‘I need to get out of the office,’ Gerry said wearily.
‘Preferably somewhere the Nutter won’t find me. Fancy a coffee in the canteen?’
Gerry looked like a man who needed company. It would have been churlish to refuse the invitation. They sat down at a table
in the corner with two steaming mugs of coffee and sat in amicable silence for a while.
It was Gerry who spoke first. ‘So where are we up to? We’ve got Cherry Bakewell and Jem Burrows charged and your mate Rowe’s
been released on bail because, dodgy though he undoubtedly is, we can’t actually prove he’s done anything illegal. He’s not
even tried to extort money out of our friend Crace … although I suspect that was his ultimate intention.’
Wesley sighed. ‘But what had Nadia discovered, that’s what I want to know.’
‘Her long-lost mum?’
‘No. She told Rowe over the phone that it was the other way around. Wendy Haskel died in Maggie March’s place and March faked
Haskel’s suicide so that she could disappear. I think Nadia was killed because she was about to find out the truth.’
‘By someone who knew all about the site and the story associated with it? By Maggie March? She could still be around here
somewhere with a new identity.’
‘And her son. Don’t forget the son. Maybe Nadia found Maggie. Maybe she told her she knew her secret. She knew she was a murderer.
Who knew Ian Rowe was back here?’
‘Crace himself. Eva. Jane Verity. Denis Wade.’
‘And?’
‘Excuse me, sir.’ Wesley looked up and saw DC Nick
Tarnaby standing by the table, shifting from foot to foot. His eyes were fixed on Gerry as though he feared he would spring
up and devour him at any moment.
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know if it’s important or …’
‘Go on,’ said Wesley encouragingly.
‘Someone from uniform’s just been up to the CID office. He says he bumped into a bloke yesterday at that cottage near Whitely
that got burned down … the one where that man was killed.’
‘Did this bloke he bumped into have a name?’ Wesley asked, glancing at Gerry, who was watching Tarnaby with barely disguised
impatience.
Tarnaby studied the notebook in his hand. ‘Bloke with a Discovery he’d nicked for speeding. He said it got him thinking so
he checked the date he issued the ticket. It was on the night of the fire and this bloke in the Discovery was going like the
clappers on the road to Neston. Away from Whitely. His name was …’ He turned over the page. ‘Hang on … I wrote it down somewhere …
.’
Wesley caught Gerry’s eye. Suddenly he knew why the youthful face of Maggie March’s son on those old photographs had seemed
so familiar. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘It was the owner of Owl Cottage. It was Jack Plesance.’
Nick Tarnaby’s mouth gaped open. ‘That’s right. You must be psychic, sir.’
Sir Martin Crace stared at the woman he knew as Bertha Trent, his eyes drawn to the disfiguring scarring
on the left side of her face, the side she always kept hidden.
He’d always believed she’d suffered those burns when Mugabe’s so-called war veterans had set fire to her farmhouse out in
Zimbabwe. She’d described her experience in vivid and heart-rending detail. How they broke the door down. How they bayoneted
her cowering maid. How they laughed when they locked her in a bedroom and set the property alight. But now he couldn’t be
sure of anything.
‘I’ve just received a letter from a solicitor in South Africa,’ he said quietly.
‘Oh yes.’ Bertha showed no sign of unease.
‘The solicitor – a Mr Kronje – said he was very sorry to have to inform me that my mother’s cousin, Miss Bertha Trent, died
in a Cape Town nursing home recently. I had dealings with Kronje some years ago when Bertha’s farm was attacked and she was
reported missing, presumed dead. But now he’s telling me that she somehow managed to escape to Cape Town. He says that the
trauma she’d suffered brought about a loss of memory and it was only on her death that someone went through the few possessions
she’d brought out of Zimbabwe with her and found items that confirmed her identity.’ He looked at the woman expectantly but
she turned her face away. ‘So if you’re not the real Bertha Trent, who are you?’
There was no answer. But Crace heard a sound behind him. Someone opening a door. He swung round.
‘Hello,’ he said to the newcomer. ‘I’ve not seen you
for a long time. What are you doing here?’
Jack Plesance didn’t answer. But with a smile he produced an iron bar from behind his back.
Eva Liversedge trod the thickly carpeted path to her office. A phone was ringing so she hurried her pace.
