That was that. Sunita had probably lied to Sturgeon … skived off work. She wasn’t the first to do that and she wouldn’t be
the last. The only thing that bothered Wesley was that Sunita didn’t seem like the skiving type.
But there was nothing for it: they’d had a wasted journey.
‘By the way, Doctor,’ said Wesley as Heffernan turned to leave.
‘I’d be grateful if you would inform us right away if you come across any more suspected cases of botulism.’
Choudray raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re expecting more?’
‘Let’s hope not,’ Wesley said as he handed the doctor his card. ‘But
it’s best to be prepared.’
‘So where’s Sunita?’ Heffernan asked as they got into the car.
‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ Wesley answered.
*
Steve Carstairs was unaccustomed to the freedom of the open road. Usually, when witnesses who lived far away needed to be
interviewed, either the local force dealt with the matter or, if it was important, Inspector Peterson or Chief Inspector Heffernan
got all the fun and did the job themselves.
As he drove up the M5 in his nearly new Ford Probe, his pride and joy, with Paul Johnson seated nervously by his side clinging
to his seat belt, Steve felt a thrill of exhilaration as he exceeded the speed limit by twenty miles an hour. This was a break
from the Cinderella existence of paperwork and dull routine enquiries … and it was too soon to think of the time when the shiny
black car would turn back into an office chair.
‘Great, this,’ he said to Paul, who had been silent for most of the journey.
‘We’re going to a prison.’
‘So? Gets us out of Tradmouth … out of the office. It’s nearly lunch-time. Fancy stopping at a pub?’
Paul had no objection to pubs in principle but he knew that the boss wanted this job done and he wanted it done quickly. ‘It’s
not far now to Hammersham and we can grab something after we’ve been. We told the governor we’d be there by one so we’d better
not waste time.’
Steve didn’t reply. He wished he was with someone who was a little more amenable to the idea of cutting a few corners … but
then Heffernan himself had selected Paul as his partner for the trip, so he wasn’t altogether surprised that he was doing
things by the book.
Paul Johnson had been right. HM Prison, Hammersham wasn’t far, and they were there within ten minutes. As Steve walked in
through the massive gates, which shut behind him with an ominous and final clang, he felt, as he always did on visiting a
prison, a sudden sense of desolation, of lost hope. But he experienced no pang of guilt that from time to time he had helped
to put people away in such places: he reckoned that each villain he had helped to put inside deserved all he or she got.
A tall, balding prison officer led them through corridors
of painted beige brick, locking and unlocking gates and doors as they went. There was a none-too-subtle scent of boiled cabbage
and urine in the air. Steve caught Paul’s eye but Paul walked on with the determined expression of a man with a job to do.
He was holding the cardboard folder containing the photographs the chief inspector had borrowed from the posh school in St
Peters.
As the door to the interview room was opened, Steve was seized with curiosity. He had read so much about Chris Hobson in the
last few days as he went over files and reports about the Shipborne case. And now, sitting there next to his solicitor, was
the man himself: medium build, dark hair turned to dull grey, sallow complexion. He didn’t look like a murderer … but then
murderers rarely did. It was Paul who made the introductions and produced the pictures for Hobson to examine.
Hobson was so keen that he almost grabbed the school photographs. He pored over them, peering at each of the youthful faces
that stared out of the pictures, frozen in eternal schooldays. He examined every photograph carefully but he kept returning
to one in particular. After ten minutes he looked up.
‘That’s him.’ He pointed to a face on the back row. A youth with sleek dark hair and the sullen pout of a young James Dean.
A face more at home in a leather jacket than a striped school blazer.
‘You’re sure?’ Paul Johnson sounded uncertain. He hadn’t really expected Hobson to remember after all this time. This had
been too easy.
‘Absolutely positive. I never forget a face. That’s the lad I saw in the Horse and Farrier and then outside the vicarage.
I swear it on my mother’s life.’ He looked Paul in the eye, and for a few seconds both Paul and Steve found themselves believing
every word he said.
Wesley thought he’d better be the one to visit Mrs O’Donovan, as she’d met him already. Familiarity might be
an advantage … or not, as the case might be. He decided to take Rachel with him. She had been going through the files on Huntings’
current employees all morning and she looked as though she’d had enough. A change of scene, a spot of fresh air, would do
her good.
