you know what I mean.’
‘But you didn’t know what the whispering was about?’
‘Search me. If she was telling him secrets, he never shared them with me.’
‘And what kind of secrets do you think a girl like Nadia would have?’ Heffernan asked.
‘I always assumed it was man trouble,’ Plesance said after a few moments’ thought. ‘Nadia had kissed quite a few frogs in
her time from what I heard.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe that’s why she’s disappeared. Perhaps her prince has turned up at last.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Wesley muttered under his breath. Perhaps they were worrying for nothing. But then Nadia had told Ian Rowe
that she was worried about something. And she’d been trying to find out the truth about her mother’s death.
He and Gerry had read through Nadia’s e-mails several times since the discovery of Rowe’s body and they raised more questions
than they answered. There had been a mention of ‘that man’ who had contacted her to tell her that he thought he’d found a
witness. A witness to what? Perhaps Jack Plesance might know.
‘Were you the man who contacted her to say he thought he’d found a witness?’ He was fishing but he thought it was worth a
try.
But Plesance shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I never contacted Nadia. Why should I?’
‘You worked with her.’
‘I worked with a lot of people. Like I said, I didn’t know her well.’
Gerry Heffernan gave Wesley a discreet nudge. This was all they were going to learn from Jack Plesance for now. But that didn’t
mean he wouldn’t be worth another try. People often changed their stories, after all.
Jem Burrows – known to his mother as Jamie – lived with his parents in a suburb of Morbay. Not the best suburb but not the
worst either. When he’d been at Morbay University he’d shared a run-down house with some mates. But after graduation he hadn’t
managed to find himself the glittering career he’d been expecting and money had soon become a problem.
Now he lived back at home, vying for space with his younger brothers. Being twenty-four, Jem had been given the box room to
himself while his brothers shared. The room was big enough to house his array of computer equipment but sometimes he felt
like punching the walls.
Jem’s financial contribution to the household income came from a combination of gardening and bar work during the tourist
season, but his parents, once so proud
of his academic achievements, were wise enough not to push the matter. When he’d tried to show a little enterprise, going
into business with a mate selling fake DVDs, the whole thing had backfired and he’d received a two-year suspended sentence.
He had been wary of the police ever since. But he was sure he could deal with these two. They had nothing on him.
It was Paul Johnson who spoke first. ‘Your name has come up in our enquiries, sir. We’re investigating an organisation called
the Pure Sons of the West.’
Jem kept his face a neutral mask, trying hard to show no signs of fear or guilt.
‘It’s a pressure group. It’s not illegal.’ This was the party line and he was sticking to it.
‘It is when you go around threatening people,’ Paul observed calmly.
‘I can see that, but we don’t do that sort of thing.’
‘The Pure Sons of the West mentioned the fire near Whitely on their website. A man was killed.’
‘That was nothing to do with us. One of my colleagues heard about the fire on the radio and it was put on the website. We
keep a register of empty properties that are only used at weekends or for holidays and Owl Cottage was one of them. We didn’t
have anything to do with starting the fire and you can’t prove we did.’ He looked Paul in the eye. ‘Can you?’
‘So you’re denying it?’
‘Of course I’m denying it. It’s got nothing to do with me … or the Pure Sons of the West.’
‘Where were you around eleven o’clock the night before last?’
‘I went out for a drink. I got back home around eleven. I can give you the names of the people I was with and the pub’s just
down the road. Nowhere near Whitely.’ He smirked, challenging them to prove otherwise.
‘What about the woman who was burned to death near Queenswear?’ said Trish. ‘On the site of the proposed Grandal Field housing
development.’
Jem paused. He needed to think about this one, to consider his answers carefully. ‘What about her?’
‘Where were you last Tuesday?’
He made a great show of concentration, trying to remember. ‘I think I was at home. I’d have been using the computer. I’m sure
your technical people’d be able to confirm that.’
‘Your organisation has been sending threatening letters to the wife of a property developer. A Mrs Sheryl Bright. You said
you’d burn her to death.’
Jem suppressed a brief flicker of panic. He looked at Trish Walton and saw that she was watching him like a cat watches a
mouse. He’d have to be very careful indeed. ‘Not me. I never threatened anyone. Have you seen the letters?’ He knew he sounded
confident. But was it too confident?
‘No but—’
‘Then how do you know they exist? Has this Mrs Bright still got them?’
‘Apparently not but—’
‘In that case, you’ve got no evidence against me. You’re just on a fishing expedition, aren’t you? Admit it. This woman probably
made it all up to discredit us. We’re a thorn in her husband’s side. Did she tell you
that? I bet she didn’t. It’s in his interests to silence us. If it wasn’t for us, the likes of him would concrete over the
whole of Devon. And the bloody planning authorities wouldn’t lift a finger to stop them.’
‘Do you know Mrs Sheryl Bright?’ asked Paul.
‘I know of her.’
‘Have you ever met her?’
‘I don’t mix in those sort of circles, Detective Constable. The Brights aren’t the sort who’d invite the likes of me round
for cocktails.’
He hoped the vehemence of these last words would give them the ring of truth. And it seemed, judging by the expressions of
slight disappointment on the officers’ faces, that they’d swallowed the story whole. But he still had to take care.
Jem Burrows knew he was clever. But even the brightest and best sometimes slip up sooner or later.
Sheryl Bright hugged a silk cushion close, like a comforting teddy bear, and stared at the TV absentmindedly, picking at some
paint that had become caught in her cuticles. The host of some inane quiz show was herding contestants from place to place
like a hyperactive sheep dog but Sheryl wasn’t really watching. She had other things on her mind.
