Neil and his colleagues stood at the edge of the trench and looked down at the Feast of Life, lying there in all its rotting
glory.
The feast had been laid out on a trestle table: Neil had seen the photographs of the artists sitting on folding wooden stools,
tucking into the chicken legs and wine. The table and stools had collapsed and all but perished, leaving only rusty screws
and fragments of spongy wood behind, but now that the ceramics, wine bottles, cutlery, chicken bones and plastic cups had
been brushed free of earth, it was easy to make out where the guests at that strange meal had sat.
‘It’s been an interesting exercise,’ he said with a sigh to nobody in particular. The artists were about to take a cast of
the remains which would later be exhibited at Tate Modern along with the video of the dig. Orford seemed to assume that Neil
would be thrilled about featuring in an art installation and he’d been rather disappointed at his lack of enthusiasm. But
the truth was Neil couldn’t wait to return to some proper archaeology.
It was just coming up to five but the sun was still strong and he shielded his eyes as he looked around.
Earlier Richard Catton had disappeared between the
chalets for another meeting with some planner or surveyor. Rumour was that work would begin soon on the new, improved holiday
park, but Richard was looking more worried than triumphant. Neil couldn’t help wondering about his father up at Catton Hall.
According to Richard, he spent all his time working on a book about his family’s history, but he was surprised that he hadn’t
been down to the field to see what was going on. Perhaps the old man was ill? Perhaps Richard looked haggard because he’d
been up with him all night? Who knows what goes on in other people’s lives.
He was about to help himself to a coffee from the flask he’d brought with him when he saw Orford approaching. He braced himself
for some complaint, but the artist’s brittle bluster seemed to have disappeared as he sidled up to Neil and shot a glance
at the side of the trench where his colleagues were standing watching, waiting for the fun to begin.
‘Have you had the results of those tests on those bones yet?’
‘Not yet.’ He looked Orford in the eye. ‘You sure you don’t know anything about them? They weren’t chucked in as some kind
of artistic statement?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Orford almost spat out the words. Then he stared at the ground in silence for a few moments before
speaking again. ‘I heard on the radio that they’d found a woman’s body in a house in Morbay.’
Neil wondered where the conversation was going. ‘Yeah. My friend’s working on the case. Why?’
‘I’m contemplating some sort of study of violent death, that’s all. Just looking for inspiration.’
Neil watched his face. Somehow his tasteless, unfeeling
words didn’t quite ring true, and he had a gut feeling that his interest was more than academic. But he could be wrong. What
did he know of the art world?
‘Do you know if the police have made any progress?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Neil.
Neil stood quite still and watched, puzzled, as Orford turned and walked slowly back to the decaying feast.
Rachel looked round and saw Paul standing by Trish’s desk. He’d had no luck at the paintball centre. Heckerty had never heard
the name Jimmy Yates before he’d read about his death in the local paper, and he certainly hadn’t been one of his select band
of hares. They all came from Corley Grange – the game, online and real, was quite a craze amongst the sixth-formers there.
Heckerty said that Yates might have taken part in one of his paintballing sessions at some time but he didn’t keep records
of everybody’s name, and he certainly didn’t recognise his photograph.
It might have been her imagination but Trish looked a little awkward, but then she’d been quiet of late, almost as though
she was harbouring a secret. Or perhaps Paul’s bereavement had affected her more than she was letting on. As Rachel watched
them she felt a twinge of envy. Work meant that she hadn’t seen her boyfriend, Nigel, for almost a week now, murder enquiries
always wrecked your social life, and now she was involved in three separate investigations she was starting to feel that no
life existed outside the walls of Tradmouth police station. There were times when she wondered whether the job was getting
too much for her, and this was one of them.
When Trish stood up and walked over to her desk, Rachel forced out a welcoming smile. ‘Anything new?’
‘The offices of Morbay Properties have been searched but they didn’t find anything, although the boss still thinks the manager
knows more than he’s telling.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘However, we’ve had more luck with the house-to-house interviews with Evie’s
former neighbours at Roly Walk. A couple of them mentioned that she had a lot of male visitors.’
