He sat in his Exeter flat staring at the pile of yellowing reports on his old dining table and sighed. The dig at Grandal
Field was meant to start the next day but, as it was being treated as a crime scene, he hadn’t yet had permission from the
police. However, Wesley would be back home by now so he was sure it wouldn’t be a
problem. It was always an advantage to have friends in high – or not so high – places.
Thinking of Wesley reminded him of the text message he’d received from his friend a couple of days before. ‘Remember Ian Rowe.
Just met him here. Tell all when I get back.’
He remembered Ian Rowe all right. At university he had attended all the most drug-fuelled parties, hung around with a bunch
of posing losers and taken scant interest in the study of archaeology. He had messed about on training excavations and Neil
had always suspected that he’d only enrolled on the course because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. Neil had felt
a glow of self-righteous satisfaction when Rowe had failed his exams and been thrown off the course. Ian Rowe, in his opinion,
had got everything he deserved.
Nevertheless, he was curious about Wesley’s message. What, he wondered, had become of Rowe in the intervening years? Somehow
he didn’t expect it would be anything good.
He looked at his watch. Nine thirty. He might as well go through a few more files before he turned in for the night … just
to see if he could find any mention of the excavation on the Grandal Farm site in the 1980s.
Then suddenly he abandoned his files to search his battered bureau for his old address book. Professor Karl Maplin knew about
most of the excavations in the area and, although semi-retired, still took an active interest in the world of local archaeology.
Neil picked up the phone and dialled his number.
The conversation with Professor Maplin lasted almost an hour. Maplin lived alone and, once given the opportunity to talk with
Neil about their favourite subject, interspersed with Maplin’s usual smattering of gossip and scandal, there was no stopping
him. But by the end of the call, Neil knew he had learned something that might put him on the right track.
An archaeologist called Dr Maggie March had been in charge of the Grandal Field dig. She had died tragically in a car accident
shortly after the excavation ended. Then, strangely, her deputy had gone missing … along with the records of the dig.
Neil poured himself a beer. This one needed some thought.
‘The moment you fly off to foreign climes, all hell breaks loose. Good to see you back, Wes. Sit yourself down.’
Gerry Heffernan was grinning, showing a fine set of crooked teeth. Wesley had rarely seen anyone so pleased to see him. Something
told him that things must be desperate.
On his way in he’d met Rachel Tracey, who’d looked as if she’d like to throw her arms round him and kiss him but was exercising
iron self-control. He’d told himself it was his imagination. She had a new man in her life – a city banker who’d downsized
to a Devon smallholding with disastrous results until Rachel, with generations of farming experience behind her, had taken
him in hand. At one time Wesley had felt attracted to Rachel, although neither of them had
acted on that invisible magnetism. But that was firmly in the past, he told himself. He had Pam and the kids.
‘So what’s all this about someone being set alight in a field?’ Wesley began. Gerry had told him the bare facts on the phone
last night but now he was after the details.
Once Gerry had supplied them, chapter and verse, and reiterated his suspicions that the Brights might be involved somehow,
his face suddenly assumed a solemn expression.
‘And something else has come in. Someone torched a cottage last night – run-down place according to the locals. The fire was
spotted by a couple of lads on their way to the Sportsman’s Arms and they raised the alarm. Luckily the fire engines got there
in time to save quite a bit of the building. The place was waiting to be done up and the neighbours said it would probably
be empty.’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘But the firemen found a body inside. The poor sod was in the part of the house
worst hit by the fire. If he’d been upstairs he might have stood a chance. The fire investigators reckon it’s arson. The seat
of the fire’s in the hallway and there’s traces of accelerant. They’re doing more tests but …’
‘So we’re treating it as murder?’
‘That’s right and we’ve already got a suspect … or suspects.’
‘So who is it?’
Gerry Heffernan sucked in air through his teeth. ‘Go to your desk and switch on the Internet. Look up a site called “
www.PureSonsoftheWest.com
.”’
Wesley had to smile to himself. Gerry wouldn’t have a computer in his office. He was terrified of the things and claimed that
if he ever touched one it would break immediately. He relied on the fact that his colleagues could journey into the world
of high technology and report back.
