Sheryl looked surprised, and a little relieved as if she was glad of the change of subject. ‘Yes. I remember. It was in Queenswear.
I was living over that side of the river at the time and I was thinking of doing archaeology at university but …’
‘Did you?’
‘No. I decided on art instead. I don’t know whether the dig put me off.’
‘How do you mean?’ Wesley asked quietly.
‘Well, some of the people were nice enough – like the couple. Oh, what were their names?’
‘Charles and Hannah Whitling.’
‘That’s right. How did you know?’
‘I’ve spoken to them recently. They remember you. In fact they saw your picture in the local paper … an art exhibition?’
She managed a weak smile. ‘Fancy them remembering.’
‘What about the woman in charge, Maggie March?’
‘Dr March. I didn’t like her much, which is an awful thing to say because she died in a terrible accident just after I left.
She was pretty nasty to me a couple of times. I was only young and I didn’t think of answering her back, telling her where
she could stick her job. I would now but I thought that if I wanted a place at uni …’
Wesley nodded. Being able to say in a university interview that she’d worked with Maggie March would have given her a few
brownie points. ‘What about Wendy Haskel?’
Sheryl thought for a few moments. ‘She was quite nice even if she did seem a bit neurotic. And I’m sure there was something
between her and March. Wendy used to chat to me quite a bit during breaks and she’d make sure I was helping in her trenches,
that sort of thing. She seemed really keen to encourage me and I had the feeling that March didn’t like it. She used to give
me really evil looks and a few times I saw her and Wendy arguing. I can’t swear that it was about me but that’s the impression
I got.’
‘Do you think they were lovers?’
Sheryl raised her eyebrows then considered the question. ‘Well, it never occurred to me at the time. I mean, I was only seventeen
and I’d led quite a conventional life … and this was twenty-five years ago, don’t forget. But, looking back, I think they probably
were. But they both had children. Wendy had a little girl who lived with her estranged husband. She showed me a photo of her
once. I think she missed her.’
‘What was her name?’
Sheryl shook her head. ‘Sorry. Can’t remember.’
‘So you haven’t had a visit from a woman called Nadia Lucas?’
Sheryl looked up, puzzled. ‘No. Why?’
‘Nadia Lucas was Wendy’s daughter and she was visiting people who’d known her mother.’
‘Well, she never came here.’
‘What can you tell us about Maggie March?’
‘Someone said she had a grown-up son but there was never any mention of him or any partner. That was a bit of a mystery.’
‘Have you been back to have a look at the site?’
‘Briefly. Just a flying visit,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ve got an exhibition on in Neston next month so I’ve been rather busy.’
‘Do you remember anything strange happening on that dig in 1983? Anything at all out of the ordinary?’
She gave Wesley a weak smile. ‘Well, it was the first dig I’d ever been on so I wouldn’t really have known what was normal,
would I?’ She hesitated. ‘The only odd thing happened just after I’d finished. But that was nothing to do with—’
‘What was it?’ Wesley asked. ‘What happened?’
‘It was nothing. Just a mistake, that’s all.’
‘What was?’
‘My mum got into a bit of a state about it. Tradmouth Hospital sent a letter asking me to go to Outpatients and when I rang
them to ask why, I was told that someone had been admitted and they’d given my name for some reason – all my details. My mother
contacted them and they said that the woman who’d given her name as Sheryl Bakewell had discharged herself. That’s all really.
We never got to the bottom of it.’
‘Did they tell you anything about this woman?’
‘No. Nothing. We never heard any more about it. I thought at the time that it might have been someone I knew from school who
didn’t want their family to know what they’d been up to for some reason but …’
‘A bit of a mystery, then,’ said Gerry. ‘But, like you say, probably nothing to do with your archaeological dig.’
‘That’s right.’
Wesley seemed to have lost interest in this unexplained case of mistaken identity. ‘Strange that your husband should be building
on the very field you were excavating,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I suppose it is. Not that I remember much about what was found.’ She hesitated. ‘I heard somewhere that
it’s an important site. Jon won’t be too pleased if they stop his development.’
‘Have you tried his mobile, love?’ Gerry asked.
