Now they had summoned the courage to come downstairs, Adam left Charleen in the lounge and stared at the grubby telephone
on the hall table, wondering whether to make the call. After a few moments of indecision he picked up the receiver.
He’d toyed with the idea of calling round at Carl’s flat because he didn’t want to risk Charleen overhearing what he had to
say. But Carl didn’t always answer his door so a phone call was probably best.
He closed the lounge door carefully. Charleen was in there watching telly. She never went out these days, except to the clinic.
It was almost as if she was afraid of what might happen to her out there – afraid that she might encounter something that
would harm the baby. And Adam knew things wouldn’t get any better once it was born. She had lost one child so this new one
was bound to be wrapped in several layers of cotton wool. Adam realised this probably wasn’t healthy but he couldn’t blame
Charleen. But he could blame Dr Dalcott. It was all his fault. And now he’d got what he deserved.
When Carl Utley answered Adam lowered his voice. ‘Dalcott’s dead.’
Utley put the receiver straight down without uttering a word in reply.
An incident room was being set up in Neston Police Station. It was nearer the scene of Dalcott’s death than Tradmouth and
there was a free open-plan office, ideal for the purpose. Several officers seconded to the team from Neston endured quips
about Neston’s New Age tendencies from their Tradmouth counterparts. But Wesley knew that Gerry would stand no nonsense. A
respected local doctor had been shot dead in his own home and the culprit needed to be caught and caught quickly.
After Gerry had briefed the team with his usual blend of bluntness and Liverpudlian wit, it was time to attend James Dalcott’s
post mortem. As Wesley drove to Tradmouth Hospital he didn’t feel like talking. But Gerry had other ideas. He wanted to go
over what they had so far, which wasn’t much.
‘The search team found nothing out of the ordinary at Dalcott’s house, apart from a dead body, that is. And Rachel’s broken
the news to the not-so-grieving widow and met the boyfriend,’ Gerry continued. ‘Our Rach seemed rather taken with him. Says
he’s an artist – very talented.’ He paused. ‘How’s her love life these days?’ Gerry had always been one for a bit of juicy
gossip.
There was a short silence while Wesley tried to think up an answer. ‘As far as I know she’s still with Barty Carter but she
hasn’t mentioned him recently.’ The first time Rachel had met Carter, a city boy trying his hand unsuccessfully at running
a smallholding, he had threatened her with a shotgun. Even though all that had been forgiven by
Rachel, Wesley himself was dubious about the match, although he’d never have said so to her face.
‘Bad sign,’ was Gerry’s verdict, given with all the authority of a hanging judge. ‘Does she reckon the widow or her fancy
man could have done it?’
‘Their only alibi is each other.’
‘Put them at the top of our list then. What about this Adam Tey who blames Dalcott for the death of his kid?’
‘Not in, or not answering his door.’
‘Another one for the list. For a man who was supposed to have no enemies there seem to be quite a few folk who’d be happy
to dance on his grave, don’t you think, Wes?’
Wesley didn’t answer. They’d reached the centre of Tradmouth and he was searching for a space in the hospital car park. When
he had no success he drove to the police station where he knew he’d find a welcome. It was raining now and Gerry gave a token
grumble about the walk as both men pulled up their collars against the wind blowing in from the river and headed for the hospital.
‘And what about these skeletons?’ Gerry asked as they walked quickly towards the mortuary. ‘Are they old or what?’
‘No clues either way at the moment,’ Wesley answered. ‘As far as I know the Forensic team haven’t found much but Colin’s going
to examine them later. There was something near the bones that Neil reckons might be a knife blade. Probably very old.’
‘Was it with the bodies?’
‘A couple of feet away.’
‘So it could have nothing to do with the burial.’
‘Possibly not. And if it turns out they’re recent, we’ll
have to pull out the files on every man and woman who’ve gone missing over the past …’
‘Don’t be so pessimistic, Wes. They might have been murdered by William the Conqueror.’
Wesley smiled. ‘Let’s hope, eh?’
They’d reached the hospital and Wesley pushed open the plastic swing doors leading to the mortuary. He was used to the place
but he still felt a pang of dread in the pit of his stomach whenever he entered those doors and they swished shut behind him,
trapping him in with the dead.
Colin seemed to have recovered from his initial shock at hearing of a fellow medic’s murder and he invited them to take pre-post
mortem refreshments which Gerry accepted, muttering something about dying for a decent cup of tea. He could have chosen his
words more carefully, given the surroundings, Wesley thought.
