The Mechanical Devil

by Kate Ellis

  They watched in silence while the CSIs busied themselves in two separate areas roughly fifty yards apart. There was a look of earnest concentration on Dr Colin Bowman’s face as he knelt by the drystone wall between the field and the road and they waited until he’d finished work before making their way through the inner cordon. For the first time Wesley could see the focus of Colin’s attention – an expensively dressed woman with well-cut blonde hair and bright red nails. She looked as if she’d taken care of herself and if the flashy red Mercedes parked on the verge near the gate belonged to her, she hadn’t been short of money either.

  When Wesley had been told it was a shooting, he had expected to see shotgun wounds – from the rural weapon of choice – but the neat hole in the woman’s forehead had been caused by another sort of weapon, a rifle or perhaps a revolver. There was a hole in her chest where a bullet had penetrated and when Colin turned her over Wesley saw that her back was a mass of dried blood.

  She’d been shot in the chest from some distance away, Colin pointed out, hence the large exit wound in her back. Then she was shot in the forehead at closer range – presumably because the killer wanted to make sure she was dead.

  Colin turned the head to give them a view of the exit wound, a mess of blood and brain matter. ‘I’m pretty sure she didn’t die here,’ he said. ‘She’s been moved and someone’s gone to the trouble of arranging her body neatly, which seems odd because this bears all the hallmarks of an assassination.’

  ‘Time of death?’

  Colin wrinkled his nose. ‘All I can say is that she’s been here a while – four or five days perhaps but that’s just a guess.’

  ‘We were told there’s a second victim,’ Wesley said and Colin pointed to the section of ruined stone wall at the top end of the field where the CSIs and the police photographer were at work.

  ‘It’s a middle-aged man dressed like a walker. Identical MO and dead about the same length of time,’ said Colin. ‘The only difference being that he was shot in the back whereas this lady was shot in the chest which suggests she was facing the killer and he was either running away or had no idea the assassin was there.’

  After asking Colin how soon he could fit in the post-mortems, Wesley and Gerry walked over to view the second body. As they approached Wesley saw a pair of legs in walking boots sticking out from behind the wall, the sole remnant of a building, long ago left to fall to ruin. Again the body had been neatly arranged and Wesley turned to the constable on guard who was young; straight out of training school by the look of it. From his queasy expression Wesley guessed it was probably his first murder case.

  ‘Any ID on either of the victims?’ Wesley asked.

  ‘The red Mercedes SLK parked in the lay-by next to the field is registered to an Andrea Jameson – address in Tradmouth, sir,’ said the constable, making a great effort not to look at the corpse on the ground. ‘The car’s unlocked and there’s a handbag inside. The ID found in it backs that up.’ He pointed in the vague direction of the second body. ‘There’s no ID on the man but if he was out walking he probably didn’t carry any with him.’

  ‘We’ll check all the local hotels and B and Bs,’ said Wesley. ‘He must have been staying somewhere.’

  ‘Unless he’s local, sir,’ the constable chipped in.

  ‘Well, Wes, what do you think?’ Gerry asked as they made their way back to the car.

  Wesley considered the question for a few moments. ‘Both victims were obviously killed by the same perpetrator, but they don’t look like a couple to me. She was smart. Make-up, manicure and expensive clothes. She was even wearing high heels – on Dartmoor.’

  ‘I noticed that. But there’s only one shoe. They’re still looking for the other,’ Gerry said.

  ‘Whereas he was obviously the outdoor type: backpack, anorak and walking boots – all good quality but well worn. The two victims don’t go together.’

  ‘There must be some connection,’ Gerry said with a sigh. ‘We’ll have to set up an incident room in the village.’

  ‘I’ll organise a team to conduct house-to-house interviews. Someone must have seen the victims – or the killer.’

  Gerry nodded. ‘Once the press get hold of this it’ll be big. Mafia-style assassination outside a quiet Dartmoor village – they’ll lap it up.’

  ‘And the minister’s missing daughter?’

  ‘Her and all.’

  Neil Watson was taking no chances. The lead coffin – for he was now sure that’s what it was – had been safely stored at the lab at Exeter University overnight and he’d used his extensive contacts to assemble a team of experts to open it and examine the bones inside.

  The box had been placed on a stainless-steel table and Neil watched while his colleagues manipulated the soft grey metal. They worked with care and silently, as if out of respect for the child they were sure it contained. Even though hundreds of years had passed, the death of a child was cause for solemnity rather than the usual speculation and banter.