Sheryl looked a little irritated. ‘What do you think I’ve been doing? Until you arrived I was trying it every few minutes.’
She picked up her own phone and pressed a button. But after a few moments she shook her head. ‘Voice mail again. And when
I called the office his secretary just said he’d gone home early to catch up on some work.’
When she’d been talking about the Queenswear dig she had started to look more relaxed, Wesley thought. But now that her mind
had returned to the reality of her present situation, her face showed signs of strain again.
‘All our patrols are on the lookout for your husband, Mrs Bright. We’ll find him.’
She glanced over her shoulder towards the window. The fire crew were still damping down and combing what was left of the garage.
‘But what if he was in there? What if he—?’
‘Best not to think about that till we have to,’ Wesley said quickly.
‘You look as if you could do with a brandy, love,’ Gerry Heffernan said. He walked over to the drinks cabinet in the corner
of the room and poured a large measure of cognac into a crystal glass.
While Sheryl was sipping the comforting liquid, Wesley took out his mobile phone and speed-dialled Neil’s number. There was
always a slim chance that Jon Bright had decided to visit the site of his development in an attempt to chivvy the archaeologists
along and had cadged a lift in someone’s car. When Neil answered he stepped out into the hall. Sheryl would hardly want to
hear negative news.
‘I was thinking of calling you,’ were Neil’s first words. ‘We’ve got a bit of a situation here. We’ve been joined by the Pure
Sons of the West who are staging what they call a peaceful protest. I’ve cleared them out of our trenches now so they’re not
really causing too much of a nuisance. But if Bright shows his face I’ve got a nasty feeling that might change.’
‘Any sign of Bright?’
‘No. I think they were expecting him to be here keeping a beady eye on us. But we’ve not seen him since yesterday.’
‘How many protesters are there?’
Neil didn’t answer for a few moments, as though he was doing a swift head count. ‘Around thirty. Their leader seems to have
them under control so they’ve caused no damage.’
‘Is that Jem Burrows?’
‘That’s right. How did you—?’
‘He’s come to our attention. Is there someone called
Chas Ventisard there too?’
‘There is one called Chas, yeah. Don’t know his second name.’
‘What time did they arrive?’
‘Ages ago. Late this morning.’
‘And none of them have left?’
‘Don’t think so. No.’
‘You’ve not called the police, have you?’
‘I thought I’d better let them know. They sent a patrol car round to keep an eye on things but …’
‘Thanks, Neil. If Bright shows his face, call me.’
As soon as he ended the call he heard a thunderous knocking on the front door. He fumbled with the lock, impatient to see
who it was. He hoped, for Sheryl’s sake that it was Jon Bright returning home to find his garage burned to the ground and
his wife’s car destroyed. But when the door swung open he saw a fire officer standing there.
Wesley quickly introduced himself and showed his warrant card. ‘Any news?’ he said, keeping his voice down. He didn’t want
Sheryl to overhear anything bad.
‘Afraid so,’ said the fire officer. ‘We’ve found a body in the debris. Badly burned. Clutching car keys in the right hand.
Just thought you’d want to know, Inspector. You could have a murder on your hands. Can’t be sure yet but the fire investigator
thinks it looks like arson.’
He gave Wesley a businesslike smile and turned away. It looked as if Jon Bright might have turned up after all.
Professor Yves Demancour let himself into his flat. He
had had a free afternoon and that evening he was due for an assignation with Chantalle. There had been many times when he’d
promised himself he’d give up their meetings, but it never seemed to happen.
He was about to make for the kitchen when he stopped. He stood there perfectly still, listening, but all he could hear was
the faint twitter of birdsong outside in the garden, the sound of distant traffic and an ambulance siren wailing as some unfortunate
soul was conveyed to the hospital nearby. And yet something wasn’t right. He was a fastidious man, almost obsessively neat,
and within those few seconds he could tell something had been moved.
He told himself he must be imagining things. Recent events had made him jumpy. Nadia had died a hideous death and he couldn’t
help wondering whether he himself was in danger.
