‘Have you tried to trace the other people who took part in the nineteen eighties dig?’
‘Funny you should say that. I rang Professor Maplin last night. You remember Karl Maplin?’
Wesley nodded. He remembered Professor Maplin from his student days. He’d been a gossipy little man, quite fun to be with
unless you were on the receiving end. ‘Of course I do. How is he?’
‘Same as ever – loves to dish the dirt. He’s semiretired now, of course, but he still does some teaching and digs when he
can. He told me he can’t remember much about Dr March’s dig here. It was only really remarkable, he said, for what happened
afterwards – March’s accident and her deputy’s disappearance.’
Wesley looked at his watch. ‘I’d better get back.’
Neil stood up. ‘Me too. Duty calls. I’ve got to make Jon Bright’s life a misery by telling him that the geophysics and the
aerial photos indicate that it could
be a really important site and that could mean major delays to the development.’
Wesley had to smile. Neil’s attitude towards the world of commerce was adversarial, to say the least.
‘Bit of a shock about Rowe,’ Neil said quietly as they strolled outside, making for Wesley’s car. ‘Let me know how you get
on with Sir Martin Crace, won’t you?’
‘Will do.’ Wesley unlocked the car door and turned to face his friend. ‘And good luck with the dig. From what I hear about
Jon Bright, you’re going to need it. By the way, have you heard of a group called the Pure Sons of the West?’
‘I’ve heard of them. Keep threatening to take action against second-home owners but, as far as I can see, they’re all talk.’
‘They’ve been sending threatening letters to Jon Bright’s wife.’
Neil gave a low whistle.
‘Keep in touch,’ Wesley said as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
Neil suddenly looked worried. ‘They might see us digging and think we’re connected with the developers. You don’t think my
team could be in danger?’
‘Just don’t ask for police protection. We’re stretched as it is,’ said Wesley with a grin before driving off.
Jem Burrows knew that Chas Ventisard had been taken in for questioning but he was certain that he wouldn’t talk.
Jem sat surrounded by computer equipment like a spider in the centre of a web of wires and cables. From
his bedroom he had command of all useful knowledge at the click of a mouse. With a bit of searching on line he could even
discover the names and home addresses of the second-home owners – the ones who turned up at weekends in their 4x4s with their
luxury ready meals bought at distant supermarkets. The ones who clogged up the M4 on summer Friday evenings to get to their
expensively bought piece of paradise.
He knew who they were and where they lived. That was a start.
Since he’d finished his degree in Media Studies at Morbay University, Jem had moved back to live with his mother and his two
younger brothers. He hadn’t had much choice in the matter. Not with things as they were.
Chas Ventisard had imagined that mentioning the Whitely fire on the website would send a warning shot across the enemies’
bows. But there had been someone in the house. And because of that, it might look bad for the Sons. It might make them look
like murderers. Jem had always known Chas was a liability.
Would a new denial rectify the situation? Probably not. The damage had been done and now the police might start taking a serious
interest. And that was the last thing Jem Burrows wanted.
Wesley hadn’t bothered to drop in at the police station on his way home. He was still supposed to be on leave, after all.
But, even so, he just couldn’t get Ian Rowe out of his head.
As soon as he arrived home he broke the news to
Pam and, as he expected, she was shocked but not particularly upset. She was quiet as they ate supper and he knew that she
was reliving their encounter with Rowe in Carcassonne, seeing if she could, with hindsight, recognise any signs or clues to
what had happened.
‘So what the hell was Rowe doing in Whitely?’ she asked as soon as they’d got the domestic drudgery out of the way and settled
the children in bed.
‘No idea. But he was driving Nadia Lucas’s car.’
‘Perhaps she lent it to him. Have you spoken to her yet?’
‘Some uniforms went round to the address we traced from her car registration but there was no answer.’ Wesley put his arm
round her shoulders. ‘We found a letter from Sir Martin Crace’s PA in his holdall.’
‘So he wasn’t lying about knowing Crace?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. The letter confirmed that he had an appointment but it was quite formal. Certainly no indication
that Rowe and Crace were bosom buddies – or even that they knew each other. The meeting was fixed for the day after tomorrow
at Bewton Hall.’
