Dr Neil Watson had never felt at home in offices. In fact he felt as uncomfortable as a polar bear in the Sahara, sitting
there in the spacious Morbay offices of Tradford Developments. He fingered the collar of his shirt, tight as a noose around
his neck, as the office door opened.
The man who emerged was in his mid forties, tall and with the heavy build of a habitual rugby player. He had pre-empted nature
by cropping his receding hair almost to the scalp and he wore a diamond earring in his left ear that looked incongruous with
his dark suit, striped shirt and tie.
He approached Neil with outstretched hand. ‘Jon Bright. Dr Watson, I presume?’ He smirked. ‘Not brought Sherlock with you,
eh?’
Neil tried to smile but only managed an insincere grimace. The powers that be in the County Archaeological Unit had issued
their orders – he wasn’t to rub this man up the wrong way. There was money in the deal. He had to make an effort.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting. My receptionist’s gone AWOL. Didn’t turn up for work a few days ago and we’ve not heard from her
since. No sense of responsibility, these girls today.’
Neil said nothing.
Jon Bright opened a filing cabinet to the right of the reception desk. ‘Now where did she put the correspondence?’ He pulled
out a file triumphantly. ‘This is it. I’ll say one thing for Donna, she’s not bad at filing. Sorry I can’t offer you tea.
My secretary’s gone to the dentist’s and I’m not sure where the milk’s kept.’
‘That’s OK,’ Neil said quickly. Tea was the last thing on his mind.
‘Anyway, let’s go into my office and get down to business.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose I’d better tell you that I’ve had the police
on the blower this morning. Someone’s decided to commit suicide on the site so the place is going to be out of bounds for
a while … cordoned off for forensic examination.’
Neil assumed a solemn expression. ‘That’s awful. Do they know who it is or why …?’
‘If they do, they didn’t choose to share the information with me. I’m wondering whether it’s one of these activists I’ve been
having trouble with – the bloody Pure Sons of the West. One of the bastards might have decided to top himself and make life
awkward for
Tradford Developments at the same time. The grand gesture.’
Neil thought that Bright’s theory was highly unlikely. Environmentalists don’t usually opt for self-destruction. But he remained
silent.
‘This archaeological assessment of the Queenswear site. How long will it take? Time is money, you know.’
Neil took a deep breath. He’d already taken a dislike to Bright with his ready clichés and his artificial bonhomie. ‘That
depends what we find. From what I’ve already discovered, it seems to be an interesting site, archaeologically speaking. There
are records of a medieval manorial complex on the site … a family called de Grendalle held the property from Judhael who held
Neston from the King.’
He noticed that Bright’s hard blue eyes were beginning to glaze over but he carried on. ‘The de Grendalles are first mentioned
in the Domesday Book, you know. The house fell into disuse in the Tudor period when a new house was built quarter of a mile
away; they must have been into recycling back then because they used a lot of materials from the old place to construct the
new one. What’s left of the new manor house is now used as a farmhouse, altered drastically over the centuries, of course.’
‘So what’s this got to do with my development?’
‘If the original manorial site is considered to be of archaeological importance, it needs to be thoroughly investigated. Actually
there was an excavation there back in the early nineteen eighties but it came to a sudden halt for some reason … I haven’t
managed to
find out why. But we need to do a proper investigation. It’s a legal requirement, as you know.’ He leaned forward. ‘Look,
you might be able to do yourself a bit of good here, Mr Bright. Some developers have made a big thing of working with the
archaeological team … even put on exhibitions of the finds for the local community. It’s done their reputation in the area
no end of good.’ He sat back in his chair. That covered just about everything. Carrot and stick.
‘So you can’t give me a timescale?’
‘It all depends what we find down there, Mr Bright. But I assure you, we won’t take any longer than necessary.’
Bright looked as if he didn’t believe him, but smiled all the same – with his mouth if not with his eyes.
‘I’ll see what I can find about the nineteen eighties dig. Perhaps their findings will help to hurry things up a bit.’ Neil
offered this verbal olive branch, aware that he’d heard rumours that there’d been something strange about this previous excavation:
something that might even take him some time to sort out. But he wasn’t letting Bright know this.
There were some professional mysteries he was keeping to himself.
