‘I asked the householders what they knew about the history of the house but it seems they haven’t taken much interest.’
‘Sometimes it’s better not to know,’ Gerry said quickly. ‘I bet they wish they’d never started digging that trench now.’
Wesley smiled. Gerry was probably right. ‘But it’s not only the skeletons that look suspicious.’ He didn’t want the boss to
be lulled into a false sense of security.
‘What do you mean?’
Once Wesley had explained about the pictures and the attic room, Gerry sat in stupefied silence for a while. Then he spoke,
a worried frown creasing his chubby face. ‘If Neil’s wrong and those bodies do turn out to be fairly recent …’
He didn’t have to finish his sentence. Wesley had been thinking the same thing himself. That attic room up those hidden stairs
might have been a scene of butchery – but not necessarily of animals. Maybe a killer had lived at Tailors Court at one time
and he had buried his victims in the grounds.
‘I’ve sent a few samples of cloth fragments from that room to the lab. It’ll be interesting to see what they find.’
‘I take it Neil’s still carrying on with the digging?’
Wesley nodded. ‘He says there are a number of anomalies on the geophysics survey.’
‘And that means?’
‘Possible graves.’
‘How soon can he get it done?’
‘As long as it takes. It’s painstaking work. All possible evidence has to be recorded and preserved.’
Gerry sighed. ‘Well, he did say those bones had probably been down there quite a while – unlike James Dalcott which is urgent
with the press baying for the culprit.’ A local morning newspaper lay on the DCI’s desk, folded so that the headline couldn’t
be seen. Gerry pushed it towards him and Wesley opened it out.
‘“Police baffled by doctor’s shooting,” Wesley read out loud. ‘Well, they’ve got that one right.’
‘Makes us sound like the ruddy Keystone Kops.’ He began to search the heap of files on his desk and when he’d found what he
was looking for he handed a sheet of paper to Wesley. ‘The ballistics report. Revolver. Webley and Scott: standard World War
Two issue for officers and military police. Someone’s dad probably kept it as a souvenir. In spite of all the amnesties, there
are probably still quite a few lying around in attics and grannies’ drawers.’
Wesley studied the report for a few moments then handed it back to the DCI. ‘Maybe the TV appeal will produce some results.’
Gerry looked at him and gave his widest grin. ‘How are you feeling? Nervous? It’s your first time, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. I’m a media virgin.’
‘Only ’cause you’ve wriggled out of it before. You couldn’t escape forever, you know. Not when the Chief
Constable’s so keen to show how inclusive and multi-ethnic we are.’ He gave Wesley a wink. ‘You’ll be fine.’
Wesley said nothing. Gerry appeared to be amused by the situation. But he’d appeared on TV several times making statements
and appeals for witnesses, so he probably knew what he was talking about.
Gerry picked up a sheet of paper that was lying on his desk. ‘Tom from Scientific Support’s been through Dalcott’s computer
files like a dose of salts. Our victim was fond of genealogy and websites listing medical practitioners and their careers.
He also looked at sites mentioning the George Clipton case. Apart from that, nothing out of the ordinary and no suspicious
e-mails. We need to visit that clinic Dalcott worked at. Did you manage to find out any more about Dalcott’s real dad?’
‘I looked at a few websites last night. It seemed like an open and shut case, the oldest story in the book. Middle-aged doctor
marries pretty young wife. Young wife has baby then gets bored. She starts going round with a lively crowd and having affairs
then the older, boring husband snaps, strangles her and bashes her face in for good measure.’
‘No mystery, then?’
‘Doesn’t look like it. Maybe it’s got nothing to do with his murder.’
Gerry scratched his head thoughtfully before looking Wesley in the eye. ‘There’s always the possibility that history has repeated
itself, only in reverse. Pretty young wife gets bored with boring middle-aged doctor, finds younger stud then decides to do
dull husband in for the insurance or whatever.’
‘I’m keeping an open mind,’ said Wesley, although Gerry’s theory sounded as good as any.
‘There’s still no sign of these missing neighbours – Syd and Brian Trenchard or whatever they were calling themselves.’
‘As the car was hired in the name of William Smith, I think we can assume they aren’t their real names. I’ve asked Paul to
contact the owners of the cottage to gain access. Who knows, if we get their fingerprints we might find their real names on
the police computer.’
