Wesley knew the road well. It led to the castle which stood high on the promontory where the River Trad met the sea. The castle
had battlements affording a spectacular view and inside were cannons, dungeons and other delights for imaginative young minds.
It was a place he and Pam often brought the children on a summer Sunday when he was off duty; a place of ice creams and fun
with sheltered coves below its walls, perfect for skimming stones. But now he had an uneasy feeling that those pleasant associations
would vanish forever.
The body lay to the right of the road in a leaf-filled hollow beneath a tall oak tree. Her hands had been crossed on her chest
and she had been loosely wrapped in a linen sheet which stood out stark white against the brown ground. No attempt had been
made to conceal her and she was quite visible from the road. Her killer had meant her to be found: to Wesley it almost seemed
as if he was showing off – boasting of his power over life and death.
She had been discovered at seven thirty a.m. by a jogger who had dialled 999 on his mobile. He had watched enough TV police
dramas to know that he shouldn’t touch anything and he had waited patiently like a good citizen for the police to arrive.
The constable who was first on the scene told the jogger that he’d been wise not to look too closely. This was a nasty one.
Touch of Jack the Ripper. Once the jogger had given his statement he had been allowed home for a restorative cup of tea, or
maybe something stronger.
The panoply of Crime Scene Investigation had been mustered in what seemed like no time and the entire area had been sealed
off for forensic examination. The dead girl had been in her late teens or early twenties, slim and fair-haired. In life she’d
been pretty but now her face was twisted and discoloured above the deep, thin line left on her neck by whatever had been used
to strangle her.
Wesley stood in the road by Gerry’s side, watching the crime scene investigators in their white overalls crawling like fat
maggots over the area, thinking of the young life so brutally ended and trying to stay professional. Sometimes it wasn’t easy.
‘Did you look at her, Wes?’ Gerry’s words, after a long period of contemplative silence, almost made Wesley jump.
He nodded. He’d arrived before Gerry and, foolishly, he’d accepted pathologist Colin Bowman’s invitation to enter the tent
that had been erected over the scene to view the body. One swift glance had been enough to make him flee and throw up his
breakfast in the bushes at the other side of the road. He’d felt embarrassed and even when Colin had said that he wasn’t the
first officer on that particular crime scene to react like that, he still felt irritated with himself. He
knew his limitations: in spite of coming from a medical family, keeping a strong stomach in the presence of a disembowelled
corpse was something he had never been able to do.
‘You look a bit green around the gills, Wes.’ Gerry sounded concerned.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Strangulation with some kind of thin cord. Looks a lot like the wound on Clare Mayers’s neck. If it’s the same man, he’s
certainly spreading his wings.’
‘You think it’s the same man?’
‘Colin reckons that she was strangled before … before he did the other things. I don’t think it’s very likely that there
are two lunatics going round strangling women in this area. Clare might have had a lucky escape.’
If Gerry was right, Clare Mayers’s importance as a witness had just rocketed. ‘Maybe we should give Clare some police protection.’
‘Just what I was thinking, Wes. We’ll arrange it.’
Wesley looked round and saw Colin Bowman walking towards them. Today there was no congenial smile. Instead the pathologist
looked rather stunned and his flesh had taken on a grey tinge, as though the blood had drained from his face. Wesley had never
seen his mask of professional detachment slip like that before.
Colin stood beside Wesley in silence for a few seconds. Then he spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. ‘Nasty business.’
‘You can say that again,’ Gerry replied.
Colin took off his plastic gloves and touched Wesley’s shoulder, a gesture of concern. ‘Feeling better?’
Wesley nodded. ‘Sorry about that. It just came as a bit of a shock. What can you tell us?’
‘She was strangled and then the killer made an incision in the abdomen post mortem. The internal organs were left in neat
piles at the side of the body. Then he wrapped her in a linen sheet, arms crossed on her chest. She’d been laid out properly
– I’d say there’s a ritual element to this.’
‘Jack the Ripper did something similar, didn’t he?’ said Gerry.
Colin considered the question for a moment. ‘Similar, I suppose. But from what I recall of the Ripper case, this is far more
controlled.’
‘Would you say the killer had medical knowledge?’
