Wesley suspected that his final statement was a lie. His deception with Analise would probably test Bea’s toleration to the
limit. For an artistic pair they seemed remarkably conventional, he thought.
‘Bea doesn’t know about Analise,’ Dudgeon said as soon as his wife was out of earshot.
‘I gathered that,’ said Wesley. ‘How did you meet Analise?’
‘Through Suzie, the woman she worked for. She attended a watercolour course I gave last year and she consulted me about the
set designs for a production the Castle Players put on last autumn. It was a comedy – something about Cleopatra. I think she
regarded me as her tame artist: Suzie’s inclined to expect people to dance to her tune and she’s a hard woman to say no to.
Anyway I sketched out some designs for her and dropped them off. Suzie was out but Analise was there and we got talking. She
was lovely, Inspector. Gentle. She used to leave the baby with a friend and we’d spend time together. And we’d meet up most
Tuesday nights.’ He glanced at the door. ‘Look, I really don’t want Bea to find out.’
‘We can be discreet. I need you to come down to Tradmouth police station to make a statement and answer a few questions. OK?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Wesley looked at Ian. ‘And DCI Petrie here is from the Met. Arts and Antiques Squad. He’d like to have a word with you as
well.’
Ian cleared his throat. ‘Do you mind if I have a quick look around your studio, Mr Dudgeon?’
Dudgeon didn’t answer for a few seconds. Wesley thought he looked like a man who had tried to think up a good excuse but failed.
‘Yes. Help yourself. But you won’t find
anything.’ He sounded confident but Wesley detected a note of apprehension behind the words.
‘Does the name Ra mean anything to you?’ Ian asked.
Wesley saw Dudgeon look at him with wide, innocent eyes. ‘He’s an Egyptian god, isn’t he?’
‘What do you know about Anubis?’ Wesley couldn’t resist slipping the question in.
‘Anubis? He’s another Egyptian god. But I don’t know what he’s the god of.’
‘He’s the god who was said to have presided over the embalming of the dead, Mr Dudgeon.’ He still had the figure found on
Analise’s body in his pocket. He pulled out the plastic bag and handed it to Dudgeon. ‘Does this mean anything to you?’
Dudgeon studied it briefly then looked up. ‘Not really. Although I’m sure I’ve seen something like it before.’
‘Where?’
‘Sorry. Can’t remember.’ He stared at the figure, his brow furrowed in a frown of concentration. ‘Hang on. I had a stall at
a craft fair in Tradmouth a few weeks ago. I’m sure there was a stall there selling things like this but I can’t be sure.
It was on the other side of the building and I really wasn’t taking much notice.’
Wesley couldn’t help wondering whether he was telling the truth.
Wesley had left Ian Petrie in Neston searching Dudgeon’s studio. From the relaxed way the artist gave permission for the search,
there was probably nothing there to find. And as he hadn’t heard from Ian since they parted, Wesley assumed that he’d drawn
a blank.
At three thirty Wesley and Gerry sat facing Geoff Dudgeon
in Interview Room 2. It was a windowless claustrophobic room and Wesley was sure he could still catch a faint whiff of cigarette
smoke in there, impregnated into the walls in the days before the smoking ban. But it could have been his imagination.
Dudgeon had made no attempt to summon a solicitor as he said he had nothing to hide. Wesley wasn’t sure whether to believe
him.
‘Let’s go over what happened on Tuesday, the night Analise died,’ Wesley said. He could see Dudgeon was getting tired. If
he was going to change his story it would probably be now.
‘We’ve been over this time and time again.’
‘Analise left her friends in the pub early saying she was meeting someone. Her friend Kristina assumed she was meeting you.’
Geoff Dudgeon sat in silence for a few moments then suddenly he looked Wesley in the eye. ‘OK. I meet her most Tuesdays and
I’d arranged to meet her that night. I said I’d see her at Tradmouth Castle at nine thirty but I couldn’t make it because
Bea wasn’t well. She was up all night being sick. Something she ate, I think. I couldn’t leave her, could I?’
‘You left her the next day to go to London.’
‘That was something I couldn’t put off. Besides, she was a lot better by then.’
‘So what did you do when you realised you couldn’t make your meeting with Analise?’
‘I tried to call her but she didn’t answer her phone and when I tried again the phone was switched off. You’ve got ways of
tracing where mobile calls were made from, haven’t you? You can check.’
‘Even if we found out that the calls came from your phone
and it was in Neston, it wouldn’t prove anything. You might have got someone else to make them for you … creating evidence
to back up your story,’ said Wesley reasonably.