After a refreshing cup of Darjeeling Wesley knew the ordeal couldn’t be put off for much longer. As Gerry and Colin made their
way to the post mortem room, he followed behind like a reluctant schoolboy making for the headmaster’s office. He knew what
was coming – he’d been through it so many times before but it never seemed to get any easier. When she’d been studying medicine
at Oxford, Maritia used to tease him with tales of how she’d been dissecting bodies. He’d tried not to listen, to think of
something else, but he’d still had nightmares.
James Dalcott was waiting for them, lying on a bed of shiny stainless steel. His eyes had been closed now and he looked as
though he was sleeping, apart from the dark bullet hole which stood out against the pale flesh of his forehead.
‘Forgot to tell you, gentlemen, the widow came in with
a policewoman a couple of hours ago,’ Colin said as he prepared to make the first incision in the flesh. ‘Didn’t seem too
grief-stricken. In fact I had the impression that she was more interested in making sure he was dead,’ he said with the ghost
of a wink.
‘Some wives are like that,’ said Gerry wistfully, although Wesley knew he didn’t speak from experience. As far as he knew,
Gerry’s marriage to his late wife, Kathy, had been happy and he hadn’t embarked upon another relationship until a long time
after her tragic death in a hit and run accident.
Colin began work, dictating his notes into a microphone suspended above the corpse. According to Colin’s observations, James
Dalcott was a fairly healthy fifty-four-year-old man; a little overweight but with no sign of serious disease. Cause of death
was a bullet wound to the head. One shot through the forehead at fairly close range. An efficient assassination. The bullet,
which had passed through the brain, leaving a larger exit wound in the back of the head, had been retrieved from the scene
and sent off for analysis.
Dalcott’s killer had stood a couple of feet away and looked into his victim’s eyes as he pulled the trigger. It took a great
deal of hatred, Colin observed, to do something like that. Either that or a cold-hearted assassin with no ounce of human feeling.
And Wesley, his eyes fixed on a steel trolley at the other side of the room, thought Colin had probably got it spot on.
If they discounted the hit man theory, they were left with the possibility that someone had hated James Dalcott enough to
make them a cold-blooded killer. Adam Tey and Charleen Anstice had reason to hate the doctor who’d
misdiagnosed their child’s meningitis. And they weren’t answering the door, which meant either that they were spending Sunday
away from home, or that they didn’t want to speak to the police. As far as Wesley was concerned, Tey was top of their list
with the widow and her new partner a close second.
‘I’ll let you have the full report as soon as possible,’ Colin said as he left his assistant to sew up the incisions and clear
up. ‘Now, about these skeletons.’
Wesley felt relieved. Skeletons he could handle. It was the blood and gore he didn’t like. ‘What about them?’
‘Well, I’ve made a quick examination. Why don’t we have a look, eh?’ He began to lead them into the next room – white tiled
again like the post mortem room. The two skeletons were arranged on separate trolleys, the bones a grubby beige against the
crisp white of the sheets they lay on. Someone, Colin probably, had laid them out properly and Wesley could see immediately
that one skeleton, the female, was considerably smaller than the other.
‘The female has Harris lines. I noticed them particularly on the shin bones.’
Wesley looked up sharply. ‘That’s interesting.’
‘What are Harris lines when they’re at home?’ Gerry asked, impatient.
‘They’re lines in the bones which indicate a halt in growth during childhood and adolescence, say in a time of illness or
famine. At some time in this woman’s early life she went hungry.’ He turned to Colin. ‘What about ages?’
‘A few of the male’s teeth are missing and those that are left are worn but not decayed. And he shows signs of having done
manual labour. Don’t you agree?’
It was a long time since Wesley had studied ancient
skeletons as part of his degree course but he remembered the basics. At Colin’s invitation, he conducted his own cursory examination,
while Gerry watched, interested.
The man was around five feet six inches tall and, as well as the wear on the teeth, there were signs of wear and tear on the
joints that indicated that he was probably middle-aged when he met his end. Wesley had seen similar skeletons in his student
days – manual workers from centuries gone by. And there was something else. A healed fracture of the left arm, the bones set
at an awkward angle. This man, whoever he was, had not had access to medical expertise and had probably been in considerable
discomfort. There also appeared to be an old injury to the left shoulder area, healed like the arm with the bones fused untidily
together.
‘So he underwent some sort of trauma at some point in his life, Colin?’
Colin peered at the bones. ‘Some years before death, I’d say.’ He looked up at Wesley. ‘A fight maybe. Or an accident?’
‘Or battle?’
‘It’s a possibility.
‘You mean he could have been an old soldier?’ said Gerry. ‘The question is, which war?
