‘This was before Rowe had a chance to see Sir Martin? Why didn’t you wait to see what he had to say? He might have been quite
reasonable. He might have believed Sir Martin when he told him he wasn’t his father.’
Eva gave what sounded like a snort of disbelief. ‘You forget, Inspector. Rowe worked here. I knew him. He wasn’t going to
give up if he thought he could get a few quid out of it. Martin’s too soft for his own good.’
‘A DNA test would have disproved it.’
‘Perhaps. But I didn’t want it to get that far. Now, if that’s all.’
Wesley’s eyes were drawn to Eva’s desk and a brightly coloured stamp on a thick white envelope on top of her in-tray caught
his attention. A foreign stamp. South Africa. He felt Gerry nudge his arm.
‘We might need to ask you some more questions,’ he heard the DCI say, a veiled threat behind the words. ‘And we’ll get a search
warrant if we have to.’
Eva didn’t react. ‘Very well,’ she said as though she didn’t care one way or the other. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have work
to do,’ she added coolly.
As they were about to leave there was a sudden commotion outside, a thunderous noise so loud that Wesley almost felt he had
to cover his ears. They looked out of the window and saw a helicopter rise up gracefully and swoop off over the trees behind
the house.
‘Might be worth hanging around for another quick word with Sir Martin if his visitors are going,’ Gerry said in a voice loud
enough to be heard over the relentless clatter of the engine.
Wesley noticed that Eva was brushing imaginary bits off her businesslike black suit in preparation for her boss’s entrance.
She looked at them and scowled. ‘You only saw him earlier today. This is beginning to look like police harassment. If I were
you I’d get going before a complaint’s put in to your superiors.’
But Wesley and Gerry weren’t going to be intimidated.
‘I’m sure he won’t mind if we just hang round to say hello,’ said Gerry cheerfully. ‘It’d seem rude not to, wouldn’t it, Inspector
Peterson?’
Wesley nodded, straight-faced, as Gerry sat himself down to wait. It was only five minutes before Sir Martin Crace put in
an appearance but, sitting there under Eva’s hostile stare, to Wesley it seemed longer.
The great man looked surprised to see them. ‘I hadn’t expected you back so soon, gentlemen,’ he said politely. Wesley guessed
that he was exercising considerable self-control.
‘So sorry to bother you again, sir,’ Wesley said smoothly as they followed him into his office, closing the door behind them.
‘It’s just that we’ve just been talking to Denis Wade’s partner.’
‘How is she?’ Crace sounded genuinely concerned. Saint Martin at his most saintly.
‘Still very shocked.’ He paused. ‘And she was even more shaken when she received a call from your PA telling her to keep her
mouth shut.’
Crace opened his mouth to speak then shut it again, lost for words. ‘Why should Eva say that?’
‘That’s what we were wondering. She says it’s connected with Ian Rowe’s claim that you’re his father.’
‘That’s nonsense.’
‘Is it?’
‘Look, I’m not Ian Rowe’s father. I admit that I didn’t have a high opinion of Rowe but I was quite happy to see him and put
him straight.’
‘You knew his mother. You were around when she got pregnant.’
Crace sighed. ‘If it helps to settle the matter once and for all, I’d be willing to take a DNA test, just to allay all suspicion.
This is getting beyond a joke.’ He hesitated. ‘Now if that’s all, I really am very busy.’
As they left they passed Eva. She was emerging from her office laden with files and letters and she looked away, avoiding
their eyes.
Frustration was a dreadful thing. Wesley’s GP sister would have told him that it was bad for the blood
pressure and probably a lot else besides. They’d cleared up Jon Bright’s murder but those of Nadia Lucas and Denis Wade still
remained unsolved and the smiling images of the victims gazed down at him from the CID office noticeboard, mocking his inability
to bring their killer or killers to justice.
Gerry had been summoned upstairs to bring Chief Superintendent Nutter up to date with developments. Wesley sat at his desk
going through what they had so far, searching for inspiration. What had happened to Maggie March’s son – John Martin March?
If he could only find him, he had the feeling that he would get some answers.
