When Gerry announced that Chas was being taken in for questioning, Mrs Ventisard burst into tears. And through the sobs came
the protestations that her Chas was a good lad, practically a saint. There was no way he was involved in anything illegal.
But mothers never see their children’s little faults.
The firemen had reached the blaze in time to save most of Owl Cottage before the flames took hold of the upper floor. But
the dead male had been on the
ground floor, in the room next to the seat of the fire … and the body was unrecognisable.
The remains had been transported in a plain black van to the mortuary to lie in a metal drawer. Like the woman in the field,
this one wouldn’t be identifiable by his next of kin. But they had to find something that would give the authorities a name.
Somewhere to begin.
Then they had a stroke of luck.
When the firemen searched the property, a holdall was discovered in the corner of one of the bedrooms, a room which had been
heavily smoke and water damaged but untouched by the flames. The thing stank of smoke and damp but a fire officer had brought
it down with him and handed it over to the uniformed constable who was hanging about at the scene, showing a token police
presence.
The constable was under strict instructions to call Tradmouth CID as soon as the fire crew gave the go-ahead for the building
to be searched. But as things seemed to be moving slowly, the gift of the holdall was something to relieve the monotony. He
put on a pair of plastic gloves and gently drew back the zip, wrinkling his nose at the acrid stench of smoke. The thing was
full of clothes and he gently pushed them to one side to see if there was anything more interesting underneath.
He wasn’t disappointed. Inside a thin cardboard file nestling at the bottom of the holdall he found some papers and a passport.
He pulled the passport out carefully. It was a UK
passport although the embossed crest on the front had been worn away with use.
As soon as he opened it up, his radio crackled into life. But he ignored it for a second while he read the name inside the
passport.
It was there printed beside the awkwardly posed photograph. A short name. Quite ordinary. Ian Rowe, whoever he was, had been
bloody unlucky.
The Cathars (from the Greek
katharos
meaning pure) believed in an all-powerful God of goodness and love but they considered that this perfection made Him unable
to deal with the evils of the world. The evil world and the flesh, they believed, were ruled over by Lucifer, the Prince of
Darkness. Pure souls, they said, were trapped within bodies that were ‘tunics of flesh’, little more than prisons. Salvation
consisted of freeing the soul from this earthly prison and gaining the knowledge revealed to mankind by Christ, who was sent
by God for this very purpose. Only the spiritual baptism of the
consolamentum
could bring this about and, failing this, the soul would pass to another body and wait to attain the knowledge that brings
with it salvation.
This rather attractive and gentle version of the Christian faith spread throughout that part of France known as the Languedoc
and the local rulers, even if they weren’t themselves Cathars, were remarkably tolerant of the faith embraced by their subjects.
The Catholic Church, however, took a different point of view. Cathars were heretics of the worst kind. And heretics had to
be destroyed.
I wonder how much Stephen de Grendalle subscribed to this opinion. I wonder what his motives were for joining the crusade
against those apparently harmless people … and what brought about his dramatic change of heart.
(From papers found in the possession of Professor
Yves Demancour)
Wesley Peterson felt the blood drain from his face. It was impossible. Surely there was no way the dead man in the cottage
could be Ian Rowe.
However, he had to acknowledge that there had been no sign of a passport in his Carcassonne lodgings and that he would have
had ample time to reach Devon. And Thierry had mentioned a letter with a British stamp that had arrived on the morning of
his disappearance. Had this letter been the cause of Rowe’s sudden flight? Or was it Nadia Lucas’s pleas for help and her
claim that she needed him?
But what on earth had he been doing in an isolated holiday cottage just outside Whitely? Like most things connected with Rowe,
it was a mystery.
He sat at his desk staring at Rowe’s passport. Officially he was still on leave and, until half an hour ago, he had had every
intention of getting home early to keep on the right side of Pam. But this discovery had put paid to his plans.
He decided that the best course of action was to take Pam into his confidence. After all, she had met Ian Rowe too. She had
become involved in the puzzle when they had made their perfunctory search of Rowe’s room on the Rue de Montfort. She would
want
to know what was happening. And so, he imagined, would Neil.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat just behind him. He turned and saw DC Nick Tarnaby
standing there. He looked awkward, almost embarrassed. Rachel had confided that Gerry Heffernan didn’t rate the man’s intellectual
abilities. But Wesley was willing to give him a chance.
