‘Not really. I found the address where Wendy was living when she disappeared but when I called round there was no reply.’
‘Why did you call at Nadia’s address?’
The man’s face reddened. ‘I wanted to bring her up to date. I happened to be passing and …’
‘And she hadn’t paid you?’
‘Well, er … yes. That as well. A couple of weeks ago she stopped answering her phone and … Well, I thought a personal visit …
Then her housemate said she’d gone and disappeared.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I admit I was worried that I wouldn’t get
paid for the work I’d done. In my position I can’t afford to take charity cases.’
‘And what is your position, Mr Wiley?’ Rachel asked, giving the man an enquiring smile.
‘My wife has MS. I look after her. Like I said, I can’t afford to work for free.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rachel, and meant it. Her mother had a friend with MS so she knew the implications.
Wiley frowned as though he’d just remembered something. ‘There was one thing that struck me as a bit odd,’ he said, stroking
his chin. ‘Nadia said that her father destroyed some papers shortly before he died. Nadia didn’t know what was in them but
she said they looked like letters.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve spoken to the people Wendy Haskel was working with before her death?’ Paul asked. Rachel looked at
him approvingly. It was a good question.
‘Tracking them down would have been my next move,’ Wiley said sadly. ‘But, as I said, I can’t afford to work for nothing.’
‘And these letters her father destroyed … did she get the impression they were important?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Forsyte Wiley said, sinking back in his seat. ‘In fact she said she’d only just discovered one she thought her
father must have missed. She found it stuffed underneath some old photographs in a box she’d taken from the family home when
she was clearing out after her father’s death. She’d never looked through them before … you know how it is – you always intend
to sort them out but never get round to it.’
Rachel sat forward. ‘So what was in the letter?’
‘Sorry, don’t know. She never showed me the contents. She just said that when she’d read it, she realised the implications
and she had to find out the truth.’
‘So this letter was important?’
‘Oh, yes. She thought it could be the key to the whole thing.’
‘Found anything?’
Neil looked up from his lowly position down in trench four and for a moment he couldn’t see who was speaking because the figure
was standing against the
sun. He shielded his eyes and saw that Jon Bright was looking down at him.
Neil climbed out of the trench and wiped his soil-stained hands on his combat trousers. ‘Plenty,’ he replied in answer to
the developer’s enquiry. ‘It’s a good site. As you can see, we’re uncovering some nice foundations. We’ll soon have the entire
layout of the manor house.’
‘What about the …?’ Bright nodded towards the corner of the field still cordoned off with crime scene tape.
‘We’ll do that last. The Forensic people say they might need to do further examinations.’
Neil saw Bright fidgeting with his mobile phone and, by the expression on the developer’s face, he could tell that the ins
and outs of the manorial complex didn’t really interest him. Not like money.
‘I can give you a guided tour if you like,’ Neil said innocently.
Bright took a deep, calming breath and Neil knew he was exercising iron self-control. He wanted to shout, to tell them to
get on with it so that he could get the earth movers in and rip up the entire field, archaeology and all. He wanted to get
his houses built so he could get money in the bank. But Neil had a different agenda.
‘I was thinking that when we’ve finished we could organise an exhibition, either in Tradmouth or Queenswear. The curator of
Tradmouth Museum has already expressed an interest and—’
‘I’ll leave all that to you, Dr Watson. All I’m interested
in is when my people can start work.’
Neil made a great show of considering the question. Then he looked at the developer and gave him what he knew was a maddening
smile. ‘How long’s a piece of string? We don’t know how long we’ll be until we know exactly what’s down there. It’s always
possible that there’s something even earlier underneath the manor house. An important Iron Age site, for instance,’ he added,
enjoying the look of suppressed fury on Bright’s face.
But before Bright could say anything his mobile phone rang. As he took the call his face clouded with worry.
‘Call the police,’ he barked. ‘They’ve gone too far this time.’ He pressed the button to end the call and swore under his
breath.
‘Problems?’ Neil asked innocently.
Bright was breathing hard and Neil could tell that the call he’d just taken had really shaken him. ‘Those bloody morons … the
Pure Sons or whatever they call themselves. They’ve only gone and set fire to our summerhouse.’