‘Any luck with the Huntings files?’ he asked as they drove out towards Belsham.
She gave a deep sigh. ‘I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be looking for. All the staff have been interviewed and most
of them seemed as puzzled as we are.’
‘What about Sunita Choudray, the assistant manager?’
Rachel frowned. ‘Can’t really remember. I’ll look her up when we get back if you like.’
Wesley didn’t know why but he felt uneasy about Sunita. She’d been seen coming out of Patience Reid’s squat. She’d lied to
Keith Sturgeon about being ill … and possibly to her parents about where she’d spent the night. ‘Have you checked out the security
staff … and the cleaners?’
‘We’ve done security. Nothing suspicious there. And we’re doing the cleaners at the moment, but it’s not straightforward.
Huntings’ own cleaners have been checked out but they also employ agency staff and we’re having a job getting their records.’
Wesley felt his heart begin to beat a little faster as it always did when he scented a fruitful lead. ‘I think we should make
it a priority to get those records.’
Rachel nodded. The ‘we’, she knew, meant her. She put it on her mental list of things to do, a list that was growing longer
by the hour.
They had reached Belsham. Wesley drove past the church and parked the car opposite Pest Field. He hesitated as he got out,
fighting the strong temptation to cross the road to see what was going on. He knew that, with the help of Matt and Jane, the
police search had now been completed and the dig would be resuming. Lifting the medieval bones from the ground would be a
priority as it wouldn’t be long before the developers started piling the
pressure on. Time was money. Neil was adept at standing up to such pressure … but Matt wasn’t so sure of himself.
He walked away from the field with Rachel beside him, making for Mrs O’Donovan’s house at the edge of the village. He rapped
on the door and it was opened almost at once, as though the woman had been watching for him behind the net curtains.
‘You’ll want the church key again, I suppose,’ she said wearily, as though the church’s recent popularity was becoming a nuisance.
Wesley produced his warrant card. ‘As a matter of fact I’ve not come about the church … I need to have a word with your son,
Dermot. Does he still live here with you?’
Mrs O’Donovan took a step backwards. ‘Why? What do you want him for?’
‘Nothing to worry about, Mrs O’Donovan. I just think he might be able to help us with a case we’re working on. Do you remember
Helen Wilmer?’
There was no mistake about it, the colour had left Mrs O’Donovan’s rosy cheeks and her face had turned white. ‘My Dermot had
nothing to do with that. The police said so at the time. He had no idea where she went. He was as worried about her as anyone.’
‘You’ve heard that her body has been discovered buried in Pest Field?’
The woman looked wary. ‘It said on the local news that it was her. But it’s got nothing to do with my Dermot.’
‘Could you tell us where we can find him?
Mrs O’Donovan hesitated, then she stepped aside to let them in. ‘He’s upstairs. He’s helping me move some furniture.’ She
went to the foot of the narrow staircase and called Dermot’s name, and there was an answering shuffling from somewhere above.
Somehow Wesley had expected Dermot O’Donovan to be frozen in time, to still be the teenage rebel, the undesirable boyfriend
who had been questioned when Helen Wilmer had disappeared. He was quite unprepared for the present-day
reality. Dermot O’Donovan was a tall, sharp-featured man wearing well-pressed jeans and a pale blue polo shirt, whose
dark hair was frosted with grey around the temples. He was in his thirties, self assured and apparently prosperous. For a
few moments Wesley was lost for words.
‘You’re lucky to find me here,’ Dermot began after Wesley had introduced himself. He had a slight local accent and spoke with
the quick, to-the-point manner of a man used to issuing orders. ‘I came to help my mother move a wardrobe.’ He gave Wesley
a businesslike smile. ‘I heard that Helen’s body had been found. It’s all come as a bit of a shock. Terrible business,’ he
said as he arranged his features into a mask of solemn concern.
‘As you were friendly with Helen at the time, I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you some questions.’
‘I realise that, but it seems so long ago. A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since then.’
‘Her parents didn’t approve of you.’ It was a bare statement but Wesley thought Dermot O’Donovan wouldn’t appreciate the subtle
approach.