‘You’re not going to look for him at that restaurant. You can’t.’ Pam Peterson stood blocking the way.
‘We can go there for lunch if you like,’ said Wesley.
‘So you can sneak off into the kitchens and start asking questions. Ian Rowe’s unreliable. He couldn’t be bothered to turn
up. End of story.’
‘But he said he was worried about that friend of his … Nadia. I’d like to have a quick look at those e-mails he mentioned,
just to make sure there’s nothing to panic about. It won’t take long. I promise.’ Wesley almost wished he’d just disappeared
off on his own and not bothered telling Pam of the nagging worry he’d felt since Rowe hadn’t turned up at their rendezvous.
He’d tried to convince himself that there was some simple explanation. Rowe had been waylaid somehow and, not having Wesley’s
mobile number, he’d been unable to let him know. This was the sensible explanation. But a persistent voice in Wesley’s head
was telling him it was the wrong one.
Pam looked exasperated but then she touched his hand. ‘OK, I know you won’t be happy until you’ve checked it out. But just
remember you’re not at work now.’
For a moment the image of Gerry Heffernan flashed into Wesley’s mind, sitting at one of the nearby restaur-ant tables, tucking
into a large meal and a vat of wine. If Gerry had been there he’d probably have told him to forget all about Ian Rowe and
concentrate on enjoying his holiday.
‘Come on.’ He took hold of Pam’s hand and led her towards the door of the Auberge de la Cité. The tables were set inside and
the place looked inviting. Pam walked ahead as they crossed the threshold.
The meal was more than satisfactory – the chef had done something interesting with sea bass, followed by a textbook crème
brulée – and after they had coffee, Wesley waylaid the young waitress who’d served them.
He’d noticed that her English was good so he wouldn’t be forced to trawl the murky depths of his schoolboy French in order
to communicate. This was a delicate matter and the last thing he wanted was a misunderstanding.
She was small and slim with short dark hair and large brown eyes. As he went through the rituals of Gallic politeness, she
stood there attentively, expecting a question about some tourist site or the opening hours of the Château Comptal. And from
the change of expression on her face, it was clear that Wesley’s first question was quite unexpected.
‘Do you know Ian Rowe?’ he asked. ‘I believe he works in the kitchens here.’
‘Yes, I know him.’ The way she said the words made it sound as if she regretted the acquaintance.
‘Is he in work today?’
She shook her head. ‘He should be but he has not come in. The
patron
he ring his number but he is not there. Why do you ask?’
Wesley decided it would be better if he came up with something approaching the truth. ‘I was at university with him.’
‘Oxford? You were at Oxford?’
He was surprised. But then it would be just like Rowe to embellish his educational achievements. ‘No. We were at Exeter actually.’
She gave Wesley a wary look, as though she suspected him of lying. ‘Ian has a doctorate from Oxford. He told me. He worked
as Sir Martin Crace’s assistant for a while and he is taking time off to travel.’
Wesley was tempted to enlighten her but he had second thoughts. Who was to say that Rowe hadn’t made a fresh start after dropping
out of Exeter? Who was to say he wasn’t telling the truth? Either that or Ian Rowe was a boastful fantasist, which was probably
more likely. However, the mention of Sir Martin Crace puzzled him. Crace was high profile, an entrepreneur who’d made his
millions in the pharmaceutical industry then turned philanthropist; a regular guest at 10 Downing Street and Buckingham Palace
and one of the nation’s Great and Good. A connection like that could easily be disproved. But, in Wesley’s experience, that
sort of thing never bothered fantasists.
‘We arranged to meet this morning and he didn’t turn up.’
The young waitress shrugged. It really wasn’t her problem.
‘Do you know where he lives?’ Wesley said automatically, suddenly aware that he was slipping into policeman mode. And one
glance at Pam sitting beside him absentmindedly excavating the sugar bowl told him he had to stop.
‘He and two of the waiters share a house in the Ville Basse.’
‘Are the others here now? Can I speak to them?’ He glanced at Pam again and knew he’d just said the wrong thing. He was on
holiday. The last thing he needed was to make it a holiday of the busman’s kind. Besides, they only had one day left.
‘They are in tonight. You come back tonight.’
