Wesley Peterson kept his eyes on the winding road. When the carriageway straightened as it ran into Dukesbridge, he began
to speak. ‘This is sheer speculation, but stop me if you think I’m going wrong.’
Heffernan nodded. ‘Don’t I always? Carry on.’
‘I think Charles Pitaway, the real Charles Pitaway, was probably a bit of a free spirit. He most likely backpacked around
Europe and Asia – hence his penchant for travelling light, as witnessed by Dilys at the caravan park – and then he got a job
in a French vineyard for a while. While he was there a letter arrived for him saying his father had died and that he had inherited
the lot, including the Earlsacre estate. But he never got the letter. It was opened by one of the other workers on the estate,
an Englishman who had befriended him, someone who perhaps shared accommodation with him. This man probably looked a bit like
him and could get away with using his passport – the photos are never good anyway. Then somehow the impostor pinched Charles’
ID papers; and remember the real Charles had no idea that his father was dead. All he knew was that his papers were missing
and that the other bloke had gone. Eventually the impostor presented himself at the family’s solicitors; at the offices of
Blake, Willerby and Johns, where Brian Willerby was dealing with the late Mr Pitaway’s estate, and also with the proposed
purchase of Earlsacre by Martin Samuels’ trust. A lot of money would be coming Charles Pitaway’s way, certainly enough to
kill for. The real Pitaway would have been oblivious to all this going on until some expat working on the vineyard for the
summer showed him an English newspaper with the piece about Earlsacre and the photograph of his fellow vineyard worker, who
had mysteriously disappeared at the same time as the real Charles’ ID papers and passport. He came straight over to Devon,
of course, and contacted Brian Willerby, who visited him in the caravan where he was staying. The killer took his victim’s
T-shirt off – I strongly suspect that the coat of arms and foreign writing on it had something to do with the vineyard where
they’d both worked. Any sort of French connection – if you’ll pardon the expression – might have put us on the right track.
Are you with me so far?’
Gerry Heffernan nodded. ‘I’m with you. Sounds a bit risky.’
‘Where’s the risk? He’s got all the ID and seems to know what he’s talking about. You’ve met him. He’s plausible. And he’s
well spoken, with that public school confidence that people don’t question. If the real Charles turned up, he’d just turn
the tables on him and say that he was the impostor. By all accounts the real Charles was far less impressive, so who are people
going to believe?’
‘So why did he call himself John Jones? Why not use his real name?’
‘Perhaps he didn’t want to take the risk of the bogus Charles finding out he was here; after all, he might have come across
someone with connections with Earlsacre and word would have got back. It was safer to be John Jones until he’d convinced Willerby
and notified the authorities.’
‘Surely there would have been someone who knew the real Charles. What about his family?’
‘He had no family. His parents were dead. No relatives. And I bet the real Charles talked a lot about his background when
he was with this bloke in France, so he’d know all the details. A good con man can convince anyone – look at Soapy Syd and
Steve. But I imagine there would have been correspondence from the real Charles in the file stolen from Willerby’s office
… different handwriting.’
‘So he broke in there as well?’
Wesley nodded. ‘It fits, doesn’t it?’
‘Perhaps someone should get on to the police in Bordeaux – see if they know anything about any shenanigans involving a Charles
Pitaway. Might be worth a try.’
‘I’ve been in touch with them already. They’re calling back if they’ve got anything.’
Heffernan looked impressed. ‘So you reckon this false Charles Pitaway killed Brian Willerby too?’
‘I think Brian had found out the truth from the real Charles when he visited him at the caravan site on Tuesday night; that’s
when young Billy saw him. Then Charles had another visitor about an hour later … the man who killed him. I think that was
why Willerby was so anxious to talk to me: he probably still wasn’t sure who to believe and he didn’t really know what to
do. Of course, the impostor felt he had to shut Willerby up too before he had a chance to speak to the police and cause awkward
questions to be asked. He was cool, I’ll give him that. He must have killed Willerby just before he came into the pavilion
and started chatting to me.’
‘Bloody cheek,’ said Heffernan under his breath.
‘He seemed a bit breathless, come to think of it.’
They turned into the road that led to the harbour. To their right was a block of brand-new apartments, its frontage dotted
with tasteful black iron balconies, giving it the look of a converted warehouse.