‘I was at home in Neston. Check Analise’s phone. Please.’
‘We haven’t found her phone.’ He paused. ‘Or her clothes.’
Dudgeon’s mouth gaped in horror. This was the first time Wesley had mentioned that Analise had been found naked and it had
clearly come as a shock. If he’d been a betting man Wesley would have put money on Dudgeon’s innocence.
‘So she was assaulted … sexually? Is it the same man who attacked that girl in Neston?’
‘I didn’t say that, only that we haven’t found her clothes,’ said Wesley quietly. For the moment they were keeping the information
about the mutilations to themselves. As far as the world was concerned, the victim had been strangled – once the truth came
out the press, local and national, would think all their birthdays had come at once.
‘We need to check your alibi, you can see that, can’t you? We’ll have to talk to Bea.’
‘She has no idea about Analise and if she found out it could ruin my marriage. Please. Look, I had nothing to do with Analise’s
murder so either charge me or release me.’
‘You were Analise’s lover and your only alibi for the time of her death is a wife who might well be lying for you.’
‘She wouldn’t. She—’
‘Or you might be lying for her. You can understand why we’re reluctant to let you go,’ said Wesley reasonably.
‘Check with my phone company. I was nowhere near Tradmouth that night and neither was Bea.’
Geoffrey Dudgeon folded his arms and sat back in his seat.
*
Wesley and Gerry walked down the corridor back to the incident room in silence. It was Ian Petrie’s turn to talk to Dudgeon
now but Wesley didn’t feel inclined to eliminate the artist from his investigations just yet. The story of Bea’s sickness
might still turn out to be a work of fiction. But Dudgeon was confident that his phone records would show he was safely in
Neston at the time of Analise’s murder so it might be hard to prove that.
As soon as they entered the CID office, Trish told Gerry that Chief Superintendent Nutter wanted to see him urgently. Also
Kristina had translated the letters found in Analise’s room: they were from her sister and contained a few references to Geoff
Dudgeon but nothing else that could be relevant to her death. Analise’s sister had been contacted through the Hands Across
the Sea agency in Morbay and she was on her way to Devon. Wesley himself slunk off to his desk to think in peace and check
his phone for messages. He’d realised during his interview with Geoff Dudgeon that he’d forgotten to switch it over from silent
that afternoon. He just hoped he’d not missed anything urgent.
As soon as he sat down Rachel called across to him. ‘Neil Watson’s been trying to get hold of you. He called three times –
said you weren’t answering your mobile. He says it’s really important.’
Wesley thanked her and checked his mobile. Sure enough there were five missed calls, all of them from Neil’s number.
He speed-dialled the number and Neil answered after the third ring. ‘Neil. I gather you’ve been trying to get hold of me.’
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Neil said. He didn’t sound pleased.
‘Pursuing enquiries.’
‘The murder near Tradmouth castle?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve got some information.’
‘Something archaeological?’ He had rarely heard Neil sound so excited about anything that wasn’t connected with his work.
‘This is something that’s going to blow you away.’
Wesley sat forward. ‘What is it?’
‘That murder you’re investigating is a copycat killing, mate. In 1903 this bloke called John Varley killed four women in exactly
the same way that au pair was killed. Then he hanged himself in the woods by the castle. The deaths were identical. Look,
I think you should get up here.’ He hesitated. ‘According to the local rag at the time, one of the policemen investigating
said that Jack the Ripper had left Whitechapel to continue his evil work in Devon.’
For a few moments Wesley was lost for words. He had seen the body of Analise Sonquist and he couldn’t have expressed it better
himself.
After my romantic encounter with Sir Frederick – for romantic it was, I can think of no other way to describe it – my senses
seemed heightened and my heart light. I lived thus in a state of happiness such as I had never known. I had led a life of
boundaries and restrictions but now I experienced a new freedom. The freedom of love.
Each sighting of my beloved made my heart pound within my breast and the decorum we were forced to maintain during our everyday
dealings only served to make me more sensitive to each glance, each stolen touch of the hand. I was happy in those months
– oh how I was happy. I gave the children their lessons with a new enthusiasm and I was gratified to see how they had inherited
their father’s passion for the great civilisation of ancient Egypt. We translated hieroglyphics together and learned about
all the ruling dynasties of that great land. I knew this would please Sir Frederick and when the children showed off their
knowledge to their father he seemed touched and very proud.
The sole cloud on my joyful horizon was his elder son. John now dined with us frequently and treated me with nothing short
of contempt.
I enquired politely at dinner when he was returning to Bristol but my question was met with hostility. As a paid servant it
was none of my business, he said. He would leave for Bristol when he was ready.