Wesley stood up. ‘Do you think we should let the Podingham Clinic know we’re coming?’
Gerry looked him in the eye. ‘Why make it easy for them to think up a story?’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to see the
Nutter in half an hour. Bring him up to date with our progress. Why don’t you and Rachel go to the clinic?’
‘Are you going to tell the Nutter about Neil’s skeletons?’
‘I’ll tell him that, according to an expert – that’s Neil – the bones probably aren’t our problem. That should keep him happy
for a few seconds. Right, off you go and see what our victim got up to in his spare time.’
When Wesley broke the news to Rachel she seemed keen to get out of the office. Wesley let her drive as usual. Being born and
bred there in the Devon countryside, she knew the landscape well and had been driving down the terrifying narrow lanes ever
since she passed her test at the age of seventeen years and one month, having practised assiduously on her parents’ farm.
Wesley sat silently in the passenger seat and, as Rachel steered her way down the main road towards the small town of Podbury
that lay between Neston and Dukesbridge, he went over in his head everything he knew about the murder of James
Dalcott. Dalcott had been shot in the head once, execution style, and the ballistics report stated that the weapon was a World
War II revolver.
He couldn’t banish the idea of execution from his thoughts. But the only suspects with any motive – the ex-wife and Adam Tey,
the father of the child who’d died – hardly seemed the sort to end someone’s life so coldly and efficiently. Unless they had
paid a professional to act for them: it was a possibility they couldn’t dismiss easily. He also had an uneasy feeling about
the missing neighbours – had they been professional hit men hired to watch the quarry and strike when the time was right?
But if this was the case, they’d certainly taken their time about it. And there was the question of Harry Parker’s conviction.
He’d used a firearm, albeit an unloaded one, when he’d robbed the jeweller, Joseph Hyam, which meant that Harry Parker was
likely to have some pretty unsavoury contacts.
‘Anything new?’ Rachel asked as they reached a crossroads.
Wesley told her about the ballistics report and shared his views on Syd and Brian Trenchard. He saw a smile appear on her
face.
‘A father and son hit man team. Is that likely?’
He didn’t answer. She was probably right. Rachel often was in his experience. And a hit man would hardly hang around for a
couple of weeks living next door to the target. He’d get the job done as quickly as possible and make a rapid exit – and he’d
probably work alone.
After a long silence she spoke again. ‘What does this Podingham clinic do?’
‘I’m not sure. I looked it up on the Internet and it didn’t give much away.’
‘Not cosmetic surgery then?’
As Wesley looked at her he thought he could see an expectant expression on her face and he wondered if she was fishing for
compliments. ‘No. No facelifts and liposuction as far as I could see. It said something about working in partnership with
its parent company, Pharmitest International.’
Rachel frowned. ‘Farmitest? Is that something to do with agriculture?’
‘No. Pharm spelled with a PH. Presumably some kind of drug company. I looked them up on the Internet too but it was all a
lot of corporate-speak and gobbledygook. Is this it?’
They had just spotted a sign informing them that Podbury was two miles away when, as they passed an area of woodland, Wesley
saw a pair of large gateposts topped by stone eagles with outspread wings. The iron gates were firmly shut but there was an
entryphone arrangement fixed to the gatepost on the right. There was also a discreet and new-looking sign with the words ‘The
Podingham Clinic’ printed on in flowery script.
‘Looks like they want to keep the riffraff out,’ Rachel observed as she pulled the car up to the gate.
‘As long as that doesn’t include us.’
Rachel lowered her window and pushed the button on the entryphone. A few seconds after she’d announced their arrival the gates
began to swing open very slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. Rachel, irritated, revved the engine. It did no
good but Wesley guessed that it made her feel better.
The drive was flanked by tall evergreen trees crowding over the roadway to form a dark tunnel. If Wesley had
been driving he would have been tempted to switch on his headlights but after a while they emerged into what passed for the
light in mid-November. Before them was a large house – the sort described in exclusive estate agents’ brochures as a Victorian
gentleman’s residence. The area in front of the main door had been covered with tarmac and marked off into car parking spaces.
Rachel chose one at random, edged the car in and switched off the engine.
