Normally in situations like this Rachel didn’t have to feign sympathy with bereaved widows: she could usually feel for them.
But Rosalind Dalcott was different. There was a hardness in her expression that put Rachel on her guard. But she still fixed
a solemn look on her face and carried on going through the motions. ‘I’m very sorry to have to bring bad news, Mrs Dalcott,
but I’m afraid your husband, James Dalcott, was found dead at his home last night.’
Rachel saw the woman slump down on the leather sofa. She looked genuinely shocked, unlike her partner who started examining
his fingernails in an attitude of boredom.
‘What was it?’ she asked almost in a whisper. ‘Heart attack?’ She gave a nervous half smile. ‘That’s James all over, killed
by pie and chips. That was his favourite, you know. Talk about healthy eating … he wasn’t one to practise what he preached.’
She looked straight at Rachel.
‘Look, thanks very much for coming to tell me but … Harry’ll show you out, won’t you, Harry?’
But Rachel hadn’t finished yet. ‘I’m afraid that’s not all, Mrs Dalcott.’
She saw Roz glance at the man she’d called Harry, the father of her child. He looked away.
‘What is it? Do I need to identify him or something?’
Rachel cleared her throat. ‘His neighbour’s already done that but we might need a formal identification down at the mortuary.’
She hesitated, searching for the words. ‘The truth is, Mrs Dalcott, your husband was murdered.’
Rosalind Dalcott sat there for a few moments, opening and closing her mouth, completely lost for words.
It was Harry who broke the silence. ‘How? When?’
‘He was shot at his home yesterday evening. Some time between seven o’clock and eight. Where were you then, Mr … er …’
‘Parker. Harry Parker. I was here. We both were. We didn’t go out all evening, did we, Roz?’
Roz Dalcott shook her blonde tresses and they fell forward to shield her face. Harry sat down heavily beside her and grasped
her hand protectively.
‘This is a bit of a shock, Sergeant Tracey. Roz is expecting our baby,’ he said with a hint of pride. ‘Maybe we could leave
this till later, eh?’
Rachel’s instincts told her that she’d get nothing out of this pair now, although she didn’t really feel inclined to leave
them so that they could cook up a story between them. However, it looked as though she had little choice. An accusation of
bullying a pregnant woman whose husband had just died violently wouldn’t look good if the pair chose to make a complaint.
Resigned, she managed to
muster a sympathetic smile and promised to come and see them later.
Harry left Roz on the sofa, head in hands, and showed Rachel out.
‘What is it you do?’ Rachel asked out of sheer curiosity when they reached the foot of the stairs.
‘I’m an artist,’ he said shyly, wrapping the thin dressing gown more tightly around his body. He hesitated. ‘Some of my stuff
’s in the gallery through there.’
He nodded towards a door to his right. Then, unexpectedly, he unbolted it and led Rachel through into the shop. When she’d
arrived her mind had only registered the paintings at the front of the window – bright and attractive depictions of yachts
in the Tradmouth sunlight. But Harry was making for some large canvases at the back of the gallery. They were painted in oils,
the predominant colour being red, and in the dim light Rachel could see that they seemed to be abstract human figures, or
parts of figures. And in a couple it looked as though flesh had been peeled back to reveal the inner workings of the subjects’
bodies. They were vivid and they were brilliant. But there was no way Rachel would have fancied having any of them on her
wall.
‘What do you think?’ he asked as though seeking reassurance. ‘I used to do the tourist stuff – seascapes and harbour scenes
and all that – but …’
‘They’re … they’re very …’ She searched for a tactful word. ‘Powerful.’ She felt rather pleased with herself for finding a
term that made it sound as if she knew what she was talking about.
‘They were inspired by some drawings I found painted on the plaster behind the panelling in the flat. Don’t know
how they came to be there. Anyway, I was poking around one day and there they were – the sort of thing you find in medical
text books. Odd thing to draw on a wall but …’
He suddenly looked unsure of himself. Like any artist, she thought, it seemed he was prone to self-doubt. But that really
wasn’t any of her business.
‘We’ll need statements from both of you,’ she said, businesslike. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
As she left she glanced back at the pictures. Her initial impression had been right, she thought: they gave her the creeps.