‘I was a bit of a tearaway in those days. I left school at sixteen and got myself a job as a lorry driver’s mate. I got talking
to Helen when we made deliveries to Huntings in Morbay … she had a holiday job there. I’d seen her before around the village,
of course, but that’s when we started going out together.’ There was a sudden wariness in Dermot’s expression that told Wesley
he was hiding something. ‘Look, go through to the front room … I’m sure my mother won’t mind making a cup of tea.’
As Dermot went off in search of his mother, Wesley and Rachel made themselves comfortable in a pair of tapestry armchairs.
When Dermot returned, he sat on the matching sofa and leaned forward. ‘I swear I had nothing to do with Helen’s death. I’m
as upset about it as anyone.’
‘I’m sure you are, sir,’ said Rachel sympathetically. ‘What can you tell me about the last time you saw Helen?’
‘I gave a full statement at the time.’
‘We’d like to hear it again.’
‘We’d had a row over something silly … about which film to see at the pictures. She’d not been her usual self since the reverend
was killed.’ He hesitated. ‘I went over it again and again in my head but I couldn’t think what had happened to her. I was
sure she wouldn’t have just gone off without telling anyone.’
‘She didn’t,’ Wesley said gently. ‘You say she changed after the vicar’s murder? Why do you think that was?’
Dermot looked uncomfortable. ‘Search me.’
‘Might she have thought you were involved somehow?’
‘I didn’t have anything to do with the reverend’s murder,’ Dermot said
vehemently. ‘I’d been a bit of a bad lad over the years, but that? No way.’
‘What about now?’ Wesley glanced at Rachel, who was watching Dermot’s face intently, searching for some telltale sign that
he was lying.
‘I haven’t returned to my old ways, if that’s what you’re getting at.’ He spoke defensively. Wesley had touched a nerve somewhere.
‘I run my own building firm now … got ten men working for me. And I’m married … two kids. The model citizen. And just for the
record I’ve never murdered anyone.’ He looked Wesley in the eye, challenging him to prove otherwise.
‘How did Helen seem when you last saw her?’
Dermot shrugged. Again he looked uncomfortable.
‘Is there something you want to tell us?’ Rachel asked gently, coaxing.
Dermot hesitated, as though coming to a decision. ‘She said something about seeing someone where they weren’t supposed to
be. As soon as she’d said it her mum came in so she changed the subject.’
‘Is that all?’ said Wesley, disappointed. ‘She’d seen someone where they weren’t supposed to be? Did she say who or where?’
Dermot shook his head and swallowed hard. He looked like a man who was aware that he’d said too much already.
He bit his lower lip and turned his head away.
As Wesley watched him he found himself thinking that either Dermot O’Donovan was genuinely affected by Helen’s death … or he
was a very good actor.
‘So what did you learn from Dermot O’Donovan?’ Gerry Heffernan sat back and put his feet on the table. If a man couldn’t make
himself comfortable in his own office, where could he relax? And he had just returned from another fraught meeting with Chief
Superintendent Nutter, so he felt he needed all the relaxation he could get.
Wesley pulled a face. ‘Not a lot really. Apparently Helen wasn’t her usual cheerful self after Shipborne’s murder – but then
it had shocked the whole village. And Dermot has a vague recollection of Helen saying something about seeing someone where
they shouldn’t have been, but she didn’t say who.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Afraid so.’
‘What did you make of O’Donovan? Is he in the frame for her murder?’
‘I wouldn’t rule it out. His record says he committed a number of petty offences when he was in his teens and, according to
his file, he spent some time at Barry Castello’s place on Dartmoor at one point … Damascus Farm.’
‘So how did he get involved with Helen Wilmer?’
‘He was a lorry driver’s mate and he met her when she was working at Huntings in Morbay during her vacation and he was delivering
goods there. Small world.’ Wesley frowned. ‘Why do we always keep coming back to Huntings?’ He craned his neck to look through
the window into the outer office. There was a quiet bustle of activity as officers spoke on phones and typed into computers.
For a few seconds Wesley’s eyes were drawn to Rachel, who had her head down studying a file, then he turned back to his boss.
‘Any word from Steve and Paul about how they got on with Chris Hobson?’
Heffernan nodded smugly. ‘Hobson identified the boy … seemed absolutely certain. I sent them over to the school as soon as
they got back. Hopefully we’ll have a name soon.’