Colin shrugged his shoulders. ‘He was aware of basic anatomy but I don’t think this is the work of a surgeon.’ He managed
a smile – the first of the day. ‘Or even a pathologist.’
‘Any ideas?’ Gerry asked. ‘A medical student? A butcher?’
‘You can find it all out from the Internet these days. It’s definitely not an expert job, Gerry.’ He paused, shifting from
foot to foot in an effort to keep warm. ‘But I did find one very odd thing – apart from the mutilations, that is. There’s
damage to the nostrils, as though someone’s tried to insert some kind of instrument.’
Wesley frowned. This was getting stranger by the minute. There was something familiar about the mutilations but he decided
to say nothing for the moment until he was sure of his facts. ‘Have we any idea who she was?’
Colin shook his head. ‘She was naked and there’s no sign of her clothes nearby. But something was found caught up in the sheet.
Hang on.’ Colin returned to the tent and whispered a few words to the officer in charge of exhibits who was waiting outside,
trying not to look at the body. He handed Colin a small plastic bag which he carried back to the waiting detectives.
Wesley took it and examined it carefully before handing it to Gerry. It was a carved figure of some kind, dark in colour and
about six inches long.
‘I know what it is,’ Wesley said softly. ‘It’s Egyptian. I think it’s Anubis … the god associated with death and embalming.’
Gerry turned the thing over in his fingers. ‘It’s got a dog’s head.’
‘A jackal if I remember rightly. I think we should show it to Clare Mayers … see if it means anything to her. And it rather
confirms a theory I have about the mutilations.’
Gerry raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
Rachel Tracey covered the receiver with her hand and called across the incident room. ‘A Mrs Crest has just called. Her au
pair didn’t come home last night.’
Wesley walked over to her desk. He was about to ask whether the au pair in question was in the habit of staying out all night
but then he realised this would be a stupid question. The young woman’s murder wouldn’t have made the news yet and if the
au pair regularly went AWOL, her absence was unlikely to be reported to the police at this early stage.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Analise Sonquist. She’s Norwegian. The Crests describe her as a quiet girl. Tuesday is her night off and she usually goes
out.’
‘Do they know where?’
‘She told the Crests she was going out for a drink with another au pair who works for a family in Stoke Beeching.’
‘Do they know this friend’s name?’
‘It’s Kristina. She’s Norwegian too. When Analise didn’t come home the Crests contacted the family Kristina works
for. Kristina says she met Analise and a couple of other girls in the Tradmouth Arms last night but Analise left early. Mrs
Crest gave me Kristina’s phone number so at least we’ve got a starting point.’
Wesley looked out of the window. The sun had come out, weak and watery, but it still looked cold out there. ‘We’d better pay
the Crests a visit first – get a definite ID on the victim,’ he said before heading for Gerry Heffernan’s office.
He could see the boss was on the phone. As soon as Gerry saw him he beckoned him in with a large gesture, pointed to the mouthpiece
and pulled a face. Wesley guessed he was talking to Chief Superintendent Nutter – and that his superior was telling him something
unpalatable.
When Gerry put the phone down he looked up. ‘That was the Nutter. I called to give him a full update but he’s more concerned
about how much the investigation’s going to cost and filling in the right forms than he is about catching the lunatic who
butchered that poor lass. Anything new?’
As soon as Wesley had finished telling him about the Crests, the DCI stood up and tugged his coat off the coat stand in the
corner of his office, almost pulling the thing over in his enthusiasm.
‘Of course it might not be this Analise, Gerry. It could just be a coincidence.’
‘No, Wes, it’s her. I can feel it in my water. I’ll get Mrs Crest to identify her. It’s not a pleasant thing to do but at
least she’s not family – not emotionally involved.’
‘OK. I’ll send Rachel to interview this Kristina. She’ll probably know more about what Analise got up to in her spare time
than Mrs Crest does: she’ll only have been told the edited version.’
Five minutes later they were walking through Tradmouth
towards the Crests’ house. The weak February sun had lured shoppers from their houses and the streets were fuller than they’d
been since Christmas. To their left the light sparkled on the river’s choppy surface. A chilly wind was getting up and Wesley
zipped his coat up to the neck as they walked. Gerry, however, didn’t bother doing up his well-worn anorak: in his days in
the merchant navy he’d endured far worse weather than this.