‘Can you give me his address?’
She hesitated for a moment then scribbled an address on one of the restaurant’s cards. ‘If you see him you tell him that chef
is angry with him. OK?’
‘I’ll tell him,’ Wesley said with a reassuring smile. She was about to go when another question came into his head. ‘Has he
ever mentioned a girl called Nadia?’
The waitress shook her head and walked away quickly, as though the subject of Rowe was beginning to bore her.
Wesley gave Pam an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry about that.’
She pouted, putting on the pretence of anger. ‘I should think so too. So Ian Rowe’s also been putting it about that he’s got
a doctorate from Oxford?’
‘When he was thrown out of Exeter for failing his exams.’
‘The man’s a bloody liar.’
‘I reckon he always was a bit of a fantasist, even when we knew him. And he’s claiming he used to be Sir Martin Crace’s assistant.’
Pam snorted. ‘How likely is that? Like you say, he’s a fantasist.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Mind you, it doesn’t mean he
didn’t have some sort of menial post in Crace’s organisation. Washing up in his kitchens or general dogsbody.’
Wesley looked at Pam in admiration. It was obvious when you thought about it. The best lies have a kernel of truth in them.
‘At least we’ve got Rowe’s address.’
‘And you want to pay him a call?’ she said. It was hard to read the expression on her face – to know whether she approved
or disapproved of this new development.
She fell silent for a few seconds then she looked him in the eye. ‘Well, to tell you the truth, I’m a bit intrigued myself.’
After leaving a generous tip, Wesley took hold of Pam’s hand and they walked out of the restaurant. As they reached the door,
he turned and saw that the waitress was watching them leave, a worried look on her face.
Donna Grogen worked on the reception desk in the offices of Tradford Developments – or in Admin, as her mother put it proudly.
She commuted to Morbay each day and her boss, Mr Bright, thought very highly of her. There was no reason in the world that
she should disappear without telling anyone.
Donna’s mother, Carla, was a large woman with bottle blonde hair and she sat surrounded by used tissues like some exotic bird
that had started to shed its plumage. Rachel Tracey listened sympathetically to the proud mother’s recital of Donna’s virtues,
wondering how she could bring up the possibility that Donna might be lying dead in the mortuary, burned beyond recognition.
But Rachel knew she couldn’t put it off indefinitely. She’d been faced with this situation so many times before but it never
seemed to get any easier.
Rachel cleared her throat. ‘Mrs Grogen, there’s no easy way to say this but the body of a young woman’s been found in a field
near Queenswear … on land owned by Tradford Developments.’
She looked at Carla. The woman’s hand had gone to
her mouth as though she was trying to stifle a scream.
‘I’m sorry I have to ask this but can you tell me whether Donna had any dental work done? Any fillings?’
Carla shook her head. ‘She looks after her teeth … always has.’
This was bad news. Rachel had rather been hoping to hear that Donna had been partial to boiled sweets and fizzy drinks and
had a mouthful of silver-grey amalgam.
‘Is it her? Is it my Donna? Can I see her?’ Carla’s eyes were starting to fill with tears.
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We might have to ask you to provide a DNA sample. It’s a simple procedure …’
‘Oh, my God.’ The hand was clamped to the mouth again and Rachel looked away. She couldn’t stand the grief in the woman’s
eyes.
‘If my Donna’s dead, I know who killed her,’ the mother said after a few seconds. ‘It’s that Chas. That’s who it is. I told
her she was stupid. I told her to have nothing to do with him when he got involved with those Pure Sons of Devon or whatever
they call themselves, but would she listen?’
Rachel sat forward. ‘Who’s Chas?’ she asked gently. ‘And where can we find him?’
The house Ian Rowe shared with his colleagues at the Auberge de la Cité stood on a dark claustrophobic street between the
old Cité and the Basse Ville, just beyond the old bridge and off the tourist trail. It was a
terraced house of indeterminate age, dark, with flaking paint on the door and shutters and a small heap of dog mess near the
front step. Most of the houses in the narrow road had their shutters closed and the only sign of life was a garage at the
end where three men in oily overalls sat outside smoking and staring at Wesley and Pam as if they were an exotic sideshow
come there to relieve the boredom of their day.