‘The same ones who threatened the developer’s wife?’
‘The very same.’
Wesley made for his desk and found the website. It was an amateurish effort but the message was clear. Second-home owners
should get out of the West Country or there would be dire consequences – or ‘revolutionary action’ as the site put it. Wesley
scrolled down to the next page. This was entitled ‘latest news’.
‘Last night,’ it said, ‘a cottage near Whitely caught fire. It belonged to an outsider who left it to rot while our own are
homeless. The place was empty and neglected and there was no loss of life. How’s that for justice?’
‘Oh dear.’ Wesley mouthed the words silently. It seemed they didn’t know the place was occupied, and in any case they’d worded
the announcement so that there was no admission of guilt. But even if they were responsible, it was unlikely that any court
would convict them of premeditated murder. If he was a betting man, he would have put money on a manslaughter verdict.
As he returned to Gerry’s office he looked at the huge notice board that filled one wall of the incident room. There were
photographs of the charred corpse
found in the field near Queenswear, only the shape making it recognisable as a human being. There was also a picture of a
young woman with the name Donna Grogen scrawled beneath it in Gerry Heffernan’s untidy hand, with the note ‘no DNA match’
scribbled beside the name as an afterthought.
There was also a posed photograph of a prosperous-looking middle-aged man. The name underneath was Jon Bright – local property
developer and the new owner of the field where the burned body was discovered. His wife’s name had been added to the display
as well, along with the comment that she had been receiving death threats, but there was, as yet, no photograph of the unlucky
lady.
Wesley studied the board for a while. It would take him some time to get up to speed with all the details of the case. Sometimes
holidays just weren’t worth the trouble. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed Carcassonne … at least until his meeting with Ian Rowe.
He made a mental note to call Neil later to tell him all about the encounter.
‘I think she’s hiding something.’
Wesley swung round to see Rachel Tracey standing there.
‘Who is?’
‘Sheryl Bright – Jon Bright’s wife. The boss and I went to see her yesterday. She receives an anonymous threat to burn her
to death then, lo and behold, a woman’s burned to death on the site where her husband’s due to build twenty houses. Now does
that sound like a coincidence to you or does it sound like mistaken identity?’
‘What do we know about these Pure Sons of the West?’
‘We know one of them’s called Chas Ventisard. Donna Grogen is going out with him.’
Wesley smiled. ‘So I’ve heard. Has this Ventisard got form?’
‘Drunk and disorderly. Driving while banned.’
‘We’d better pay him a visit.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be …?’
‘On holiday? Sort of.’
‘Bet Pam’s not pleased about that,’ she said, avoiding his eyes.
‘As a matter of fact she was remarkably understanding,’ he said, looking at his watch. Pam’s attitude had rather surprised
him. Things were definitely looking up. ‘I’ll go with the boss to see this Ventisard character, then I’ll get off home. Have
we identified any more of these Pure Sons of the West?’
‘Trish is working on it.’
DC Trish Walton, Rachel’s housemate, was several desks away, talking on the phone and frowning with concentration as she made
copious notes.
‘Who’s that?’ Wesley nodded in the direction of a plump man in his thirties with thinning red hair. His was a face Wesley
didn’t recognise. He’d only been away for a week and it seemed that things in the office had changed in that short time.
Rachel lowered her voice. ‘He’s Steve’s replacement. His name’s Nick Tarnaby and he’s been transferred from Neston. Boss doesn’t
think he’s too bright.’
‘And what do you think?’
Rachel shrugged. ‘He seems a bit morose … hardly a bundle of laughs.’
‘Perhaps he’s got problems.’
‘And if the boss takes a dislike to him his problems are going to multiply. Who was it who said that Gerry Heffernan doesn’t
suffer fools gladly?’
‘Probably Gerry Heffernan.’ Their eyes met and they exchanged a smile. ‘Which reminds me, he’s waiting for me.’
‘He’s asked me to have another word with Mrs Bright. I’m taking our new boy … got to show him the ropes,’ said Rachel with
a wink before returning to her desk.