‘Did they know anything about her?’
‘No. They said she kept herself to herself. But I’ve just found out that a few months ago there was a complaint from an old
lady who lived opposite. It seems she was sharp enough to suspect what Evie’s line of business was and she started taking
down registration numbers and giving them to the local police like a good citizen.’
‘A busybody.’
‘Mmm. I wonder if she was one of the reasons Evie moved out. Maybe things got too hot for her once somebody cottoned on to
what she was up to. Anyway, one of Evie’s regular callers had a black BMW with blacked-out windows.’
‘Did she get the number?’
‘She certainly did. The letters spelled ‘GAP’.’
‘And?’ She knew Trish was stringing it out, keeping the best till last.
‘The car belongs to George Anthony Pickard – the father of Barney Pickard. We’ve found a connection between the murders. I’d
better tell the boss.’
As Trish hurried away, Rachel felt another twinge of envy. Not only did Trish have a lover on the premises, but now she was
going to get all the credit for this new discovery. She put her head in her hands and told herself not to be such a stupid
bitch. But she felt too tired to take any notice of her own advice.
The Steward’s Journal
26 July 1815
A most dreadful thing has happened and, in my shock and grief, I am at a loss to know how I should proceed.
This morning, Peggy was found dead in the woods by the Squire himself as he was exercising his hounds. She lay amongst the
trees and she was brought back to the house on a shutter by two of the menservants. Now she lies coffined in the dining room.
The Lady Pegassa. And it is said that she will have a grand funeral paid for by the Squire as befits a princess.
The Squire is adamant that she met with an unfortunate accident and has forbidden any examination of her body, so the manner
of her death is unclear. I, however, knowing of her true identity, fear that some foul play has taken place.
Today I walked through the estate, hoping to see the young man of whom she was so afraid, but there was no sign of him. I
returned to the house, and as I did so, saw John Tandy in deep conversation with the Squire. The so-called jester looked afraid,
as though he was fearful of being caught at some mischief or other. Perhaps with this tragedy, Henry Catton’s cruel entertainments
might cease.
I will try to find a way of examining Peggy’s poor dead body. For I was truly fond of her, in spite of her deception. I fear
that her death might have been caused by one of the evil persons hereabouts. There has been much wickedness in this house
of late.
The Jester’s Journal
26 July 1815
The matter of Pegassa’s death has even distracted the busy-bodies hereabouts from talk of Boney’s visit, and what lamentations
there have been for this stonemason’s daughter. I confided my knowledge to the Squire but he boxed my ears for slandering
the dead, thinking it some jest of mine. Sometimes the mask of Silly John means that my words are treated as mere foolery.
The Squire will give her a princess’s funeral at our little parish church. I told him that we do not know if she is a Christian,
but he responded that in death she must have the best and most dignified obsequies that our community can provide, whatever
faith she followed in life. Where Pegassa is concerned it is the Squire who wears the jester’s cap and bells. How a lovely
woman can turn a man’s mind to broth in the flash of a pair of dark eyes.
I came upon the steward in the hall just before dinner and he says he has examined the lady’s body against the master’s wishes.
He claims he saw bruising around her neck and he will not believe that her death was an accident. Knowing how I resented the
Squire’s interest in the girl, he made accusations against me and claimed that my murderous envy caused me to kill her when
I came upon her alone and unprotected. This I denied. But I fear my words were unconvincing, for he spoke the truth. I did
hate the woman’s growing influence over my master. What is an aging jester, a relic from a bygone age, compared with an exotic
beauty who knows how to flatter an old man.
I rejoice that she is dead.
The previous evening Neil had called Wesley to say that Kevin Orford had been asking about the inquiry into Evie’s death.
But Wesley had dismissed this as a case of natural curiosity: it’s said that many people enjoy a murder mystery and there
was no reason why a well-known conceptual artist shouldn’t be one of them. Besides, he had more urgent matters to deal with.
And speaking to Barney Pickard’s father was top of his list.