  Neil wondered how well the little body would be preserved and he held his breath as the split in the lead widened to reveal the contents.

  Margaret, the forensic anthropologist, bent over to peer inside the box. ‘I don’t understand,’ she muttered before asking her colleague to enlarge the hole.

  As the aperture widened Neil stood on tiptoe to get a better view. He could see something inside the box: not bone or mummified flesh but wood covered with paint – muted vegetable colours like the rood screen in Lower Torworthy church.

  ‘Is it a wooden coffin?’ he asked.

  Margaret shook her head. ‘It looks like a carved figure of some kind. I’ve never seen anything like it before.’ She nodded to her colleague, who proceeded to widen the hole in the lead until eventually the lid of the box was peeled back completely.

  For a while they all stared at the thing lying inside. It was a carved man with a bald head and prominent ears, two feet tall and wearing what looked like a monk’s habit. Its face was finely carved and disturbingly real, with a hooked nose and full painted lips. The wooden clothing was coloured brown and its eyes stood out blue against the painted flesh.

  ‘It must be the statue of a saint,’ someone suggested. ‘Maybe they buried it during the Reformation when the authorities were destroying anything they considered superstitious?’

  Neil nodded. It was a good theory: a precious local saint saved from desecration by a pious priest and his flock.

  Margaret signalled for it to be lifted from its resting place and one of her assistants obliged. But as he laid the thing carefully on the table a flap at the side of the figure came loose and dropped on to the steel surface with a clatter.

  ‘What have we here?’ said Margaret. Human remains were her province but she’d been caught up in the excitement of this strange discovery.

  Neil picked up the flap. It fitted back into the gap in the wooden image perfectly. Whoever had created this unusual statue had been a master of his art. He removed the flap again and when he peered inside the figure he saw something that made him catch his breath.

  ‘What is it?’ Margaret asked.

  Neil looked round and saw that everyone’s attention was on him.

  ‘There’s some kind of mechanism inside. Let’s get it on its feet.’

  Karen, the civilian receptionist on the enquiry desk at Tradmouth Police Station, watched the woman step through the automatic doors and hesitate, as though she wasn’t quite sure where she was. Her glossy brown hair framed a heart-shaped face and her white trousers and striped top flattered her figure. She was wearing dark glasses even though the sky outside was grey.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  The newcomer stopped suddenly and stared as if she’d only just realised Karen was there.

  ‘I have to see Detective Inspector Peterson,’ she said in an urgent whisper.

  ‘He’s not in at the moment. Is there anyone else who can help you?’

  The woman shook her head vigorously. ‘N
o. I have to speak to him. Urgently. What time will he be back?’

  Karen rang up to the CID office. After a hushed conversation she turned to the woman apologetically. ‘I’m afraid he’s been called away to a case but I’m sure someone else from CID will be able to help you if it’s urgent…’

  ‘No. It’s Inspector Peterson I need to see. I’ll come back.’

  As the woman turned to go she took off her dark glasses to reveal a patch of livid bruising around her eye and the moment of revulsion Karen experienced was immediately replaced by curiosity.

  ‘That looks nasty. How did you get it?’ Karen knew it was none of her business but she’d come across domestic violence before and, in her opinion, it should be nipped in the bud whether or not Inspector Peterson was available to deal with it.

  ‘That’s why I want to see Inspector Peterson,’ the woman said, her voice shaking. ‘I’ve been attacked.’

  Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard

  July 1995

  In the coroners’ inquest records for 1518 there is a reference to a Matthew At Wood of Lower Torworthy who gave evidence at an inquest in March of that year. Later records give the priest Sir Matthew’s surname as At Wood so it is likely this is the same person.

  According to the records a Matthew At Wood was fishing with his cousin in the river near the village when the cousin fell into the water. Matthew stated that the river was swollen by recently melted snow and was so fast-flowing that all his attempts to rescue his cousin were in vain.

  Matthew was questioned closely about the incident but it seemed that nothing could be proved against him.

  7

  Colin Bowman conducted both post-mortems at Tradmouth Hospital and the results were pretty much as expected. Both victims had been shot and the bullets had passed through both bodies, causing small entry and larger exit wounds. Colin suspected some kind of rifle had been fired from some distance away to inflict the body wounds, perhaps using a telescopic sight. However both victims’ foreheads bore characteristic signs of tattooing around the entry wounds, which confirmed that the head shots had been made at a closer range. They had been felled like hunted animals then finished off, and the thought made Wesley shudder.