He’d have been a young adult when his mother had met her tragic end. Surely he would have attended his mother’s funeral. But,
unlike at weddings, people didn’t take pictures at funerals. It just wasn’t done. If it had been, at least they’d have had
a chance of knowing what John Martin March looked like.
There was nobody of that name and age on any records they had. Nobody who had a driving licence, a national insurance number
or a criminal conviction was a match for that name and date of birth. It seemed as though John Martin March had disappeared
off the face of the earth. March had been Maggie’s name at birth so it was always possible that John Martin had met up with
his biological father later on and was using his name. But what that name was, he hadn’t a clue.
He glanced over at Rachel who was sifting through witness statements and when their eyes met she smiled.
‘Anything new?’ he asked, making conversation.
She shook her head. ‘All Denis Wade’s known associates have been interviewed but they haven’t said anything particularly interesting.’
‘Any luck with tracing John Martin March?’
‘No trace. It’s as though he disappeared off the face of the earth. Maybe he went abroad after his mother was killed in the
car accident. Or he might have changed his name.’
‘Maybe. It’s five o’clock. Why don’t you get off home a bit earlier tonight?’ he said gently.
‘I think I will. I’m going out for a meal with Barty this evening. It’s his birthday.’
‘Good.’ Wesley looked away. It seemed that Rachel had tamed Barty Carter, the man who had threatened her with a shotgun on
their first encounter. He tried to tell himself he was glad for her.
He began to go through the files again. Statements and forensic reports. After a while the typed words began to swim before
his eyes and he looked up to see Rachel examining her watch.
She caught his eye again and frowned. ‘I can’t help feeling sorry for that Nadia, you know. Imagine what it must be like to
know that your mother committed suicide like that. I mean, she didn’t even mention her in that note she left, did she? How
can someone do that to a kid?’
Wesley sat there quite still for a few moments before looking for the file on Wendy Haskel’s suicide. When he found it, he
stared at the photocopy of the suicide note before picking up his phone and tapping out the number of Neil’s mobile.
Neil answered after several rings, his voice excited. ‘Hi, Wes. You should see the pottery we’re getting out. And we’ve just
found a brilliant coin. King John, would you believe.’
‘Great. I’ll have to come and have another look when I’ve got a moment. In the meantime, I want you to do me a favour. Do
you keep records of old digs at your Exeter office?’
‘Yeah. There are boxes full of old files down in the basement. Why?’
‘Could you ask someone to go through them to see if there are any examples of Wendy Haskel’s handwriting? I wouldn’t normally
ask but it’s rather urgent.’
Neil hesitated, as though Wesley had just asked him to undertake a particularly onerous task. ‘I’ll give Paula a ring. She
looks after our filing system. Hope she hasn’t gone home. You still holding Ian Rowe?’
‘For questioning, yes. Can you contact Paula? Like I say, it’s really important. If she can find something ask her to fax
me a copy. You know the number.’
Wesley put the phone down, hoping that Neil would move quickly for a change. And hoping that his hunch would be proved right.
Sir Martin Crace went through the post that Eva had left on his desk. There seemed to be a lot of it today. But then the post
hadn’t arrived until after lunch and he’d been tied up in meetings most of the day.
There was the usual batch of requests, ranging from approaches from major charities to straightforward begging letters from
individuals on hard times. Then
there was the other letter that had arrived in the envelope with the colourful stamp, the one he read over and over again
before walking to the drinks cabinet and pouring himself a measure of single malt.
This was something that needed some thought.
There is no further mention of Urien de Norton. He was a bit player in history, a catalyst. How gossip and rumour can cause
damage, almost like fire running out of control.
I sometimes wonder whether my own mother’s death was brought about by whispers and the judgement of others. I know now that
there was talk surrounding her relationship with Dr March. Did that make her take her own life? I wonder. Or was it Dr March’s
death in that dreadful accident?
There are people I must talk to – people who can help me get at the truth. But I digress. This book is not about me or my
mother. It is about Jeanne de Minerve. Jeanne who died in that dreadful way. Her husband must have been consumed by jealousy
to trap her like that in the dovecot and set fire to it. He must have listened to her screams as she died in agony.