‘That’s bad,’ said Neil with what sounded like sympathy.
‘I’d better get home. Sheryl’s in a terrible state. She was in the summer house and she’d just gone inside to make herself
a drink when she saw the flames – some kind of fire bomb. Then she found a note pushed through the front door.’
Neil said nothing. As he watched Bright hurry back to his car he harboured the uncharitable thought that
at least the Pure Sons of the West had stopped Jon Bright breathing down his neck.
Gerry Heffernan had been impatient to return to the incident room to see whether anything new had come in. But Wesley had
other ideas. While they happened to be in Morbay, he said, they might as well pop into the university again and have a word
with Yves Demancour, just to get his side of the story. After all, he said, a woman being burned to death in a field and a
man who got sexual thrills out of watching a woman pretending to be caught in a fire seemed too much of a coincidence to ignore.
And besides, a visit to the professor now would save them a journey in the future – the queue for the car ferry was a nightmare
this time of year.
The professor looked surprised to see them when they ran him to ground in his office again.
Wesley watched as Gerry produced Chantalle’s pink card from his jacket pocket and threw it down on the desk. ‘We’ve been to
have a chat with a friend of yours,’ he said. ‘Chantalle. She told us all about your … er … tastes.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You asked her to pretend she was caught in a fire.’ Wesley spoke quietly, watching Demancour’s face.
The professor slumped in his chair, eyes lowered and his face turning a rich shade of scarlet. ‘She had no right,’ he muttered.
‘These things, they are private.’
‘I don’t think prostitutes are bound to confidentiality like doctors and priests,’ said Wesley. ‘I can’t help wondering if
there’s some connection between your
preferences and the death of the woman in Grandal Field – not forgetting the death of Ian Rowe, who was a friend of your assistant,
Nadia.’ He paused for a moment to let the words sink in. ‘And you mentioned your interest in the wife of Stephen de Grendalle.
Grandal Field is the site of the de Grendalle manor house. There are too many coincidences here, professor. Do you see that?’
Demancour nodded. ‘And yet I am completely innocent,’ he said quietly. ‘Yes, I have certain needs but I would never …’
Gerry looked as though he was about to say something but Wesley shot him a warning look. With any luck, if they left enough
silence Demancour would feel the urge to fill it. Wesley’s instincts told him that the man needed to unburden himself to someone.
And he wanted that someone to be himself.
‘I would never harm … But I need to imagine …’
‘Go on,’ Wesley prompted gently. ‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’
Demancour shook his head. ‘I do not know why …’
‘I think you do,’ Wesley whispered.
There was a long silence and Wesley could tell that Gerry was longing to ask some question or make some remark. But he managed
to contain himself and eventually Demancour spoke. ‘It is something I never discuss. Something I would tell no one.’
‘You saw someone die in a fire, didn’t you?’ Wesley asked. It was a pure guess but when Demancour looked at him, his eyes
wide with disbelief, he knew he’d struck lucky.
‘You know?’
‘Who was it?’ Wesley pressed harder now he knew he was on the right track.
‘It was my sister, Claudette. I was eight and she was four years older. We were playing with matches and her dress caught
alight. I tried to help but … I watched her die. When I close my eyes I can see …’
To Wesley’s dismay, the professor began to cry: loud, body-shaking sobs. Wesley and Gerry stood watching him, uncertain what
to say.
‘When Chantalle played the role … When I watch her … I cannot explain it. It is like Claudette is there again with me. I try
to put the fire out. I think one day I will put it out … . In my dreams – in my fantasy – I save her and everything is right
again. I can’t expect you to understand …’
He lapsed into deep, primitive sobs while Wesley looked on, unsure what to say. Then, when the sobs had subsided a little,
he asked the question he’d been longing to ask. ‘Where were you on the night that woman was burned to death in Grandal Field?’
He listened carefully for the answer, knowing that Demancour was probably too distressed to think up a lie.
‘I was at home. You must believe me. I swear to you I had nothing to do with this horror.’
‘Any witnesses?’
Demancour wiped his face with a pristine handkerchief and shook his head.