‘Of course, they could have been there years. Centuries.’ Dr Neil Watson ran his fingers through his long fair hair. It was
rather too early on a Sunday morning for his liking and he had been in bed when he’d received Wesley’s call. But for the past
few weeks he had been officebound, working on post-excavation reports, so he’d thrown on his digging clothes and climbed straight
into his ancient yellow Mini to drive down to Tradington, eager to get his hands dirty again.
‘Well, we won’t know until you get to work,’ Wesley said. ‘Sorry I can’t give you a hand but I’m not exactly dressed for it.’
Wesley, with his archaeology degree, liked to keep his hand in occasionally but one look at all that cold clinging mud, a
result of recent record rainfall in the south west, made him glad he’d be a spectator until the bones were safely lifted.
Wesley saw that they had an audience: Tony and Jill Persimmon were standing some way away, wrapped up in scarves and gloves,
clinging to each other as if for comfort.
He could hear church bells in the distance, a merry
sound which reminded him once more that it was Sunday morning. But when the police have to deal with suspicious death, one
day was much the same as another.
Neil had brought his equipment with him in the boot of his car and his trowels and kneeling mats were now laid out neatly.
He wore a crime scene suit too, just in case there was evidence of foul play down in the trench which might become contaminated.
Wesley watched while he chatted with some of the Forensic team, discussing tactics. Then, after what seemed like an age, he
climbed carefully down into the trench and began to scrape the muddy soil away from the bones.
The rooks cawed and mocked in the skeletal trees, rising in a black cloud at the sound of a distant gunshot – a farmer out
after vermin. Wesley watched the birds settle again in the bare branches before returning his attention to the trench. The
police photographer was recording each stage of Neil’s excavation as the archaeologist worked carefully, searching for any
tiny clue that might explain how the bones ended up in their miserable resting place and placing objects carefully in a plastic
tray.
‘Hello there.’ Wesley looked up and saw Dr Colin Bowman striding towards them. Wearing a waxed jacket and green Wellingtons,
he could have been mistaken for a prosperous gentleman farmer, if it weren’t for the large medical bag he carried. ‘What have
we got here, then?’ He seemed subdued, not his usual cheery self.
‘Two articulated skeletons buried about three feet down. Not laid out neatly as far as I can see. In fact I’d say they’d been
thrown in there unceremoniously.’
Colin’s expression was solemn. ‘I’d better have a look. Do you mind, Neil?’
Neil helped him down into the trench and he and Wesley watched while the pathologist made a cursory examination.
‘No obvious cause of death,’ was the verdict as he climbed back onto the grass. ‘And no sign of dental work. If you’d be good
enough to lift them after the photographers have finished, Neil, I’ll have a good look back at the mortuary.’ He turned to
Wesley. ‘I’ll see you this afternoon, won’t I, Wesley. James’s …’ His voice trailed off.
‘Yes. I’ll be there with Gerry,’ Wesley answered, trying to hide his dread of what was to come later that day. Although he
came from a medical family, he had always been squeamish. The odd one out.
Once Colin had bade them a businesslike farewell and all the recording was complete, Neil lifted the bones carefully and put
them onto a waiting plastic sheet. It seemed an age before the two skeletons lay there, whole except for some tiny foot and
hand bones which had probably disintegrated during the time they’d lain in the earth. It was a sad sight, all that was left
of two human beings lying on a layer of cold plastic that glistened like ice on the sparse grass.
‘Any idea how long they’ve been down there?’ Wesley asked when Neil had finished.
Neil bent down and took something out of the plastic tray. He handed Wesley a mud-caked object and Wesley scraped the dirt
away with his fingers. Soon the shape emerged from the shroud of soil.
‘I found it embedded in the wall of the trench, a couple of feet above the bone.’
‘It looks like a badly corroded knife blade,’ he said softly. ‘What do you make of it?’
Neil took it from him. ‘Yes, I think it could be a knife or dagger: probably had a wooden handle which rotted away long ago.
It certainly looks pretty old but I’ll have to get an expert to have a look at it.’
Wesley took the object back and studied it. It did nudge a vague and distant memory – perhaps of something he’d found during
his student days. But did it have anything to do with the burials? Maybe not. Maybe some inhabitant of Tailors Court had just
lost a pocket knife there many years before. A coincidence.