‘Crace’s home. I saw it once in one of those magazines at the doctor’s – fabulous place. If Ian was actually invited to the
house surely it means he was telling the truth.’
‘I think Crace uses it as his headquarters.’
Pam looked disappointed. Another theory shot down in flames.
Wesley stood up. ‘Those copies of Nadia’s e-mails are somewhere in that case I haven’t unpacked yet. I want to read through
them again.’
Pam looked him in the eye. ‘Is this fire being treated as suspicious then? Could Ian have been murdered?’
Wesley shrugged. ‘The fire investigators say it was started deliberately but we don’t know the cause of death yet. We’ll have
to wait and see.’
Colin Bowman’s initial assumption was that he was in the living room when the fire started and he couldn’t escape. The probability
was that he died of smoke inhalation before the flames reached his body. But that was before the post mortem. Tomorrow things
might change.
When he found the e-mails, he and Pam sat rereading them. But they only served to confirm that he needed to find Nadia Lucas
– sooner rather than later.
There was still no answer at Nadia Lucas’s address and Rachel Tracey had been given the job of contacting Professor Yves Demancour,
the man Nadia worked for. But the professor was proving as elusive as his assistant. He wasn’t in his office – it was the
university vacation, after all, and academic staff often used that time to pursue their own research. The departmental secretary
seemed reluctant to give out his home address but Rachel was never one to take no for an answer. And she had the advantage
of having the full force of the law behind her.
No sooner had she written down the address than Wesley Peterson entered the office. Rachel greeted him
with a smile, resigned to the fact that her moment of glory was over for a while. With the DI back she was relegated to DS
again – a cross between a go-between and a dogsbody.
‘Hi,’ Wesley said. ‘What’s new?’
‘Still no sign of Nadia Lucas but I’ve got an address for Professor Demancour.’
‘Great. Has the owner of Owl Cottage been traced yet?’
Rachel gave him a martyred look. ‘Nick’s doing it. But he hasn’t got back to me yet.’
‘I’ll go and chivvy him along. Then perhaps we can pay the professor a visit.’
Rachel looked up and smiled. A trip out of the office was just what she needed.
Informing the unhappy cottage owner that his property was badly damaged by a combination of fire and water from the firemen’s
hoses would normally have been uniform’s job. But as there had been a suspicious fatality, Gerry Heffernan had felt it was
CID’s responsibility.
Wesley walked over to the desk where Nick Tarnaby was sitting surrounded by witness statements and other miscellaneous paperwork.
He looked as though he was about to be buried in the stuff. Wesley often felt that way but he had never let it build up to
this extent.
Tarnaby looked up warily as Wesley approached.
‘Rachel says you’ve been trying to trace the owner of the cottage that burned down.’ Wesley looked at him expectantly. The
technique usually worked but not in this case.
Tarnaby’s freckled face flushed red. ‘Er, sorry, sir. Not had time. I’ll … er … get on to it right away.’
‘Yes. You do that.’ Wesley tried to hide his annoyance. This was information he needed fast. Unless Ian Rowe had broken in
and was squatting at the property, it was highly likely the owner knew him – and how he came to be there. ‘As soon as possible,
please. Everything else can wait.’ He knew that Gerry Heffernan would have given Tarnaby an earful. He was being too polite.
But he couldn’t help it.
Tarnaby didn’t answer and Wesley wondered whether he should ask Paul Johnson or Trish Walton to do the job instead. But he
decided to give the man another chance. If he hadn’t produced a name and address by the time he and Rachel got back from seeing
Professor Demancour, he’d think again.
Rachel was waiting by her desk, her bag slung over her shoulder. She was dressed for the warm weather in a short linen skirt
and a short-sleeved white blouse. She looked businesslike and beautiful. But Wesley put the thought out of his head.
‘The phone number the university gave me for Demancour seems to be unobtainable. Maybe he’s been cut off for not paying the
bill.’ She gave Wesley a conspiratorial grin. ‘Looks like we’ll just have to surprise him.’
‘The boss always believes in the element of surprise,’ Wesley said as they reached the car park. ‘In fact he swears by it.’
‘He would. Has Nick traced the owner of Owl Cottage?’
Wesley shook his head. Rachel was getting in the driving seat, which suited him fine. He wasn’t in the mood for tackling the
Morbay traffic.