Half an hour later Wesley was driving to the council estate on the fringe of Tradmouth with Gerry Heffernan lolling in the
passenger seat. The DCI looked completely relaxed and there was a small beatific smile on his chubby face.
‘You look pleased with yourself, Gerry,’ Wesley commented. ‘How’s Joyce?’
‘Fine, fine. I’m thinking of telling our Rosie about her this weekend.’
Wesley suppressed a smile. He’d never known a man before who was so terrified of his daughter that he’d omitted to mention
the fact that he’d been seeing a lady friend for the past year or so. He reckoned Rosie would interpret it as a betrayal of
her late mother’s memory. Wesley, however, wasn’t so sure. Gerry’s son, Sam, had taken the news well. But Sam was an easygoing
young man, unlike the talented and musical Rosie.
‘Good luck. I’m sure she’ll be fine about it. Joyce is a hard woman to dislike, isn’t she?’
Gerry said nothing as Wesley brought the car to a halt in front of Chas Ventisard’s front door. The house was freshly painted
with clean net curtains and a neatly trimmed front garden. Something told Wesley that Chas lived with his mother.
And it was his mother who opened the door to them. Wesley had expected a show of defiance when they introduced themselves
but Mrs Ventisard looked worried and stepped aside to let them in. Wesley found himself feeling a little sorry for her.
Chas was in. He did the evening shift at the poultry factory and he’d only just woken up, the anxious mother told them breathlessly.
She wheezed a little; anxiety was never good for asthmatics.
‘Did your son go out last night?’ Gerry Heffernan asked, making the question sound innocent. ‘Only someone said they saw him
down the Shipwright’s Arms.’ Wesley knew it was a lie, of course, but they had to begin somewhere.
‘They can’t have done. He finished his shift at ten thirty and he came straight home. Got in around eleven.’ There was an
honesty about her swift answer that made it sound convincing. Now all they had to do was to see if Chas came up with the same
story.
Mrs Ventisard stood at the foot of the narrow stairs and called her son’s name. A couple of minutes later the man himself
appeared, dressed in boxer shorts and a grubby T-shirt, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
‘What is it? You found Donna?’ he said, suddenly
alert. ‘Is she all right?’ As far as Wesley could tell there was genuine concern in his voice.
‘Sorry,’ Wesley answered. ‘We haven’t come about Donna. Have you heard about the fire last night. Holiday cottage near Whitely?’
A wariness appeared in Chas’s eyes. ‘It was on the radio. Late night news.’
‘Someone died.’
Chas looked up, worried. ‘I didn’t know that. It’s got nothing to do with me.’
‘I believe you belong to an organisation known as the Pure Sons of the West.’
‘So what? It’s not illegal.’
‘It is if you’re going round burning down houses and killing people. Did you know they planned to burn down the cottage last
night?’
Chas looked as though he was torn between denial and a desire to be seen to be in the know, at the centre of things. But eventually
he seemed to plump for the first option. ‘We didn’t do nothing.’
‘Your website talks about taking action. There’s even a mention of last night’s fire. How’s that for justice, it said.’
‘So? It doesn’t say we had anything to do with starting it, does it?’
‘Perhaps your mates decided to act without you.’ Wesley watched Chas’s face. He’d been right – Chas looked a little hurt at
his last words. If there was action going, he wanted to belong. ‘Can you tell us your movements last night?’
He replied without hesitation and his story was the
same as his mother’s. He had worked until ten thirty and he’d driven straight home and gone to bed. If he had ambitions to
make his name in the field of terrorism, he wasn’t showing much promise.
‘We’ll need the names of your mates.’
‘They couldn’t have set fire to that cottage. They made threats, like, but they wouldn’t have torched the place if there was
someone in the house. I know they wouldn’t.’
‘We’ll still need their names.’
Chas pressed his lips together in a stubborn line. ‘I’m not saying.’
The mother was standing with arms folded listening carefully to the exchange. For a second, Wesley thought she was about to
clip her son around the ear in the old-fashioned way but instead she began to tell him in no uncertain terms that he shouldn’t
be shielding criminals, not if they went round murdering people. But her words were ignored. It seemed that Chas knew better.
And besides, he was a lot bigger than her.