Wesley knew Gerry was right. They needed to uncover all of Analise Sonquist’s secrets. There was no privacy in death.
Neil Watson sat in his Mini parked in front of Varley Castle, staring at his tiny mobile phone and wondering whether to try
Wesley’s number again as he hadn’t managed to talk to him the previous night. But when he saw Robert Delaware emerging from
the castle’s front entrance, he put the phone back in his pocket.
Delaware spotted him and raised his hand, then turned back to the front door as Neil got out of the car. Neil had the impression
that he was trying to avoid him. But he wasn’t going to get away that easily.
He shouted over to him. ‘Robert. I’ve been wanting a word. I tried to call a mate of mine in the police last night to see
if he knew anything about those murders … the ones John Varley was supposed to have committed.’
Delaware stood there, his hand hovering on the door handle. ‘He’s hardly likely to be interested. It’s ancient history. Case
closed.’
‘Who exactly did John Varley kill?’
Delaware turned to face him. ‘Just local women.’ He looked cornered, as though he didn’t want to be having that particular
conversation.
‘How did he kill them? What happened?’
‘They were strangled, I believe. Why are you so interested?’
Neil couldn’t think up an answer. Delaware had whetted his appetite. And the guarded way he’d spoken about the murders suggested
that he might have some personal interest. Or maybe Neil was imagining it.
‘Look, I really must get on. Caro’s just found some more letters in the muniment room that I really need to have a look at.
I meant to do it last night but I had to go back to Tradmouth to meet someone. I stayed there last night and I’ve only just
got back.’
‘Bet you missed the palatial splendour of this place.’
He saw Delaware’s cheeks redden a little. ‘Hardly palatial splendour. Caro’s given me one of the old servant’s rooms at the
top of the house but it saves the journey to and from Tradmouth every day. Now if that’s all I really must …’
‘Maybe we can talk about the murders another time then?’
But Neil was talking to Delaware’s disappearing back. He took his phone out again and tried Wesley’s number. This time it
was engaged.
Once they’d passed the shops Wesley and Gerry reached a narrow gap in the buildings to their right where a steep flight of
stone steps led to the street above. Wesley began to climb upwards but when he realised he was outpacing Gerry, leaving him
behind, he stopped and waited.
‘Hang on, Wes. It’s OK for you. You live up the top of the town so you’re used to this sort of thing.’ Gerry halted and clung
to the handrail, trying to get his breath back.
‘You should get more exercise, Gerry.’ Wesley paused for
a moment until the DCI drew level with him. ‘I had a visit from a friend of Della’s last night. His name’s Guy Kitchener
and he’s a psychological profiler. He’s worked for the police before. It’s just with seeing the state of that girl’s body
… I wondered if we should have a word with him.’
Gerry didn’t answer for a few seconds. ‘I’d certainly have no objection. But you know what the Nutter’s like about his budgets.’
He grinned. ‘In the meantime, if you can get this Kitchener to give us any free hints and tips …’
‘I’ll have a go,’ Wesley replied.
They reached the top of the steps and crossed the road, only to be confronted by another flight on the opposite side of the
street.
‘I told you the Crests lived Above Town.’
‘We should have driven.’
‘These streets weren’t built for cars.’
‘Then they should issue us with police donkeys,’ Gerry said quickly.
Wesley smiled, enjoying the mental picture, and when they rounded a corner the Crofts’ house came into view, its pristine
creamy stucco glowing in the weak February sun.
‘Nice house,’ Gerry said as they walked up another flight of steps to the glossy green front door.
It was indeed a nice house. Probably built in the early years of the twentieth century, it had a balcony over the front porch
which undoubtedly provided a spectacular view over the river.
The door was opened by a tall, thin woman with neat dark hair. She wasn’t the sort who looked comfortable in jeans. And she
didn’t look particularly at home with the baby she carried on her hip either; a handsome boy around ten
months old with a full head of hair and denim dungarees. The woman introduced herself as Suzie Crest and led them through
the hall into an immaculate drawing room with cream walls, cream sofa and an impressive marble fireplace. Wesley sneaked a
look around. It was the sort of house Pam would love – if ever they could afford it or find the time for house-hunting.