‘I’ve got this, sir. It was found in the cottage – in one of the upstairs rooms. What shall I do with it?’
Wesley caught a whiff of smoke and looked down at Nick Tarnaby’s brightly polished shoes. On the floor beside them was a smoke-stained
holdall.
‘The passport was in it, sir.’
Wesley noticed that there was no flight label attached to the straps. If this belonged to Rowe, it was a safe bet that he
had travelled by train and ferry from France.
‘Thanks.’ He looked at the DC, who was shifting from foot to foot awkwardly, as though anxious to answer a call of nature.
‘Is that all?’
‘There’s something else. They’ve found a car parked just down the lane from the cottage. It’s registered to a Nadia Lucas
but there’s no sign of the owner and the cottage is the only house in the vicinity and … Well, there’s no parking space outside
the cottage and …’
‘So it could have been driven by the dead man.’ Wesley finished the man’s sentence for him. He was finding it hard to see
him struggle.
‘Yeah.’
‘Thanks. Nick, isn’t it?’
The new DC nodded, avoiding eye contact.
‘We need to speak to the owner of the cottage to see if he or she can throw any light on what Rowe was doing there.’
Nick Tarnaby turned and hurried away, as though reluctant to prolong the conversation. Wesley watched his disappearing back,
wondering why the man seemed so uncommunicative. Perhaps he was like that with everyone, he thought. Or perhaps there was
another reason.
His mind began to race. Nadia Lucas’s car was parked down the lane from the cottage so it looked as if Rowe had found her
after all. But where was she now?
He picked up the phone and dialled his home number. It was the school holidays so there was a good chance Pam would be home.
And he suspected that once he’d told her about Ian Rowe, she’d understand why he wouldn’t be home early as he’d promised.
But there was no reply. She was probably out somewhere with the children. He tried her mobile number but the phone was switched
off: if she hadn’t gone far she probably hadn’t bothered to take it with her.
He stared at the telephone for a few seconds, lost in thought. Ian Rowe had vanished from his life over ten years ago but
now, it seemed, he couldn’t escape the man, alive or dead. Rowe had intruded upon his well-earned break in France and now
he’d turned up back in Devon. Dead. Disrupting his life again.
The smoke-damaged holdall was sitting on the floor
by his feet. The smell had made him cough at first but now he was getting used to it. He’d seen his colleagues wrinkling their
noses as they passed near his desk but, as yet, nobody had said anything.
Gerry Heffernan, however, had never believed in mincing his words. He emerged from his office, holding his nose theatrically.
‘Something stinks in here.’
‘It’s the holdall from Owl Cottage. Nick Tarnaby brought it in.’
Heffernan looked at his watch. ‘You get home if you like, Wes. Me and Paul Johnson can deal with Chas Ventisard.’
‘I was going to, Gerry, but something’s cropped up.’ He slid the passport across the desk towards the DCI. ‘I haven’t had
a chance to tell you about my holiday yet.’
‘Love to hear about it, Wes, but it’ll have to keep. I can’t leave Ventisard down in that interview room for — ’
‘No, Gerry, it’s relevant, I promise you. Sit down. I’d better start at the beginning.’
Gerry Heffernan sat down heavily on the spare chair by Wesley’s desk and glanced at his watch. Chas Ventisard had already
been at the police station for an hour and the clock was ticking.
Wesley took a deep breath, wondering where to begin. ‘When Pam and I were in Carcassonne we bumped into a bloke I knew from
university, name of Ian Rowe. Well, I didn’t actually know him that well. We didn’t mix in the same circles if you see what
I
mean. He was into drugs and partying and he dropped out after his second year.’
Gerry nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, Rowe recognised me and he’d found out somehow that I was a policeman. He told me he was worried about someone he knew
called Nadia Lucas. He said she was trying to discover the truth about her mother’s death and that there might be someone
who didn’t want that truth to come out. He said he hadn’t been able to get in touch with her.’
‘And?’
‘Before I could find out more, he disappeared. But I did get copies of some e-mails Nadia had sent him and it looks as if
he was telling the truth.’ Wesley paused. ‘And now he’s turned up again.’ He nodded towards the passport. ‘That was found
in the holdall, near the body. Look at the name.’