When I was alone with Sir Frederick I asked why he allowed his son to be so rude to his employees. But my beloved bowed his
head and appeared to be burdened with some great sadness. John, he explained, had suffered a dreadful accident as a child.
As the father who had encouraged him to climb the tree, he felt a heavy responsibility for what had happened so he lacked
the will to chide the young man. In addition, ever since John had discovered the facts of his mother’s death in an asylum
a year after his own birth, he had blamed his father for the manner of her demise, saying that he had neglected her and treated
her with a disdain that had caused her to sink into despair. My beloved seemed distressed and wracked with guilt at these
ridiculous allegations, but I assured him that he had no cause to reproach himself.
And yet I could see that his dealings with John might blight our love. The young man knew how to control his father’s feelings.
And there seemed to be little I could do to improve the situation. Blood is so much stronger than the snares of the heart.
Wesley hurried to Gerry’s office to tell him about Neil’s call. He knew he needed to drive up to Varley Castle and find out
more. And possibly discover who else had been taking an unhealthy interest in Devon’s very own Jack the Ripper.
When he relayed the news to Gerry, the DCI stood up, frowning as he considered the implications.
‘Four of them?’ he muttered. ‘So are you going up to Varley Castle?’
Wesley nodded. ‘I think I should. Neil told me that someone has been accessing the information recently – an author who’s
staying at the castle. He’s writing a biography of one of the owners.’
‘In that case you need to speak to him. I’d like to come with you but I’ve got things to do.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’ll
be pleased to hear that Guy Kitchener’s coming in in
ten minutes. I’ve already sent him details of the case so he should be up to speed.’
‘So the Chief Super’s got his budgets sorted out?’
Gerry gave a wicked smile. ‘I used my charms to hurry things along, Wes. He couldn’t resist. This is just an initial meeting
with Kitchener to see what he’s got to say for himself.’ He gave a loud sigh. ‘We’re holding Dudgeon while we check his phone
records and have a tactful word with his missus. I wonder how your old boss is getting on with him. I told Paul to sit in
on the interview.’
‘Let’s hope he gets more out of him than we did.’
‘You think he might be involved in Ian’s Egyptian antiquities scam?’
‘I don’t know. He’s a talented potter. It wouldn’t be hard for him to conceal artefacts inside clay tourist copies – he could
do something like that in his sleep.’
‘So you think he could be Ra?’
Wesley shrugged. Since he’d heard from Neil, Ian’s problems had begun to seem trivial compared with an aspiring Jack the Ripper
stalking the streets.
‘How’s the kitten?’
Wesley looked up from the paperwork that seemed to have mysteriously appeared on his desk overnight. ‘Scaling the curtains
but apart from that …’
Guy Kitchener smiled. ‘My mother tells me your kids love the sanctuary.’
‘They haven’t stopped talking about it.’ He paused. All these pleasantries were all very well but there were serious things
to think about. And Gerry was perched on the edge of his desk looking impatient.
‘So what kind of man are we looking for?’ Gerry asked.
Wesley saw that his eyes were on Guy as if he was waiting for him to say where the killer could be found. Name, address, colour
of eyes. The lot.
‘I take it this is a man?’ Wesley said. ‘Could a woman have done it?’
‘Doubtful.’ Guy took a deep breath. ‘Our man is somebody who has little or no power over his everyday life. He might be married
or living with a woman but if so, he’s probably not the dominant partner.’
‘We’re looking for a henpecked husband then?’ Gerry muttered.
‘It is a possibility. Although it could just as easily be a man who’s stuck in a job where he feels frustrated and belittled.
As he seems to be displaying some knowledge about the civilisation of ancient Egypt he might be an educated man – or self-educated
– so maybe he thinks that he’s stuck in a job beneath his capabilities. In his mind the killings give him power and a twisted
kind of status.’
‘What about his character? Age, social background?’
Guy thought for a few moments. ‘He’s likely to be a loner; socially inept. And the ritual of disembowelling doesn’t suggest
youthful impulse. He’s probably in his thirties or forties. And it’s possible that he stalks his victims, gets to know their
habits.’
‘But if the same man was responsible for the attack on Clare Mayers, it doesn’t seem that he’s made any contact with them,’
said Wesley.
‘I take your point, Wesley, but it might be someone Clare’s spoken to at one time even though she might not remember.’
Rachel Tracey was sitting a few feet away, listening intently. She raised her hand. ‘What’s his attitude to women?’
Guy gave her a smile. ‘Good question. I’d say from the
way the bodies are mutilated that he may be a little afraid of them.’