Wesley led the way to the open front door and they soon found themselves in an elegant hall with a chequerboard floor. There
was no sign of medical activity; no drip stands; no wheelchairs; and no hospital swing doors. The place still looked fit for
its original purpose – the home of a wealthy and tasteful family.
A door opened to their left and a blonde woman in her thirties emerged wearing a pristine white coat over a dark suit. Her
shoes looked expensive and Wesley saw Rachel glance down at them with a flicker of envy.
The woman smiled, displaying a set of unnaturally even teeth. ‘Welcome to the Podingham Clinic. I’m Fiona Verdun, the administrative
manager.’ She shook hands with each of them solemnly. ‘We were absolutely devastated to hear about Dr Dalcott – that goes
without saying. If we can do anything to help the police …’
‘Nobody from the clinic has been in touch with us,’ said Wesley, trying not to make the words sound too critical.
‘Well, it was considered, of course. But the truth is, nobody here had anything relevant to tell you. I mean, James Dalcott
was a genuinely nice man and we all assumed, I think, that he was killed by a burglar or …’ Her voice trailed off. It was
an excuse Wesley had heard
before and he knew that behind all the fine words was a simple fact: nobody had wanted to get involved.
Fiona Verdun led them into what they supposed was her office, invited them to sit and offered coffee. Her manner was charming
and Wesley began to suspect that her objective was to prevent them finding out too much about the workings of the clinic.
But he hoped he was wrong.
‘So how can I help you?’ she said, all openness, as she handed them the coffee cups. ‘If there’s anything we at the Podingham
Clinic can do to help your investigation …’ She gave them a concerned smile, the sort of smile he’d seen before on the faces
of politicians at election time.
‘What exactly did Dr Dalcott do here?’
‘He assisted in our clinical trials department. Part-time of course.’
‘Clinical trials? Can you explain that?’ Wesley glanced at Rachel and saw that she was sipping her coffee, listening intently.
‘We test new drugs here.’
‘On animals?’ Rachel asked.
Wesley knew what she was thinking. Animal rights campaigners were often willing to go pretty far to make their point.
‘No. We deal with the stage after animal research. We use volunteers.’
‘Human volunteers?’
She smiled. ‘Of course. They’ve traditionally been students who want to earn a little extra cash but these days we get a
whole cross section of people. With the recession and unemployment …’
‘And Dr Dalcott kept an eye on the volunteers during the trials?’
‘We have qualified medical staff on hand at all times.’
The words ‘in case something goes wrong’ were left unsaid.
‘Did James Dalcott administer the drugs on trial?’
‘Sometimes. It would have been part of his duties.’
Wesley smiled. She still looked supremely confident. But he wondered whether his next question would change that. ‘How often
do things go wrong? Has anybody needed hospital treatment as a result of the trials?’
The mask of calm confidence didn’t slip. But Wesley was certain he’d seen, just for a split second, a flicker of panic in
Fiona’s blue eyes.
‘I know of no serious incidents involving adverse reactions to the drugs on trial,’ she said as though she was reading from
a script.
‘How long have you worked here?’ Rachel asked, catching Wesley’s eye.
Fiona took a deep breath. ‘Three months.’
‘And before that?’
She hesitated. This wasn’t a question she’d been expecting. ‘I was in PR.’
‘So you wouldn’t necessarily know if there’d been any deaths or serious incidents before you started here?’
Wesley’s question had the effect of breaking through the veneer of charm. She suddenly looked flustered as she searched for
a suitable answer. ‘No but …’
Wesley gave her his most charming smile. ‘May we have a word with the person in charge here? As you said, I’m sure everyone
here will be happy to help us with our investigation.’
He looked at her expectantly and saw her open and close her mouth. Things weren’t going according to her
carefully scripted plan. She had been briefed to bamboozle anyone asking awkward questions with charm and statistics and send
them away happy.
‘I’ll see if Dr Welman’s available,’ she muttered as she picked up the telephone on her over-neat desk.
After a brief and awkward conversation, she looked up at Wesley and forced out a professional smile. ‘Dr Welman will see you
but he can only spare you five minutes. And I’m sure he won’t be able to tell you anything I couldn’t,’ she added with veiled
desperation. ‘Dr Dalcott only helped out here part-time, you know.’