Over the past week there had been times when he’d seen assassins in every shadow. The intrusion of the police into the darkest
crevices of his private life had shaken him. And sometimes when he closed his eyes he could see the flames and hear his sister’s
cries, which, in his mind, became Nadia’s. He would ask Chantalle to play the part again tonight, he thought, wiping the sweat
off his forehead with the back of his hand. If he re-enacted his fantasies again it might just conquer his dark pangs of fear.
Or it might make things even worse.
He took a deep breath and carried his bulging briefcase into the living room, where he dumped it on one of the armchairs.
He needed a drink. Then he’d feel better
and he’d be able to get on with reading over some of his students’ essays before his evening meal and his appointment with
Chantalle. The cognac bottle on the bookcase was almost beckoning to him, so he fetched a glass from his tiny kitchen, grabbed
the bottle by the neck and poured himself a generous measure.
As he raised the glass to his lips, he heard a noise from the bedroom. He swung round, his heart racing. There was someone
there with him in the flat. An intruder.
Yves Demancour was a man who hated danger and the threat of violence. He had seen the results of suffering, the raw flesh
and the agonising pain. He closed his eyes. Perhaps whoever it was had come to kill him. Or, worse, to torture him for pleasure
or to get him to give away the secret he kept closest to his heart. His treasure.
What was the best course of action? He weighed all the options in his mind. The most sensible would be to call the police.
But would they get there in time?
There it was again, another sound. Footsteps creeping out into the hall. Demancour stood quite still, toying with the idea
of concealing himself behind the sofa with the telephone. But when he tried to move, he found he was frozen to the spot. And
the footsteps were getting nearer. Too late for action now.
When the figure loomed in the doorway, he stared like a terrified wild beast caught in the headlights of some monstrous lorry.
The Pure Sons of the West were the obvious suspects.
Someone had been burned to death in that garage and they had more or less claimed responsibility in the note that had been
pushed through the door so they had to be brought in. But Wesley had always worked on the assumption, against all the standard
rules of policing, that obvious isn’t necessarily correct.
‘You’re very quiet,’ Gerry said as they drove out to Queenswear.
‘I’ve been thinking. Don’t you think all this business with the Pure Sons of the West is a bit …’ He searched for the word.
‘Theatrical. There’s something not quite right about it.’
‘Evidence?’
Wesley kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. ‘Haven’t got any.’
‘Then I suggest we get some. But I agree. No murderer I’ve ever known has drawn attention to himself like that.’
‘Unless he knew he had an unbreakable alibi.’
‘Exactly. And your mate Neil’s given him one. However, it might not have been Jem Burrows himself who did the dirty work.
Let’s face it, it could be any of them. Burrows looks bright enough to know the value of delegation.’
Of course Wesley had thought of all this. Since he’d talked to Sheryl Bright he’d thought of little else. It was just a matter
of finding out which of the Pure Sons of the West were absent from the protest at the appropriate time. Simple really.
When they reached Grandal Field Neil looked pleased to see them and Wesley guessed the protesters
were starting to get on his nerves. Two uniformed constables who’d been leaning against their patrol car straightened themselves
up when they saw the two CID men arrive, in an effort to make it look as if they were doing something useful rather than enjoying
the sunshine.
While Gerry went over for a chat with the officers, Wesley was swept off by Neil for a tour of his trenches.
‘There’s been a development,’ he said quietly as they walked. ‘Two as a matter of fact.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The dental records of the corpse found in Owl Cottage don’t match Ian Rowe’s.’
Neil stopped, his mouth gaping open. ‘You mean he could still be alive?’
‘It looks that way.’
‘Any idea where he is?’
‘We’re working on it. And there’s something else.’ He looked around. There was nobody to overhear what he was about to say.
‘We think Bright might have turned up.’
Neil grunted. It was clear he didn’t have a high opinion of Bright and Wesley wondered how he’d take the news of his death.
‘There was a fire in his garage at home. The firemen found a body. We can only assume it’s Bright.’
Neil’s eyes widened. ‘Was it accidental or—?’
‘We’re treating it as suspicious. And a note was found from your friends the Pure Sons of the West saying they’d carried out
their threat to kill his wife and he’d be next.’