Wesley ignored the question and turned his attention to the woman’s bones. They were smaller, more delicate and the teeth
were less worn.
‘She was much younger,’ Colin said. ‘And, as I said, the Harris lines indicate that she didn’t receive adequate nourishment
while she was growing up.’
‘So how old?’ Gerry asked.
‘Well, from the teeth, I’d say late teens, early twenties.
Her wisdom teeth are just coming through and I don’t think she’d ever given birth. No sign of trauma to this one but … have
a close look, Wesley. Tell me if you notice anything odd,’ Colin said as he handed over a magnifying glass he’d taken from
a nearby shelf.
Wesley glanced at Gerry who was watching expectantly, full of curiosity. Then he bent over the bones and began to examine
them carefully. After a minute of so he straightened up, a puzzled frown on his face.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Colin asked.
‘What is it?’ Gerry asked impatiently.
Colin took a deep breath. ‘Well, I don’t know if Wesley agrees with me but I think there are faint cut marks on some of the
bones. I noticed similar ones on the male. It’s as if …’
‘You mean they’ve been butchered?’ Gerry sounded quite alarmed. ‘You mean we’re talking about cannibalism, here in Devon?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘I can just see the headlines.’
Wesley caught Colin’s eye and they exchanged a smile. ‘There’s no sign of butchery, Gerry. Besides, the skeletons are complete.
It’s something else.’
‘What?’
It was Colin who delivered the final verdict. ‘I can’t be sure, of course. There could be a number of explanations but … well,
it’s possible that these corpses were dissected after death.’
One look at Gerry’s expression told Wesley that this didn’t seem to make things any better.
When Wesley arrived back at the incident room he rang Pam, just to remind her that he was still alive. He felt
guilty about leaving her to entertain the children on her own on what should be a day of rest. But then guilt went with the
territory. If they could harness guilt as a power source, he thought, all the country’s energy problems might be solved.
He had just sat down to read through a batch of witness statements when DC Nick Tarnaby shuffled up to his desk wearing his
usual morose expression. Tarnaby had only been with CID for five months, brought in to replace Steve Carstairs who had died
in the course of his duty attempting to rescue a murder suspect from the sea, an act which had earned him the status of hero
in death. Wesley hadn’t liked the swaggering racist Steve and he wasn’t sure that he particularly liked Tarnaby either.
He looked up and forced himself to smile. ‘What can I do for you, Nick?’
‘We’ve had no luck with that Adam Tey, sir. Nobody at the address we were given.’
This wasn’t good news. They needed to speak to Tey and his partner. But it was the weekend so perhaps they were away. Or lying
low.
He saw that Tarnaby was consulting a sheet of paper in his hand. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. I was asked to check out some names and one looks promising.’ He put the paper down on Wesley’s desk. ‘Harry Parker’s
got a record. Robbery, burglary and threatening behaviour.’
Wesley picked up the sheet and read it. ‘Thanks, Nick,’ he said to Tarnaby’s disappearing back. It looked as if Rosalind Dalcott’s
new partner was no angel. But did that necessarily mean he’d want James Dalcott dead?
Transcript of recording made by Mrs Mabel Cleary (née Fallon) – Home Counties Library Service Living History Project: Reminiscences
of a wartime evacuee.The soldier looked me up and down but before he could say anything the lady who’d brought me in the car came up and took my
hand. ‘Hello, Miles, I’ve got an evacuee for your mother,’ she said.At first he didn’t utter a word. He just kept staring at me and it made me scared. Then he said ‘She’s poorly. Don’t you think
she’s got enough on her plate?’ He spoke in a funny way like the other people down there. Not like the people I knew in London.‘I was told she’d take a girl,’ she said. I could tell she was cross. ‘Anyway, she’s got no choice. Everyone’s got to do their
bit. There’s a war on, you know.’Then the soldier suddenly smiled, all charming and
said that he was sure it’d be all right and that she could leave me there if she liked.But the woman wasn’t having any of it. ‘I’ll have to see your mother,’ she said. ‘It has to be done properly.’
Miles wasn’t smiling now. He picked up a big long gun that was propped up against the door and for a moment I thought he was
going to point it at her. I was starting to feel frightened but he bent the gun in two and balanced it over his arm. ‘You’d
better go up,’ he said. ‘But remember she’s poorly.’As I climbed the stairs a pretty lady in a green jersey and trousers came out of one of the downstairs rooms. She looked at
me for a few moments then she gave me a friendly smile. I smiled back and gave her a little wave and I thought that if this
lady was there I’d probably be all right.Then I met Mrs Jannings and I cried for the rest of the day.