The call was from London. Someone from Number Ten wanting to speak to Sir Martin urgently. He wasn’t in his office so she
dialled his mobile number.
After a few rings it was answered and she heard what sounded like a muffled cry before the call was ended abruptly. She stared
at the phone for a few moments then tried the number again. This time it rang out and she knew that something was wrong.
Hurrying out into the hall she felt panic rising inside her. ‘Has anyone seen Sir Martin?’ she asked Jane Verity, who was
walking with her customary serenity towards the green baize door.
‘I saw him go outside,’ Jane said. ‘He had something in his hand. Looked like a letter. He was walking down the drive.’
Eva suddenly remembered the letter he’d received, the one from South Africa. The one she’d assumed was just a misunderstanding.
As Jane disappeared into the cosy depths of the servants’ quarters, she stood there, wondering what to do. Was it really worth
ringing the police or was she panicking about nothing?
The woman turned to face Jack Plesance and he could see the shiny, mottled scarring on the side of her face, vivid red and
pulling her features out of alignment.
‘I didn’t know Bertha Trent was still alive,’ she said breathlessly. ‘You said she’d disappeared.’
‘That’s what they told Crace. That’s why I asked you to come back. I knew that all you had to do was turn up and say you were
Bertha. Crace had never even met her. Mum, please. How was I to know she’d got away to South Africa? I thought there’d be
no problem.’
Jack put a hand on his mother’s arm but she pulled it away.
‘That’s what you always think. I sometimes wish—’
‘What?’
‘That I’d not come back here. I’d made myself a life in Africa after …’ She looked into her son’s eyes and saw that they were
brimming with tears. Why did he always have to be so emotional? Why did he have to feel things so deeply?
But she knew why. She had been like that herself, especially when Wendy, her lovely, beautiful Wendy, had betrayed her by
flirting with that silly Cherry girl. She’d seen them together, laughing and giggling, and she began to fear that she was
losing her. Then that silly, bitchy little man Karl Maplin had told her he’d seen them kissing. Wendy and Cherry. He’d taken
such a delight in telling her. Wendy had denied it, of course. She’d said that she’d just been friendly towards Cherry; that
there’d been nothing in it.
But sometimes jealousy, once roused, won’t lie down. It had preyed on her mind, burrowed like a worm into her soul until she
convinced herself that Wendy couldn’t be trusted.
Then they had quarrelled and she’d struck Wendy so hard that she’d fallen and struck her head. She had known from those blank,
open eyes that her beloved Wendy was dead and she’d stood there staring in horror at the result of her terrible, tempestuous
emotions. She hadn’t meant to kill her, but who’d believe her? That was when she knew she’d have to keep a cool head and devise
some sort of plan. She needed everyone to believe that it was her who’d died in the car, and then she had to make it look
as if Wendy had killed herself out of grief. Then she’d disappeared to Africa where nobody knew her past, intending never
to return. And for so many years it worked.
Until her son had found her, until he had traced her through a letter she’d written to her sister, and told her he needed
her.
She heard a groan. Martin Crace was lying face down on the floor, partially shielded by Jack’s body. He moved his arm; he
was coming round.
‘What are we going to do?’ she asked. Since they’d been reunited Jack had become her rock, she thought. Even after all those
years when she had rejected him.
‘He knows now. There’s nothing else for it.’
‘How?’
He smiled. ‘Same as before. Fire purifies. Fire destroys evidence.’
Maggie March shuddered. She hated fire. Fire had terrified her ever since she’d tried to rescue those excavation reports from
her burning car and the flames had touched her face, leaving her scarred for life. She’d
forgotten those important reports had been there on the back seat until it was too late and she’d tried instinctively to retrieve
them, even though she could never have used them. It had been automatic, something she did without thinking. So stupid.
She had covered her ears when Jack told her how he’d poured petrol over the unconscious body of Nadia Lucas. At first he had
told her that Nadia had become an investigative journalist, searching for the truth about Wendy’s disappearance, and that
he’d lured her to the field with the promise of a story. The field where Maggie had last worked with Wendy: the field connected
with that strange legend of the burning bride. She’d once shared that legend with Jack and he’d been so interested when she
told him about the burned foundations of the circular dovecot she’d discovered during the dig – the spot where the bride was
supposed to have died.