When her husband entered the room, she looked up, her eyes anxious.
‘What is it?’ he asked, looking her in the eye. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘They’ve sent another note. Pushed through the door this time.’
‘You didn’t see anyone?’
‘No. I’d have told you if I had.’ She looked away.
‘What did the letter say?’
‘Just that I’d be next. I’m getting worried now, Jon. I work here in my studio and I’m here on my own most of the time. I
thought it was a joke at first but now …’ She hesitated. ‘What if they really mean it?’
Bright took a deep breath. ‘OK. Where’s the note? At least the police might be able to tell something from it … trace the bastards
somehow. There could be fingerprints or …’
She shuddered, close to tears. ‘I’m sorry, Jon. I couldn’t stand having it in the house. I burned it. I know it was the wrong
thing to do but—’
‘You stupid cow,’ said Jon Bright. He left the room, slamming the door behind him.
The site of Stephen de Grendalle’s manor house is to be found on land belonging to Grandal Farm – named, I imagine, after
the de Grendalle family who once held sway there.
I close my eyes and see Stephen and Jeanne hurrying through the French countryside to the coast after her rescue from a fiery
death. He must have deserted from Simon de Montfort’s crusading army. How love can give us courage.
In 1153 Henry II of England had married Eleanor of Aquitaine, thus bringing the great port of Bordeaux under English rule.
Tradmouth’s deep harbour made it an ideal port for trade with that fine French town. Barrels of good red wine were rolled
ashore on Tradmouth’s waterfront and the town’s merchants grew fat and prosperous, building themselves fine houses and donating
money to the church to buy their way into heaven. The boom continued in 1204 when Normandy was lost and the importance of
ports on the western Channel grew even further.
De Grendalle and Jeanne must have entered Bordeaux hand in hand, looking for a captain willing to carry them back to
Tradmouth with his valuable cargo. De Grendalle would probably have paid the ship’s master well for the voyage that would
take Jeanne to a new life. And ultimately to her death.
(From papers found in the possession of Professor
Yves Demancour)
Wesley Peterson was rarely cowed by wealth and social superiority, but even he felt a frisson of apprehension about coming
face to face with Sir Martin Crace. He was a National Treasure. And National Treasures are untouchable and have to be treated
with great respect. Even Gerry Heffernan looked subdued and Gerry was certainly no respecter of high positions. He’d always
thought that, in the unlikely event of Her Majesty herself concealing a major crime, Gerry would have her hauled down to the
interview room at Tradmouth police station in the state coach without a second thought.
Security at Bewton Hall, just outside the town of Dukesbridge, was low key but obviously present. Famous and wealthy men sometimes
attract the desperate and delusional after all, and the likes of Sir Martin couldn’t be too careful.
The black sign with gold lettering bearing the name of the hall was as discreet as Crace’s security. Wesley drove past the
entrance to the estate twice before he realised where it was and, when he swung the car into the drive, he was met by a barrier
and two large men dressed from head to toe in black. He lowered the car window and one of them – a man with a shaved head
and a thin, humourless mouth – leaned in, politely
threatening. He was the type Wesley would normally leave some well-built uniformed colleagues to deal with, preferably with
the aid of a baton and a CS canister.
‘Afternoon … sir,’ the man said with just a faint trace of a sneer. To him, a black man and a large unkempt Scouser in a car
probably meant potential trouble.
Wesley recited their names and produced his warrant card and Gerry did likewise. ‘We’re here to see Sir Martin Crace. And
before you ask, he isn’t expecting us.’
A smug expression appeared on the security man’s face. ‘Sorry … sir. Sir Martin doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.
I’ll have to radio in and tell him you’re here.’
Gerry Heffernan leaned across. ‘We’d rather you didn’t, mate.’
‘No can do,’ said the large man, fingering the black walkie talkie he’d just detached from his belt.
‘Bugger off or we’ll do you for obstruction,’ Gerry shouted out of his open window. ‘Fancy a few hours in the cells, do you?’
This seemed to work. The man shot a killing look at Wesley and stepped to one side, fingering his walkie talkie while Wesley
revved the engine and shot past him, fuming. It wasn’t often people got to him but this man had succeeded.
‘When I was first mate on board ship, I had to deal with his sort all the time,’ Gerry said as they swept up the drive. ‘They
need a firm hand, that’s all.’
Wesley knew that the DCI’s days in the merchant navy had given him valuable experience in dealing with the unpleasant, the
fighting drunk and the downright bolshie. There were times when he thought his own upbringing – parents both doctors, private
school education and university – had been far too genteel.
The drive was long, no doubt made that way in times gone by to impress visitors with the massive size of the owner’s estate.
It must have worked back then and it still worked now. Wesley carried on driving past woodland, fields and banks of rhododendrons.
At one point they passed a small cottage tucked away at the edge of a copse. The place had a look of neglect, which surprised
Wesley as the rest of the estate seemed so well kept, and he wondered who lived there. One of the gorillas on the gate, maybe.
Or some faithful retired retainer. The place looked too unloved to house one of Sir Martin’s relations or a member of his
more senior staff. But it could be the home of a lowly under-gardener – or even a driver such as Ian Rowe had been.
But all thoughts of the cottage went out of his head as the main house came into view. Suddenly the rural landscape yielded
to an array of formal gardens, neat and well tended. And the house that loomed in front of them was even grander than he’d
expected.
‘Nice place,’ said Wesley as he brought the car to a halt on the gravel circle in front of the portico.
The chief inspector didn’t reply. Wesley saw that he was staring, dumbstruck, at the building in front of him.
‘Georgian, I should think,’ Wesley said. ‘Lovely proportions.’