‘Thank you. We’ll be in touch,’ said Wesley as they stood up to leave.
‘Believe him?’ asked Gerry once they were out of earshot.
‘No idea,’ was Wesley’s reply.
‘It was a fire bomb all right. A Molotov cocktail,’ Paul Johnson said to Rachel with the confidence of an expert. ‘Just put
some petrol into a bottle, stuff a rag in the top, light the thing and chuck it in. The culprit could have done the deed and
run in seconds.’
Rachel wasn’t sufficiently well versed on the subject of home-made explosives to know whether Paul was right. But she’d never
known him boast or exaggerate so she guessed that his conclusion was probably accurate.
They had been called to the Brights’ place as soon as they’d returned from their chat with Forsyte Wiley in Neston. It was
an emergency, they were told. And, as Rachel knew the background to the case – the threats Sheryl Bright had received from
the Pure Sons of the West – she had been the one to answer the call.
She sat opposite Sheryl Bright in her living room while Paul went outside to inspect the charred remains of the summer house.
This time Sheryl had had the presence of mind to keep the note that she’d found pushed through her front door. At least this
was something, Rachel thought. But, looking at the sheet of A4 paper with the words and letters cut out crudely from one or
more newspapers, she didn’t think it would be much help. These days villains knew better than to oblige the police by leaving
fingerprints. It was a shame but it was a fact of life.
She gave Sheryl a sympathetic smile. Having provided the woman with two cups of restorative tea already it was time to get
down to business. ‘Can you tell me exactly what happened, Sheryl? Take your time.’
Sheryl cleared her throat. ‘I was in the summer house preparing a canvas. Then I came inside to make myself a drink and while
I was filling the kettle I heard this whoosh sound. It seemed to come from outside so I went out to see what it was. I saw
the summer house on fire and I just froze. I mean, I’d been in there a few minutes earlier. I could have been …’ She put her
hand to her mouth as though she’d just realised the potential horror of the situation.
‘Go on,’ Rachel prompted gently.
‘I was in shock. I couldn’t stop shaking. But I managed to call the fire brigade. When they put the fire out they told me
they’d found glass on the floor and traces of accelerant. They said they thought it looked like a Molotov cocktail – petrol
in a bottle, that sort of thing.’ She shuddered.
‘Anything else you can tell me? You didn’t see anyone hanging around?’
Sheryl took a deep breath and shook her head. ‘As soon as I’d called the fire brigade I ran to the front door. I wanted to
see if there was anybody about but …’
‘That was a bit dangerous,’ said Rachel with a concerned frown. ‘The attacker could have still been hanging around.’
‘To be honest that didn’t occur to me. I was thinking of a neighbour or a passer by … someone to help.’
Rachel nodded. Paul, she knew, had already investigated the possibility that a neighbour had seen something but had drawn
a blank. The nearest houses were about a hundred yards away, well screened by trees and bushes, and there’d been nobody at
home.
‘When did you spot the note?’
‘As soon as I went into the hall I saw it lying there on the floor. I read it and I knew …’
Rachel’s eyes were drawn to the note, now protected by a plastic evidence bag.
‘This will teach you to destroy our countryside,’ it said. ‘The Pure Sons of the West always keep their promises. Those who
kill our communities deserve to die.’
The words sent a shiver through Rachel’s body and she put a comforting hand on Sheryl’s arm. ‘Don’t worry. They can’t hope
to get away with this. They can’t claim it’s just a warning any longer. Someone could have been killed.’
Sheryl looked up. ‘Any sign of my husband yet? I called him half an hour ago. He said he’d come right over.’
‘The traffic’s bad at this time of the year. Holiday season,’ Rachel said smoothly, sneaking a look at her watch. Jon Bright
was certainly taking his time.
Suddenly she heard the sound of a key turning in the front door lock. Sheryl sat up straight, like an animal who’d just caught
the scent of a predator. ‘That’ll be Jon,’ she said. She didn’t attempt to move but Rachel stood up to greet the man who was
the target of the Pure Sons of the West’s wrath.
Bright appeared in the doorway looking more angry than worried.
‘What’s been going on?’ he said. ‘What have those bastards been up to now?’