Gerry asked the next question. ‘We’ve told you about Alan Jakes – do you think he’s our best bet?’
Guy’s answer was cautious. ‘From what you tell me he has a predatory attitude towards women. Perhaps that’s to conceal his
fear or hatred of them. I’ll be able to tell you more when you’ve brought him in and I can observe him being interviewed.’
He picked up his briefcase. ‘You’ll keep me up to date with any developments, won’t you? We’ve got to find this man before
he kills again.’
‘You think he will?’ Wesley asked quietly.
Guy looked at him. ‘I think that’s certain. He’s got a taste for it now. And the way he mutilated Analise’s body … They
say the first time’s the worst for a killer. He’ll find it easier next time.’
As Wesley set out to meet Neil he toyed with the idea of calling Pam. But he reasoned that she knew all about Analise’s murder
so she wouldn’t be expecting him in till late anyway.
He knew he was in for an hour’s drive and, as he steered the car towards Dartmoor, Guy Kitchener’s words still buzzed around
his brain. Analise Sonquist’s murderer would kill again – if they didn’t find him soon and stop him.
In his headlights he could see the rain pouring down in fine horizontal sheets and it seemed like an age before he saw the
sign directing him to Varley Castle. He turned right and found himself on a dark, single-track lane with hedges towering on
either side like prison walls. Unlike Rachel who had learned to drive at seventeen on her family’s farm and drove down the
Devon lanes with the confidence of a
native, Wesley proceeded cautiously in the rapidly fading light and after a mile he saw a gateway flanked by a pair of monoliths
worthy of a prehistoric stone circle. A sign by the entrance told him he had reached his destination. Varley Castle.
He steered down a winding tree-lined driveway until the bulk of the castle came into view, massive against the dusk sky.
Neil’s yellow Mini was parked near the imposing front entrance and when Wesley climbed out of the car he stood there for a
few seconds gazing up at the huge edifice – one man’s medieval fantasy created out of cash and granite. He walked slowly to
the great oak front door, raised the huge lion-head knocker and let it fall with a crash that gave him a frisson of satisfaction.
When the door creaked open Wesley was rather surprised to see Neil himself standing there.
‘I expected the butler,’ he said as he stepped inside and looked around.
‘Sorry to disappoint you.’ He began to move away. ‘Come into the library. I’ve got all the stuff in there.’
‘Who else knows about this?’
Neil looked round as though he didn’t want to be over-heard. ‘Only me and Andrew. I haven’t mentioned it to Caroline or Robert
Delaware yet. I thought I’d let you do that.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Like I said over the phone, the woman
at the library told me that Delaware’s already been there after the same information.’
Neil led the way to the library, a large, impressive room with a roaring fire, much cosier than Wesley expected. Neil picked
up a cardboard file which lay on a table at the side of the room and handed it to Wesley.
‘I had copies made of the newspaper reports. What do you think?’
Wesley read while Neil waited, watching for a reaction. Eventually he put the papers back in their file.
‘You reckon it’s the same as …?’
Wesley took a deep breath. ‘They sound very similar. 1903 – I should be able to get hold of the case files from the police
archives,’ he said confidently, hoping they hadn’t been lost or destroyed in the intervening years. ‘I need to talk to Robert
Delaware. Where is he?’
‘Down in the kitchens with Caroline. He sniffs around her like a dog after a bitch in heat. Makes you want to vomit.’
Wesley looked around. ‘I can see how owning a place like this might lend a woman certain charms.’
‘It’s not that,’ Neil said quickly. ‘I just don’t trust him. Come on, I’ll show you Sir Frederick Varley’s museum of Egyptian
antiquities. There’s some amazing stuff in there.’
‘I thought you weren’t particularly interested in Ancient Egypt?’
Neil shrugged. ‘It’s growing on me. Come and say hello to Andrew anyway. He’s up there cataloguing stuff. Then I’ll take you
down to the kitchens and introduce you to Caroline and Delaware.’
Before Wesley could say that he’d rather get the interview with Delaware over with, Neil had begun to stride ahead up the
grand staircase. Wesley told himself that his man was unlikely to make his escape and resigned himself to following Neil through
grand double doors into a large room which had the look of a museum – the old-fashioned kind with dusty exhibits and indecipherable
labels. Andrew Beredace was sitting at a table by the window, studying a small artefact
under an angle-poise lamp. He looked up and smiled when they entered.
‘So this is Sir Frederick Varley’s collection?’ said Wesley as he looked around.
Andrew stood up. ‘I’ll give you the guided tour.’