‘I know he’s new but he seems pretty useless,’ Rachel said as she let the hand brake off. ‘I never thought I’d miss Steve
but …’
Wesley said nothing for a few seconds. The mention of Steve Carstairs’s name had shaken him. It had brought back memories
he’d rather forget – memories of how he hadn’t liked the racist and obstructive Steve. And memories of how Steve had died
what everyone assumed was a hero’s death. ‘If he’s that bad, Gerry will have him transferred.’
‘Traffic perhaps. I can just see him handing out parking tickets.’
‘You’ve had no more thoughts about applying for promotion?’
‘And end up sorting out traffic flow in Regatta Week? I think I’ll stick to CID for now. Barty reckons you shouldn’t go chasing
money if it’s going to make you unhappy and I think he’s right.’
Wesley nodded. Barty Carter, the latest man in Rachel’s life, had spent many years chasing money so he should know what he
was talking about.
Rachel decided not to take the car ferry, not while the place was infested with tourists, as she put it. She took the A roads
through Neston and then on to the outskirts of Morbay. But even avoiding the ferries, the traffic was thick and slow – rather
like Nick Tarnaby, Rachel quipped. Wesley made no comment. He was still willing to give the man a chance.
Professor Yves Demancour lived on the far side of Morbay in a hilly, leafy district favoured by prosperous Victorians as a
place to build their stucco seaside villas. Many of these villas had distant views of the sea and at least two thirds had
been converted into hotels, flats or nursing homes. However they still stood firmly on the right side of town. The professor
had chosen well.
The address given them by the university turned out to be a white stucco detached villa sitting behind a high laurel hedge.
From the bell pushes beside the front door, there appeared to be seven flats in the building, so if the professor wasn’t at
home, Wesley thought, there was always a chance that one of the neighbours might know where he was.
Wesley rang the bell of flat number three. After a few seconds the entry phone crackled into life and when they announced
themselves the lock on the front door was released, allowing them to make their way up a sweeping staircase.
Demancour was waiting for them in the open doorway. He was a slightly built man, of average height with slicked-back dark
hair, slightly thinning on top. He stooped a little and his eyes were warm and dark brown. If Wesley had read a description
of the man on paper, he would have considered it unpromising. But in the flesh there was something attractive about him, something
he wouldn’t be able to put into words. Charisma perhaps. Or maybe plain, old-fashioned sex appeal. He glanced at Rachel and
noted the appreciative look on her face.
Demancour’s manners were impeccable. He invited
them to sit and offered coffee – which was refused – before sitting opposite them with an attentive expression on his face.
Wesley felt optimistic. Yves Demancour didn’t look like a man with a lot to hide. But then he recalled Nadia’s e-mails to
Ian Rowe. ‘He’s very secretive and I think he’s hiding something.’ And he couldn’t forget the mention of the dirty little
secret. It was possible that the man sitting before him was dangerous so he wasn’t taking any chances.
‘Professor, we’re sorry to intrude like this but we’re making investigations into the whereabouts of a Nadia Lucas. I believe
she knew a man called Ian Rowe.’
Demancour’s eyes widened a little then he rearranged his features. ‘May I ask why?’
Wesley took a deep breath. The body hadn’t been identified as yet but he was as sure as he could be that it was Rowe. He decided
to take a chance. ‘We have reason to believe that Mr Rowe was killed in a house fire in Whitely, not far from Tradmouth.’
He watched the professor’s reaction carefully but saw only a conventional frown of concern flicker over his face.
‘I am very sorry to hear that. I only saw him a couple of times, of course but he knew Nadia well. I think they used to be
lovers but she never … .’
‘And Nadia works for you?’
‘She is my assistant. She helps with my research.’
Wesley saw him give Rachel a charming smile.
‘Nadia’s been keeping in contact with Ian Rowe,’ he said. ‘She sent him an e-mail suggesting that you were hiding something.
And she mentioned that she was trying to find out about her mother’s death.’ He
watched Demancour’s reaction carefully.
But the professor merely looked surprised. ‘I can’t think what she means. What should I be hiding? And she has never said
anything to me about her mother’s death. I cannot think that this has anything to do with me.’