How could he have turned from her rescuer to her torturer? Perhaps he justified it to himself. Perhaps he reasoned that, as
he had saved her from the flames, he had a right to return her to them.
(From papers found in the possession of Professor
Yves Demancour)
Over the many years Wesley had known Neil, the last thing he had come to expect from his old friend was efficiency. But it
seemed that this time Neil had mended his ways. When Wesley returned from Gerry Heffernan’s morning briefing at nine o’clock,
there was a fax on his desk, compliments of Paula at the County Archaeological Unit in Exeter. It was a copy of a handwritten
report dated April 1981 concerning a Roman section of Exeter’s city walls, probably a preliminary draft of something that
would have been typed up later on. And the name at the top was Wendy Haskel, Field Archaeologist. As Wesley read it, his heart
started to beat faster and he was surprised to feel his hand shaking a little as he reached for the file that contained a
photocopy of Wendy’s suicide note. He had a feeling that this was the moment of truth, something that would confirm or disprove
his worst suspicions.
For a few seconds he hardly dared look in case he was wrong. Then, his heart still pounding, he hurried to Gerry’s office,
clutching the two sheets of paper tightly in his hand.
‘Wendy Haskel didn’t kill herself,’ he said as he pushed the door open.
Gerry looked up. ‘So where the hell is she then?’
‘Nadia Lucas told Ian Rowe that it was the other way round and now I think I know what she meant. It wasn’t Maggie March who
died in that burning car, it was Wendy. Nobody saw Wendy after that accident. Professor Maplin spoke to someone on the phone
but he said the voice just muttered something incomprehensible – he
presumed that Wendy was too shocked by the news to speak. But what if it wasn’t Wendy on the other end of the line? From what
Maplin told me, it could have been anyone. The neighbours heard someone going into her house and saw somebody disappearing
down the road in Wendy’s distinctive coat. But nobody actually saw or spoke to her. Wendy’s things were found on the beach
the day after and a short note was found in the house. But that note wasn’t written by Wendy. I’ve compared the handwriting
with a report she wrote. Someone’s tried to copy her writing but when you examine it carefully you can tell that it wasn’t
written by the same person. The suicide note was a fake and nobody thought to check it at the time. Maggie March faked it
all and disappeared. No wonder no body was found. Wendy’s body was burned beyond recognition in Maggie’s car in the days before
DNA and Maggie, now officially dead, could skip off into the wild blue yonder with a new identity. And maybe a joyful reunion
with her long-lost son.’
Gerry picked up a pencil and turned it over in his fingers, deep in thought. After a few seconds he looked up. ‘You got any
proof of all this?’
‘Only the difference between the handwriting on the suicide note and the report … and what Nadia told Ian about it being the
other way around.’
‘Her writing could have been shaky because she was so distressed. It’s not enough, Wes,’ the DCI said, shaking his head. Then
the ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. ‘But it’s a start. How are we going to prove it, eh?’
‘I’ve got an idea. But it’ll mean a trip to Exeter.’
Gerry watched while Wesley made a phone call. The last thing they wanted was a wasted journey.
Sir Martin Crace had always acknowledged the wisdom of sleeping on a problem. But somehow a night spent lying awake, twisting
his body restlessly from side to side in a futile attempt to blot out the thoughts in his head and drift into unconsciousness,
had done nothing to make his dilemma any clearer.
And the thought that Eva might have overstepped the mark didn’t make him feel any better. He relied on Eva almost as other
men relied on their wives. Theirs had been a sort of sexless marriage and, if it was proved that she had committed some crime,
it would almost be like learning of the infidelity of a beloved wife. He’d been through that once before and he didn’t think
he could face that particular situation again. That’s why he’d never remarried. He’d always thought he could trust Eva but
she couldn’t fool him. She looked worried sick.
He sat in his office sipping the morning coffee she had silently brought him, reading and rereading the letter. Then he picked
up the phone. He had to check if there had been some sort of mistake.
But when the call was ended he realised this had only made things worse. He had no choice now but to act.
But how was he going to approach the problem?
‘This is DCI Gerry Heffernan,’ Wesley said with a smile as Karl Maplin held out his hand.