‘Would she have gone in her car?’
‘Probably.’
‘Could she have come back without you or Sylvia knowing?’
‘Anything’s possible.’ His expression suddenly became serious. ‘Do you really think it’s her?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Is there anything else you can tell me about Tessa? Has she ever been married?’
‘She married very young and got divorced years ago – I never knew her husband; couldn’t even tell you his name.’
‘Any kids?’
‘She’d had a son when she was in her teens. I think he stayed with his dad but she never talked about him. He’ll be grown
up now, I suppose.’
‘What about the men in her life?’
‘There have been a few of them while I’ve known her. Mostly losers.’
‘Names?’
‘Sorry. She didn’t go on about her love life like some women do,’ he said, scratching his nose.
Something in the way he said the words told Rachel he might be lying. ‘What was your relationship with her?’
‘We kept it platonic. Best way if you’re working together.’
Rachel felt the blood rise to her cheeks. ‘You don’t have a photograph of her by any chance?’
She wasn’t expecting a positive answer, so she was surprised when he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a
file. He emptied the contents onto his desk; a dozen or so snaps, mainly taken at some distant celebration – Christmas judging
by the festive headgear.
He slid one of the pictures across the desk to her. ‘That’s Tessa,’ he said, pointing at a dark-haired woman who, even though
she was probably approaching her middle years, still looked slim and vivacious.
‘She really hated having her picture taken – had quite a phobia about it for some reason – but I sneaked this one without
her knowing.’
Rachel studied the picture. The E-fit of the woman found at Lister Cottage certainly bore a striking resemblance to Tessa
Trencham. She was as sure as she could be that Sylvia Cartland was a liar.
The Jester’s Journal
7 June 1815
Oh, how the Lady Pegassa has the Squire in her thrall. For a woman who has no English, she knows how to make her demands clear
to all. She sulks, she pouts, she throws the china if something displeases her, and behaves like some great lady who is not
entrapped by manners and morals.
I asked the Squire if he thought the lady would enjoy one of my entertainments but he made no reply. Perhaps he fears her
reaction if events should displease her.
I shall write to Henry Catton and suggest that he pays the Squire another visit. I long to arrange another of our hunts, but
I fear that woman has caused my Master to lose his appetite for the chase. However, if anybody can overcome the power of the
Lady Pegassa, it is Henry.
8 June 1815
Today the parson came to our door, all humble and reeking of sanctity. I knew the purpose of his visit was to view the Lady
Pegassa, for her presence has been the talk of idle tongues in these parts since her arrival. How the servants do spread the
Squire’s business abroad like muck on the fields to ensure a good crop of gossip and stories to fill their empty brains.
Our mealy-mouthed steward, Christopher Wells, invited him into the house with a display of obsequiousness that would make
a cat laugh. ‘Yes, Vicar. No Vicar. Shall I wipe your arse, Vicar?’ How I would like to see that man kicked from the house
and sent out into the lanes to beg his food.
When Wells led the parson to the library, where the lady was in the habit of spending the mornings, I secreted myself in the
passage behind the panelling and listened, stuffing my mouth with a handkerchief to prevent my laughter from being heard.
The clergyman attempted to speak to the lady in a number of strange tongues, and his solemnity and pomposity must have caused
her much amusement, even if she did not comprehend the meaning of the words.
It was a full-half hour before he abandoned his efforts and left, his departure only to be followed by the arrival of the
Misses Haddon of Neswell Court. Those two silly spinsters reminded me of a pair of hens as they clucked and fussed, looking
around full of apprehension in case the Squire should appear and chase them off with a brace of whipped backsides. Once again
they were shown into the Presence where they received little satisfaction as the lady addressed them haughtily in her incomprehensible
tongue. The sisters, I know for certain, came out of curiosity, and
now word has got out, no doubt there will be more visitors trooping up the drive in the mornings when all the district knows
my master rides to view his hounds.
Perhaps I should put a stop to it. When I write to Henry, I shall tell him how these impertinent numbskulls take advantage
of his kinsman.