He looked down at the bones lying on the plastic. From his student days Wesley knew enough about human skeletons to tell from
the shape of the pelvis that one of these bodies had been a man in life and one a woman. A couple perhaps. Killed and thrown
in a trench to rot. But he needed to know how long they’d been there. And whether it was his job to investigate how they met
their end.
His thoughts were interrupted by the cheerful ringing of his mobile phone. It was Gerry Heffernan wanting to be kept up to
date with developments. As soon as Wesley had finished giving him the bare facts, there was a long silence on the other end
of the line.
‘So are these skeletons recent – say less than seventy years old? In other words, are they our problem?’
‘Can’t say yet, Gerry. Colin’s been here but he can’t tell us anything until he’s examined the bones back at the hospital.’
He heard Gerry mutter something under his breath. ‘This is all we need what with James Dalcott.’
Wesley said nothing. The possibility of a double murder was bound to make the headlines and capture the public imagination,
even if it happened years ago.
The Forensic team were going about their business in
the trench Neil had just abandoned, taking samples and painstakingly sifting the soil under Neil’s watchful eye. Wesley edged
up to his friend. ‘Well?’
Neil gave him a half-hearted smile. ‘I’m going to get some geophysics equipment down here, just to make sure there aren’t
any more burials.’
It was something Wesley hadn’t liked to think about but now Neil had put it into words he had to acknowledge the possibility.
He looked round. ‘It’s close to the outbuilding and not too far from the main house. A random killer dumping the bodies would
have chosen somewhere more isolated. There’s plenty of woodland around here.’
‘Mmm. Once we’ve established how old the bones are we’ll have to find out all we can about the history of the place. House
looks pretty old.’
‘Well, let’s hope the bones are too.’
Neil didn’t answer. ‘How’s Pam?’
‘OK,’ Wesley said quickly. ‘Have you heard about the shooting here in Tradington last night?’
Neil raised his eyebrows. ‘No.’
‘It was a doctor. One of my sister’s colleagues.’
Neil uttered an expletive. ‘Do you know who did it? Dissatisfied patient or …?’
‘We’re following a number of leads.’
Neil smirked. ‘Don’t sound so bloody formal, Wes. You must have your suspicions.’
‘It’s early days. What about you? What have you been doing with yourself ?’
‘You know how it is. Where do archaeologists go in wintertime? We’ve just finished a site assessment of some land earmarked
for a new supermarket outside Plymouth and I’ve been catching up on a lot of post-excavation reports.
But you know me. I can’t stand being cooped up in an office doing paperwork so this has come as a bit of a relief. Always
happy to help the police with their enquiries.’ He looked round. ‘I’d better give your Forensic team a hand. Then I’ll have
a word with the people who own the place.’ He nodded towards Tony and Jill Persimmon who were still standing there watching
the proceedings.
‘They look frozen stiff.’
‘Yeah. I want to get inside that house. Look at those wings. I reckon they’re Elizabethan but the central section’s definitely
fifteenth century or even older.’
Wesley smiled to himself. The archaeology of buildings had been Neil’s secret passion in their university days, even though
most of his work now involved digging things out of the ground.
‘If I can manage to get the geophysics equipment over here tomorrow, I might be able to hang around for a few days yet. Sweet
talk the owners into letting me have a peep at their roof space,’ Neil went on, almost rubbing his hands together in gleeful
anticipation.
Wesley glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better go and see whether anything’s come in on that shooting. And I’ve got to attend the
post mortem this afternoon.’
‘Rather you than me. Look, I’ll call in on Pam if I get the chance – bring a ray of sunshine into the lonely existence of
a policeman’s wife.’
Wesley attempted a smile. ‘I’d better go,’ he said, suddenly reluctant to leave. At that moment he was more intrigued by the
skeletons at Tailors Court than he was about the demise of James Dalcott. His mobile began to ring again and when he looked
at the display he saw that it was Gerry.
He couldn’t put off his departure any longer. Duty called.
The police had already called at the small 1960s terraced house in a cul de sac near Neston Railway Station. But Adam Tey
hadn’t opened the door. There was no way he wanted to talk to them and Charleen felt the same. They had both sat, still as
statues upstairs in the tiny bedroom, listening to the spirited knocking on the front door, waiting with breath held until
the callers had gone away.