Wesley jumped from the car and pressed the bell of Pitaway’s apartment. He kept on pressing it as if he believed his persistence
would be rewarded.
‘He’s not here,’ said Heffernan, defeated.
‘Let’s have a word with the neighbours.’ Wesley began to press each bell in turn. Only one bore fruit. A bored-looking blonde
emerged from the front door in a pristine tight white T-shirt and jeans and regarded Wesley suspiciously.
She had seen Charles Pitaway about half an hour ago in the underground carpark, she said, in a bored drawl. She knew Charlie,
she added significantly. Wesley suspected that there was some attraction there, on her side at least. He had had a couple
of large suitcases with him, and she had asked him where he was off to. He said he was going away for a few days and asked
her to water his plants. He had been carrying a rug out to the car – said he was taking it to be cleaned, and that he’d been
having a bit of a clear-out. He had seemed perfectly normal and he hadn’t had anybody with him.
Wesley didn’t know whether to be relieved or apprehensive about this last piece of news. Then he thought of Rachel and experienced
a gnawing fear in the pit of his stomach. If she wasn’t with Charles Pitaway, where was she?
Gerry Heffernan used his dubious charms to persuade the blonde that it was imperative they examined Pitaway’s apartment as
soon as possible. She looked defensive at first, as though she were about to refuse. But when he told her it might be a matter
of life and death, she handed over Pitaway’s spare keys without a word.
They found the flat bare, abandoned. The occupant hadn’t intended to go away for a few days: he had gone for good. There were
still some clothes in the wardrobes and drawers; he had left the things he knew he wouldn’t use, wouldn’t need. They continued
the search. No passport, no credit cards or driving licence. It looked as if Charles Pitaway had flown his stylish nest.
‘He’s taken his passport, Wes. Where do you think he’ll go? Where would you go if you were him?’
Wesley thought for a while, opening doors and drawers absentmindedly. Then he turned to his boss. ‘I’d probably head for France.
It’s somewhere he knows, somewhere he can get lost. I reckon he’ll head for the South, ditch the car if necessary, revert
to his own identity, whatever that is.’
‘What time’s the next ferry from Plymouth?’
‘He might not go from Plymouth.’
‘It’s nearest. Presumably he’s guessed that we’re on to him so he’ll want to get out of the country quick before all hell
breaks loose.’
Wesley made a quick call on his mobile. ‘There’s a ferry sailing from Plymouth at twelve-thirty.’
‘Get on to the local police there – tell them to keep an eye out for him. Let’s get down there quick.’
‘What about Rachel?’
‘Well, she’s not here. And according to Miss Tight T-shirt he didn’t have anyone with him when he set off in his car, so your
guess is as good as mine.’
‘Have her family been told?’
‘If we haven’t found her in a couple of hours I’ll send someone up to the farm, but there’s no point in worrying them before
we have to. She might turn up safe and sound,’ Heffernan added optimistically.
When they left the apartment, Wesley handed Heffernan his mobile phone. ‘Keep trying Rachel’s mobile number, will you?’
Heffernan nodded, stabbing at the buttons while Wesley took the turning on to the Plymouth road and put his foot down to the
floor.
The red Toyota rolled forward slowly, taking its place in the line of cars waiting for the 12.30 ferry. The driver fumbled
for his ticket and passport and placed them neatly on the passenger seat beside him. It was all there. There would be no problem.
A tap on the driver’s window made him look up with a start. A fresh-faced young police constable was staring in earnestly.
The driver pressed the button that sent the electric window gliding downwards.
‘Excuse me, sir, would you mind getting out of the car?’
‘Certainly, Officer.’ He climbed out. If he kept calm, kept cool, all would be well. It always had been.
‘May I see your passport, sir?’
The driver got back into the car and leaned across to retrieve the passport from the passenger seat. He gave it to the constable,
who studied it for a few seconds before returning it to its owner.
‘Sorry to have bothered you, sir,’ said the constable officially. ‘That’s all in order.’
The driver nodded and looked ahead. The first vehicle in the queue was crawling up the ramp into the bowels of the huge ferry.
Wesley’s mobile began to ring just as they turned into the ferry terminal. Gerry Heffernan, slumped beside him in the passenger
seat, picked it up and answered it.