Gerry gazed out to sea, standing too near to the edge of the cliff for Wesley’s liking.
Wesley edged nearer to him, trying not to look at the churning sea below. ‘This must be where they went over,’ he said. ‘Colin
said they had post-mortem injuries consistent with a fall from a cliff.’
‘It’s a long way down, Wes,’ the DCI took a step back to the safety of the path where the crime scene tape was flapping wildly
in the warm breeze and Wesley followed. ‘Do you think anyone would willingly stand there on the edge, naked as the day they
were born? I certainly wouldn’t.’
‘They might if they were being threatened with a shotgun. But the crime scene people say there’s nothing to suggest they died
here. No sign of any stray shot and no blood.’
‘Why were they naked?’
Wesley thought for a moment. ‘Could be sexual, but
we’ll have to wait till the post-mortem proper to find that out. Or it could have been a matter of control or humiliation.
Or to delay identification and eliminate traces of the killer’s DNA.’
‘We need to know where they died. And we need to find their clothes.’ Gerry looked round at the woodland, stretching inland
from the path. ‘All this area will have to be searched. Who owns this land?’
‘This coastal path belongs to the National Trust but the land and woods to our right belong to the Catton Hall estate.’ Wesley
was carrying an Ordnance Survey map, which he thought might come in useful. He spotted a wooden bench nearby where weary walkers
could rest and enjoy the view out to sea. He strode towards it, sat down, unfolded the map and studied it closely for a few
moments.
‘Were you a Boy Scout, Wes?’ Gerry said as he watched with a smile playing on his lips. ‘You’ve certainly come prepared.’
Wesley looked up and smiled. ‘As a matter of fact I was. And I thought the map might come in useful – give us an idea of the
lie of the land.’
‘Bet you got lots of badges at Scouts. My idea of being prepared was making sure I’d brought some matches and enough money
for five Woodbines so we could have a smoke behind the scout hut afterwards. So what’s the verdict?’
‘According to this map the nearest house is Catton Hall. Didn’t Paul say Barney’s mum mentioned something about a hall?’
‘There are lots of halls dotted around this area but we’ll pay this Catton Hall a visit anyway. Someone might have seen or
heard something.’
‘The noise of a gunshot would carry in the night air, I suppose.’
‘We’re sure they were killed at night?’
‘At this time of year this area’s teeming with walkers during the day. If someone brought the bodies here, it would have to
be under cover of darkness. Has Colin set a time for the post-mortem?’
‘This afternoon at half past three.’
Wesley folded up his map carefully and stretched his arms towards the sky. He felt himself yawn. Perhaps it was the effect
of all that good sea air after the muggy atmosphere of the office.
‘Keeping you up, Wes?’
Wesley felt obliged to smile. He stood up and they began to walk along the path where they saw a trio of ramblers in shorts
and boots that looked too heavy for the fine weather, arguing with one of the uniformed constables who’d been given the task
of patrolling the perimeter of the crime scene to make sure nobody tried to get past the blue and white tape. Wesley heard
the words ‘public footpath’ and ‘right of way’ spoken by a haranguing female voice, a woman who was used to being in authority,
a retired headmistress perhaps. But this time she wasn’t going to get her way. Her group would have to take the long way round.
Wesley’s map showed clearly that there was a footpath to Catton Hall so he led the way through woodland, then past fields
and hedgerows full of brambles, taking care not to get his jacket caught on the barbed tendrils that reached out to grab the
unwary passer-by.
They arrived at another area of woodland and picked their way down a bracken-strewn path shaded by tall,
deciduous trees. The air was filled with birdsong and the sound of unseen fluttering wings overhead: the music of the woods.
They walked quite a while before they spotted the hall in the distance.
Catton Hall looked as if it had been always been there, carved out of the bedrock. It wasn’t particularly large; just a rural
manor house, the home of a local squire rather than some great lord. If a great lord had owned it, it would have been extended
and modernised beyond recognition many years ago.
‘Neil’s working near here,’ Wesley said as they approached the front of the house.
‘I thought he was up at Fortress Point.’