Then later he confessed that he’d lied to her. Nadia had really been Wendy’s daughter. He’d met her in Neston and told her
he was taking her to meet someone who knew the truth about her mother. He’d driven her to the meeting place, Grandal Field,
and Nadia had trusted him enough – or been desperate enough – to go with him. When she learned this, Maggie cried. Wendy had
been so precious to her – and Nadia had been Wendy’s flesh and blood.
That man Rowe, who’d once driven for Crace, had told Jack all about Nadia’s search for Wendy and Jack had encouraged his confidences.
Through Rowe he knew about the letter Nadia had found amongst her
father’s things, spelling out Maggie’s relationship with her mother … a letter Maggie had written in the hot fires of jealousy,
threatening to kill her beloved. After he’d killed Nadia, Jack had taken her keys and let himself into her house to retrieve
the letter. Nadia had been getting close to the truth so, if Maggie was to be kept safe, Nadia had to be silenced. But Maggie
wished that Jack had found a kinder way.
‘Have we got to kill Martin? He’s been so kind to me.’
‘Don’t get sentimental, Mum,’ he snapped. ‘We can’t afford sentimentality.’
She looked at her son’s eyes and saw that they were cold, devoid of any pity or emotion. ‘What about that man you told me
about? Ian Rowe? You killed the wrong man in your cottage. Rowe’s still about and he—’
‘I don’t think he knows the truth. I thought he was on to it but now I’m not so sure. But I might have to deal with him even
so.’
‘I’ve had enough of killing,’ Maggie whispered. She felt her son’s arm around her shoulder as he kissed the top of her head.
‘It’ll be all right, Mum. We’ll go away, just you and me. Somewhere nice, eh.’ He took her in his arms and kissed her again.
‘It’ll be fine, you’ll see.’
She turned away, fingering the scarred flesh of her face, listening to the sound of liquid gurgling from the petrol can. It
was as though it meant nothing to him now. They say murder is easy with practice. In a second he would light the purifying
flames. Then it would be over.
But when she heard the distant sound of police car sirens her body froze.
Wesley climbed out of the car and looked up at the elegant façade of Bewton Hall. Everything looked normal. But Eva Liversedge
had made that panicked phone call. She’d said she thought Sir Martin was in some sort of trouble. She’d sounded upset and
Eva didn’t seem the kind of woman who upset easily.
‘Has she no idea where he’s gone?’ Gerry asked as he squeezed out of the passenger door.
‘She said he was on foot and she said something about a letter from South Africa – she kept saying it must be a misunderstanding.
She mentioned Bertha so there’s a chance that Crace might have headed for Bertha Trent’s cottage. I just hope we’re not too
late.’
The patrol cars were pulling up, crunching gravel beneath their tyres. Wesley took it upon himself to organise the search
of the grounds. Crace would still be on the premises, he was sure of that. The security guards at the gate had told him that
nobody had left the estate in the past hour. Wesley himself began to walk down the drive towards the woods.
‘So let me get this clear: you think that woman in the cottage calling herself Bertha Trent is really Maggie March?’ Gerry
said as he trotted to keep up.
‘I can’t be absolutely sure yet but—’
‘And Jack Plesance is her son?’
‘He lied to us. He wasn’t up in the Midlands when his cottage was torched. He was here in Devon.
Breaking the speed limit on the main road leading away from Whitely.’
‘Maybe he just torched the place for the insurance,’ Gerry suggested.
‘I keep looking at that photograph. He’s John Martin March. I’m sure of it,’ said Wesley hurrying his pace.
Gerry said nothing. The cottage had come into view at last.
Crace lay face down on the floor, his arms cradling his head as though he was defending himself from attack. Jack hadn’t poured
the petrol directly on to his body, but had flicked it around the room. He stood there with the box of matches in his hand.
His mother put her hand on his shoulder.
‘Is he dead?’
‘If he’s not he will be soon.’
The words made Maggie shudder. He took her in his arms and bent to kiss her scarred cheek. John had always been a strange,
cold child. Her sister had told her how hard it was to cope with him but she’d had no choice in the matter when Maggie had
abdicated her responsibility to pursue her own interests. Perhaps it was her rejection of him all those years ago that had
made him difficult, she thought. He had sometimes been violent towards his cousins, her sister had told her. Then later his
obsession with her began; his smothering love.