‘The incident room’s just heard from the French police,’ he announced to Wesley after a lengthy conversation. ‘They have a
record of a Charles Pitaway, a British national doing casual work in a place called the Château des Arbres – a vineyard. Castle
of the trees – sounds nice, doesn’t it?’
‘What about him?’ asked Wesley impatiently.
‘He had his passport and all his other ID and money nicked … reported it to the local gendarmes. He’d passed out in his room
and when he was found he had to be taken to the local hospital to have his stomach pumped out ’cause they reckoned he’d been
drugged … barbiturates. Apparently they might have killed him if he hadn’t been found in time. The hospital put it down as
an attempted suicide but the patient denied it. Anyway, when he got back to the château the bloke he’d been sharing a room
with had buggered off, and so had his passport: apparently the two men were a similar height and colouring. Pitaway reported
the theft and claimed that he’d been doped. But the missing room-mate was never found. The gendarmes reckoned he was long
gone, so the whole incident remained on the file as just another unsolved theft. This was in late August last year.’
‘And what was the other man’s name? The one who disappeared at the same time as the passport?’
‘Mark Helston. They’ve looked up his record and he’s been a bad lad. Con man with lots of charm and a vicious streak. Clever
bastard too, by all accounts.’
Wesley said nothing as he brought the car to a halt outside the ferry terminal in a space reserved for staff. He didn’t put
his fears into words: they would become more real once they were spoken. He could see the line of cars, some bearing GB plates
and others, returning holidaymakers, bearing the letters of other European countries. He scanned the queue for the red Toyota
but he couldn’t spot it. Perhaps he’d been wrong. He climbed out of the car and began to walk over to the line, which was
moving slowly as the cars disappeared one by one into the monstrous belly of the ship like little fish being fed to a whale.
A young constable was standing near the ferry talking on his radio. Wesley rushed up to him, his warrant card held in front
of him to announce his identity. Gerry Heffernan lumbered behind, trying to keep up.
Fortunately the young constable seemed to be in the know. ‘He’s just this minute driven on board, sir,’ he said to Wesley
earnestly. ‘It
was his car, all right; I checked the registration number. And he’s still using the name Pitaway; had a passport and everything.
All looked kosher to me. I didn’t know whether I should stop him or …’
‘That’s okay. You did fine. He’s just gone on, you say?’
‘About a minute ago.’
‘Then with any luck we’ll catch him as he parks up.’
‘The cavalry’s arrived,’ announced Gerry Heffernan as Steve Carstairs brought his Escort XR3i to a screaming halt diagonally
across the concrete. Steve climbed out and slammed the door, donning a pair of dark glasses. A shaken PC Wallace climbed unsteadily
out of the passenger door. They both stood there for a moment like a pair of indecisive sheep.
‘Well, come on – what are you waiting for? Christmas?’ shouted Gerry Heffernan.
Without a word Wesley made for the car ferry’s vast jaws, followed by his three colleagues from Tradmouth and half a dozen
local uniformed officers. The local police had stopped any more vehicles going aboard but, walking up the ramps, he still
felt unsafe. The huge space where the cars spent their journey was dimly lit and stank of petrol and exhaust fumes. But as
the bowels of the ship were still half empty, it wasn’t difficult to spot the red Toyota, its paintwork gleaming under the
bulkhead lights, in a row next to the metal door that led to the ferry’s passenger quarters.
‘Give it a good going-over,’ Heffernan said to the local officers quietly. ‘Steve, Wallace, you get up them stairs. We’ve
got to find him.’ He turned to Wesley. ‘Wes, you keep trying her mobile.’
The dark-haired young man leaned on the ship’s rail and stared down into the murky water. He looked at his watch – a Rolex:
he liked the best – and saw that it was almost time for the ferry to depart. He would soon be back in France, and this time
his visit would be more comfortable, more enjoyable than the last. He smiled to himself. The last time he had made the journey
across the Channel he had left behind one dingy room in a London council flat; penniless, unemployed. He had always fancied
France, and the prospect of working in a vineyard for a while had seemed exotic, attractive. He loved cultivating plants,
watching them grow: he had enjoyed designing the prison garden during his last stretch inside. So why not give vines a try?