Heffernan opened the passport and swore softly under his breath. ‘The photo? Is it him?’
Wesley nodded. ‘And a car registered to Nadia Lucas was found parked near the cottage so it’s likely that they met up. We’ll
have to find her.’
‘We’ll get someone round to her address,’ said Gerry. He thought for a moment. ‘The body was burned. It’s unidentifiable unless
we get DNA or dental records. I mean, someone could have swiped his passport and—’
‘I’ve thought of that. I need to get down to the mortuary to make sure it’s him, don’t I?’
‘Might not be much use if the body’s as burned as they say but you can have a go if you like. So what can you tell
me about this …’ He picked up the passport again and studied the name and photograph. ‘Ian Rowe?’
Wesley went over everything he knew. It was good to put his knowledge into words. It helped to get things organised in his
head. But as he spoke he started to realise how little he really knew about Rowe. There was still so much to discover.
‘He mentioned a professor called Yves Demancour based at Morbay University. It seems this Nadia works for him.’ He paused.
‘And Rowe told his colleagues at the restaurant that he used to work for Sir Martin Crace.’
Gerry snorted. ‘He was probably name-dropping. Trying to impress.’
Wesley shrugged. It was possible.
Gerry Heffernan stared at the malodorous holdall. ‘Have you looked through his things yet?’
Wesley shook his head. The truth was he hadn’t been able to face the task. But, realising he couldn’t put it off any longer,
he hauled the holdall onto his desk. It was heavy. And the disturbance increased the stench of acrid smoke.
As he opened it he saw that there were clothes inside. After clearing a space on his desk he took them out carefully. Two
pairs of jeans. Three T-shirts. An assortment of socks and underpants and a pair of trainers. Ian Rowe had travelled fairly
light.
Underneath the clothes lay a thin cardboard file. Wesley opened it carefully and discovered that it contained a letter typed
on expensive headed paper bearing the name and address of Sir Martin Crace. The
envelope was in the file too. British stamp, typewritten and addressed to the Rue de Montfort. From the date on the postmark
this was probably the letter Rowe had received on the morning of his disappearance.
Wesley put on a pair of plastic gloves and examined the letter. It was addressed to Mr Ian Rowe and signed by an E. Liversedge,
PA to Sir Martin Crace.
The letter was short and to the point. It acknowledged a letter Rowe had sent and stated that Sir Martin was willing to meet
Rowe at Bewton Hall on 3 August at 2 pm. Just two days away. It was an appointment Ian Rowe would be unable to keep.
‘So he wasn’t lying about Crace,’ Wesley observed quietly, handing the letter to Gerry.
‘There’s nothing here to suggest they were bosom buddies, Wes. Quite the reverse. And Sir Martin’s known for being a soft
touch.’ Heffernan frowned. ‘I’m wondering, from what you’ve told me about Rowe, whether he hoped for a handout. Or maybe he
intended to try a bit of blackmail.’
‘Anything’s possible.’ Wesley looked at his watch. ‘I’ll give Colin Bowman a call. See if it’s OK to go to the mortuary. And
we need to talk to the owner of that cottage. If he or she says Ian was there with permission …’
‘If it does turn out to be your mate—’
‘He was no mate of mine,’ Wesley said quickly.
Gerry Heffernan raised his eyebrows. ‘If it does turn out to be this Ian Rowe, we’ll have to have a word with Sir Martin Crace
and all.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘I’ve always wanted to meet him. Good bloke.’
Wesley grinned. ‘You’re not biased then?’
‘He seems to have done a lot of good with his millions. Not like some.’
Wesley couldn’t argue with that. But a cynical little voice inside him was saying that if people in the public eye seem too
good to be true, it’s probably because they are.
‘Off you go then,’ Gerry said, picking up the folder containing Crace’s letter.
Wesley stood up. He’d attempt to identify the body, then he’d get off home.
Anybody listening to Chas Ventisard’s account of the activities of the Pure Sons of the West would have assumed it was a charitable
organisation. Its only aim, according to Chas, was to provide the hard-working young people of the South Hams with decent
housing so that they could live near to their work, settle down and raise families in the sort of accommodation their grandparents
would have taken for granted.