  Once Wesley and Gerry had finished at the hospital they returned to Lower Torworthy, where things were moving fast. Computers and phones had already been set up in the church hall which was serving as the incident room for the time being. A team was out conducting house-to-house inquiries in the village and the surrounding area and every aspect of Andrea Jameson’s life was being investigated, starting with the contacts on the mobile phone found in her handbag.

  ‘Strange she left her handbag in the car,’ Rachel Tracey observed. She was standing next to Wesley in the field where the bodies had been found, watching the CSIs still at work behind their flimsy barrier of blue-and-white tape. ‘I never would.’

  ‘Of course not. You’ve got more sense.’

  Rachel looked at him, half smiling at the gentle teasing in his voice.

  ‘Did Dr Bowman say anything interesting at the post-mortem?’ she asked.

  ‘As I expected, the cause of death was gunshot wounds. The first to the body probably killed them, then the perpetrator put a bullet through their brains, just to make sure.’

  ‘Vicious.’

  ‘Too right. The bullets passed through the bodies so I’ve ordered a fingertip search of the area but it might take a while.’

  ‘Professional job?’

  ‘Looks that way. We’re thinking both bodies were moved, presumably to delay discovery and give the killer time to leave the area before anyone could raise the alarm.’

  ‘He could be miles away by now.’

  Wesley knew Rachel was right. The assassin could be anywhere, even out of the country. He looked around. ‘Unfortunately there’s no danger of being caught on CCTV here in the middle of nowhere, which could be why he chose this spot. Wonder how he got the victims here. Did he follow one or both of them? Did they arrive together or did they arrange to meet here?’

  ‘And what’s the relationship between the two of them?’

  ‘They might not have known each other. Maybe the killer lured them both here at the same time for some reason. Any luck identifying the male yet?’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘Nothing so far. A few people from the village noticed the red car parked there but nobody reported it abandoned. It’s been there since teatime on Friday according to one witness, which might help pinpoint the time of death. It’s a tribute to the honesty of the locals that the handbag wasn’t nicked.’

  Wesley grinned. ‘Almost restores your faith in human nature.’

  His phone rang and Rachel watched as he answered it.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m busy at the moment. I’m sure someone else can help you.’

  There was silence as he listened to the reply and even though they’d known each other so long and been through so much together, Rachel couldn’t read his expression. He apologised again and repeated his assurance that his colleagues could deal with whatever it was and ended the call.

  ‘Who was that?’ Rachel was curious by nature – that was why she’d joined CID in the first place.

  ‘A woman was attacked while she was out jogging and her assailant gave her a nasty black eye. She came to the station but I wasn’t there so she rang.’

  ‘She had your number?’

  ‘She was the victim of a nasty burglary about eighteen months ago and I must have given her my card and told her to call me if she remembered anything.’ He shrugged. At that moment he had more important things to think about.

  ‘Did she describe her attacker?’

  ‘She said he was wearing a balaclava.’

  ‘Worrying.’

  ‘Yes. But I’m sure someone at the station can deal with it.’

  They began to walk back to the car. Rachel had parked it some distance from the red Mercedes, which was now being hoisted on to a low loader to be taken back to the police garage for examination.

  ‘If they think the victims didn’t die where they were found, where were they killed?’ Rachel said.

  ‘When we know that we might get somewhere. It’s rained a bit since Friday so evidence might have been lost.’

  Wesley could see the team of CSIs scouring the ground around where the Mercedes had been. They’d be looking for any traces of blood that had survived the rain – or the missing bullets, preferably both. He heard one of them shout and raise his hand. He’d found something.

  They stopped to watch. It seemed an age before a small CSI with ginger hair came over to speak to them.

  ‘It looks as though something was dragged into the field through the gate; we’ve found fibres on the stone gatepost. It’s possible the female victim got out of the car to stretch her legs and enjoy the view, then boom.’

  ‘Boom?’

  The CSI’s freckled face reddened. ‘It looks as though the killer opened the gate so he could get her in the field and hide her from view. We found her missing shoe in undergrowth near the car. There are drag marks near where the male was found so it looks like his body was moved too. All we need now is to find the rounds that killed them.’

  Wesley thanked him and asked to be kept updated before turning to go.

  The woman who’d called had sounded distressed and he felt uneasy about passing her on to one of his underlings when she’d asked specifically for his help. But he had Jocasta Ovorard’s disappearance and a double murder to deal with; he couldn’t be everywhere at once.