It was 8.15 a.m. and somebody had already called Pickard to make sure he’d be at home. As Wesley and Gerry drove into Morbay
everything seemed quiet. Hardly surprising, Wesley thought, as the holidaymakers would still be enjoying their full English
breakfasts in the town’s hotels and guest houses. A couple of hours later, when they’d organised themselves to enjoy a day
in the sunshine, the seafront and the sandy beach would be packed.
Pickard lived at one of Morbay’s more exclusive
addresses; a modern penthouse overlooking the little harbour where an array of white boats bobbed at anchor. Wesley thought
of the beautiful house occupied by Barney and his mother: there was certainly money in this family and he couldn’t help wondering
where it came from. Then he remembered that the mother, Patsy Lowther, had once been a top model, and he imagined that there
was probably a lot of money in standing around being photographed looking lovely. Nice work if you could get it.
Wesley, with Gerry standing by his side, pushed the buzzer in the glass entrance hall and a disembodied voice told them to
come up. The voice sounded casual, quite unworried. Wesley wondered whether Pickard would sound the same once they told him
they knew of his connection with the dead Evie.
Gerry insisted they took the stairs because Joyce had been nagging him about his fitness again. Besides, he’d just been notified
that he was due for a routine medical and this always seemed to spur him into activity. When they reached the top they paused
for Gerry to get his breath back before ringing Pickard’s door bell. The door was opened almost immediately by a small, bald
man whose rotund middle was well camouflaged by the expensive cut of his dark suit. Somehow Wesley had expected someone tall
and distinguished, someone who matched up to Patsy Lowther’s beauty. Perhaps George Pickard had an attractive bank balance.
Pickard looked impatient as he closed the door and shook their hands. ‘I have to catch the train to London for a business
meeting in an hour, so I can’t spare you much time. What can I do for you?’
Gerry caught Wesley’s eye. Pickard obviously had no notion of what was coming and Wesley almost found himself feeling sorry
for the man.
‘First of all let me say how sorry we are about your son.’
Pickard’s face clouded. ‘Yes. We were close in spite of … in spite of his mother. I tried my best with him, even though it
wasn’t easy.’
‘I’m sure you did, Mr Pickard,’ said Wesley. ‘But we haven’t come about your son. We need to talk to you about another matter.’
Pickard still didn’t seem particularly worried, only mildly curious. ‘What’s that then?’ he asked, glancing at the large Rolex
watch on his left wrist, as he led them into a huge lounge with windows that filled one wall, giving a panoramic view of the
sea.
They sat down on an uncomfortable black leather sofa before Wesley asked the first question. ‘A few months ago you were a
regular visitor to an address in the St Marks district of Morbay. Number twenty-three Roly Walk.’
The blood drained from Pickard’s cheeks and he hesitated for a few moments, gathering his thoughts, before answering. ‘I might
have been there a few times but I don’t see what—’
‘You visited a woman called Evie.’
‘How do you know that?’ His eyes darted to and fro as though searching for an escape route.
‘One of the neighbours kept a note of all the cars that visited the address and their registration numbers.’
‘Why?’
‘Because—’
‘She thought it was a knocking shop,’ Gerry’s interruption earned him a look of astonishment from Pickard.
There was a lengthy silence before Pickard spoke again. His cheeks had reddened but he was bluffing it out. ‘Well, I don’t
suppose there’s any point in denying it, and I’m sure we’re all men of the world.’
‘We are indeed,’ said Gerry.
The man paused for a few moments before continuing. He was sitting in an armchair opposite, his fingers arched in a confessional
pose. He lowered his voice. ‘I did visit a lady at that address. Her name was Evie but I haven’t seen her for a couple of
months.’
‘She was murdered a fortnight ago,’ said Gerry. ‘Her body was found last week.’
Pickard sat back suddenly, as though he’d been hit. ‘I … I had no idea she was dead. I … I don’t know what to say.’ He looked
at Wesley as though he judged him to be the more sympathetic of the pair. ‘Was she that woman who was murdered in St Marks
Road? On the news they just said an unidentified woman. I didn’t even know she’d moved house.’