‘He was, but now he’s taking part in some art project. Something to do with digging up a picnic.’
Gerry opened his mouth to say something but no sound came out. It wasn’t often he was lost for words.
Wesley rang the bell by the hall’s grand front door but there was no answer. ‘Let’s have a look round. The crime scene people
didn’t find any tyre tracks near the cliff top, and let’s face it, you couldn’t get a car up there, could you. That means
that whoever dumped those bodies didn’t take them far. There’s a lot of woodland round here so we’ll need a big search team.
We’ve got to find out exactly where those kids died.’
‘I’ve got a feeling this killer isn’t going to make life easy for us. Where exactly is Neil working on this art thing?’
‘Near the old holiday park.’ He paused. ‘He told me he stayed there once.’
‘So this is a trip down memory lane for him. It used to be a nice place once upon a time.’
From the map, Wesley had worked out the route and as
he walked ahead of Gerry down a pitted driveway, then through more woodland, he kept his eyes focused on the light-dappled
ground, just in case there were any tell-tale signs of a disturbance.
But there was nothing; no spent cartridges at the base of a tree; no signs of a struggle in the rotting leaves left over from
last autumn; no dried blood staining the undergrowth. Soon they emerged from the shade of the trees into a large level field
bordered on the far side by a rusty wire fence. Beyond the fence, Wesley could see the run-down holiday chalets with their
dusty windows and peeling varnish, but the field itself was alive with activity. Wesley had studied archaeology at Exeter
University and he recognised the signs at once: the trench marked out with string stretched between two points; the black
plastic buckets for the spoil, the trowels, spades, mattocks and kneeling mats. The finds trays lined with newspaper waiting
to receive any artefacts dug from the ground.
Four young men and a well-built girl were removing the turf and piling it beside the marked-out trench. They didn’t speak
and Wesley couldn’t help wondering why they looked so fed up. He also wondered why they weren’t using a mechanical digger
for this initial stage. It would save a lot of back-breaking work, but Neil was in charge and he trusted him to know what
he was doing.
He saw his friend standing a few yards away from the trench, arms folded defensively. Beside him stood a wiry man with thick
white curls and brightly coloured clothes who was watching the diggers in silent fascination. Neil kept his eyes fixed ahead,
and Wesley had the impression that he was doing his best to ignore his companion.
Two strangely dressed men stood behind Neil, watching
the proceedings, while a petite Japanese woman moved round the edge of the trench with an expensive-looking video camera.
Her expression was one of intense concentration, as though she was engaged on serious and important business. A young man
in a suit hung back a little from the rest talking on his BlackBerry, strangely out of place among such flamboyant company.
Gerry gaped with undisguised curiosity at Neil’s companions. Then he turned to Wesley, with a chuckle. ‘Neil looks like a
nun who’s just found herself in a tart’s boudoir. If I were you, I’d go and rescue him.’
It wasn’t long before Neil spotted Wesley and a look of sheer relief appeared on his face as he hurried over to greet him.
‘Am I glad to see you,’ he said, looking round to make sure he wasn’t overheard. ‘I’ve had to make conversation with that
lot for the past few hours and it’s not easy, I can tell you.’
‘Who are they?’
‘The guy in the suit is Kevin Orford’s PR man and the others are his fellow artists. And a bigger load of pretentious wankers
you’d never meet. Would you believe he wanted us to dig the whole trench with leaf trowels!’
‘I trust you put him right.’
‘We compromised on spades for the turf and the top foot or so. Our nice little mini-digger would have ruined the whole artistic
ambience, and he’s forbidden the use of mattocks because they represent violence.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I told my colleagues
to grit their teeth and think of the money.’ He nodded in Gerry’s direction. At least they’re keeping your boss amused.’
‘Everyone has their uses.’
‘I’d heard there was something going on up by the cliffs but I assumed they’d sent the rescue helicopter out because some
idiot in a boat had got into trouble.’
‘Not this time. Two kids were shot, then their bodies were pushed or thrown over the cliff.’
Neil swore under his breath.
‘Do you know who owns that big house just down there beyond the trees?’