But Wesley felt a little guilty as he dutifully admired the artefacts. Maybe he should have been firmer with Neil and made
straight for the kitchens. Satisfying though it was to be shown the collection by an expert, he knew that Analise Sonquist
hadn’t been murdered by a desiccated mummy. He needed to interview the living, sooner rather than later.
He had just thanked Andrew for his time when the expert spoke. ‘Neil’s shown me those cuttings. John Varley had been brought
up with all this lot.’ He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘He’d been immersed in ancient Egyptian culture so he probably
thought that it was right to prepare the dead women for the afterlife. He would have thought he was doing them a favour. I
don’t expect he saw himself as a second Jack the Ripper.’
Wesley was taken aback at first but then Andrew’s words began to make some kind of sense. Maybe the killer back in 1903 had
seen the mutilations as an act of kindness rather than hatred.
He let Neil show him down to the kitchens, reasoning that the arrival of an unaccompanied stranger might put Caroline Varley
and Robert Delaware on their guard. He found the pair standing close to each other next to the wooden sink, deep in conversation.
They both looked up when Neil and Wesley entered the room.
‘Caroline. I’d like you to meet a friend of mine,’ said Neil, ignoring Delaware. ‘This is Wesley Peterson. We were at Exeter
University together.’
Caroline immediately held out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Peterson … or is it Doctor? All you archaeologists seem
to be Doctor these days.’
‘It’s just Mr.’ He took her hand and shook it firmly. ‘And I’m not an archaeologist.’ He produced his warrant card and as
he presented it to Caroline he saw a flicker of shock cross her face. But she handed the card back to him calmly and smiled.
‘A police inspector. I do hope you’re not here on business?’
‘I’m afraid I am.’ He’d been watching Robert Delaware’s face and noted that it remained expressionless. ‘I’d like to ask you
and Mr Delaware some questions if I may.’
‘What about?’ She sounded puzzled.
‘It concerns the murder of a young woman in Tradmouth on Tuesday night.’
‘I don’t see how I can help you. I haven’t been to Tradmouth for a year or more.’
Wesley turned to Delaware. ‘What about you, Mr Delaware? Where were you on Tuesday night?’
‘I … I was here, wasn’t I, Caro?’ Wesley was certain he saw a flash of anxiety in his eyes.
But Caroline wasn’t prepared to lie for him. Their relationship obviously hadn’t reached the stage where she would even consider
it. ‘No. You went to Morbay on Tuesday evening. You said you had to see somebody. Remember?’
‘What time was this?’
It was Caroline who answered. ‘You went out around seven and it was almost midnight when you got back. I made us both cocoa.’
Delaware smiled. Wesley had seen many similar smiles on the faces of suspects over the years – heartiness tinged with terror.
‘Of course.’
‘You’ll be able to give us the name of the person you saw, of course,’ Wesley said.
‘Of course. It was a man who had some letters from Sir Frederick Varley. I’m writing Sir Frederick’s biography.’
‘So I’ve heard.’ Wesley looked the man in the eye. ‘There is another matter we’d like to ask you about. I believe you’ve been
researching into four murders that happened here in 1903. They were committed by Sir Frederick’s son, John Varley.’
This time Delaware couldn’t hide his shock. ‘I’m writing Sir Frederick’s biography. His son’s suicide had a massive effect
on his life, as you can imagine. I had to discover why he killed himself so I needed the details of the murders he was allegedly
responsible for.’
It all sounded very reasonable but somehow it didn’t allay Wesley’s suspicions. He paused before speaking again, his eyes
on Delaware’s face. ‘We think there might be a connection between the 1903 murders and the recent murder in Tradmouth.’
Delaware’s mouth fell open. ‘That’s impossible,’ he said, shooting a look in Caroline’s direction. ‘They were Jack the Ripper-style
killings. Do you mean to say that …?’
‘There are certain similarities. And we suspect there’s an Egyptian connection.’ He saw Caroline’s hand go up to her mouth
in horror. ‘So you can see why we’re talking to anybody who knows details of those murders. By the way, where were you on
Sunday night?’
Delaware glanced at Caroline. ‘I went back to my flat in Tradmouth for the weekend because I had various things to catch up
on. I came back here first thing on Monday.’
‘Any witnesses?’
‘Afraid not. I didn’t think I’d need any.’
Wesley opened the file he was carrying and spread the
copies of the old newspaper cuttings out on the worktop. Delaware glanced at them then looked away but Caroline picked them
up and examined them. Unless she was a good actress, it was clear that she had never seen them before.
‘You have seen these cuttings before, Mr Delaware?’