by Kate Ellis
When the flap on the side of the wooden figure fell off Neil could see the mechanism inside: intricately crafted cogs and wheels, preserved in good condition thanks to the protective lead. There was a handle too that he suspected would wind the thing up, but nobody had dared touch it yet. Someone suggested consulting the university’s mechanical engineering department. Or perhaps a clockmaker would be more appropriate.
What puzzled him most was the age of the thing. All the experts who’d stared at it and handled it reverently had agreed that it looked medieval. Sixteenth century at the latest. During his archaeological career he’d heard tales of mechanical figures created to guard tombs but he’d never actually come across one of these early robots so his inclination had been to dismiss the accounts as fantasy or wishful thinking. Now, however, he was beginning to think there was something in the stories after all.
It was eleven o’clock when he decided to drive over to Lower Torworthy. He needed to tell Oliver Grayling about the strange discovery; after all, the thing had been found just outside the boundary of his church.
He could have phoned ahead but he fancied the drive. Being stuck in the office with a pile of site reports never appealed to him, especially when the weather was fine. Once in Lower Torworthy he drew up in the small church car park beside a police patrol car. There were two more in the lane, their garish blue-and-yellow checks standing out against the village backdrop like clowns at a funeral. As he emerged from the car he could see uniformed officers coming and going from the small church hall fifty yards down the road. Lower Torworthy, unlike many villages of similar size, boasted a village shop and a gaggle of people, mostly elderly, were hanging around outside exchanging gossip. He hadn’t listened to the local news that day but he guessed something dramatic had happened in this place that, with recent funding cuts, normally wouldn’t see a policeman from one month to the next.
He scanned the scene for his old friend Wesley Peterson but there was no sign of him so he tried the church door. If anyone knew what was going on it was bound to be the vicar.
The door was unlocked and he was about to push it open when he saw a motorcycle – an impressive Harley Davidson – propped against the church wall to the side of the porch. Perhaps the Reverend Grayling was a biker, he thought. He couldn’t picture it somehow but sometimes people surprise you.
He stepped inside the church and when his vision adjusted to the gloom he saw a figure by the pulpit. The man was burly, not in the first flush of youth and built like a rugby player, with a shaven head and a baby face. He wore a black suit and a clerical collar which belied his worldly appearance.
‘Hi,’ Neil said as he strolled to the front of the church. ‘Is Oliver around?’
The man gave Neil a smile that didn’t spread to his eyes. ‘He’s out… seeing a parishioner.’
‘We’ve not met. I’m Neil Watson. County Archaeological Unit.’
‘Er… John Davies. Curate,’ the man said, ignoring Neil’s outstretched hand.
‘The village is crawling with police. What’s going on?’
‘I heard there’s been a shooting.’
‘Must be more than a shotgun accident to warrant all this fuss.’
‘Sorry, don’t know,’ Davies said quickly, fidgeting nervously with the collection box he was holding.
‘I wanted a word with Oliver about that lead box the workmen found. You’ve heard about it?’
‘Er… yeah.’ He didn’t sound altogether convincing. ‘If I see him I’ll say you were looking for him.’
Neil turned and made for the door. As he left he looked back and saw the curate watching him.
Wesley’s desk had been placed next to Gerry’s on the stage of the new incident room. During his time in Devon he’d worked in several temporary incident rooms set up in church halls, all so similar they blended into one in his memory. There was always the stage used for local amateur dramatics, play equipment in the corner for the parish toddler group, and chairs stacked round the edges of the room for use at meetings, together with the folding tables used at jumble sales and fetes. Over the years he’d come to appreciate these symbols of the continuity of English rural life.
From his elevated position on the stage he could see his colleagues talking on phones and tapping information into computers. A large whiteboard had been placed against the far wall, dotted with photographs of the victims and the crime scene together with Gerry’s scrawled comments. A second board near the stage listed tasks to be undertaken that day. The whole set-up looked incongruous against the Bible scenes painted by infant hands that decorated the other walls.
Because of the double murder, the disappearance of Jocasta Ovorard was now being dealt with by a team left behind at Tradmouth Police Station. After the TV appeal reports of sightings were still coming in from all parts of the country. Witnesses had claimed to have seen Jocasta in Edinburgh, in Aberystwyth, in Manchester and in Yorkshire and each report was being followed up by the local force.
The girl’s disappearance had been niggling away at the back of Wesley’s mind since he’d made the TV appeal, sitting between the chief superintendent and the girl’s father who’d exuded exactly the right mixture of parental worry and political gravitas… until they were off air when his mask of confidence slipped to allow a glimpse of the man beneath; on the verge of panic and frustrated by his own helplessness. It had been an uncomfortable half-hour and it had left Wesley drained. He was also uncomfortable about the mother’s absence from the inquiry and he couldn’t help wondering whether Ovorard had told the truth about her being too upset to speak to the police.
His thoughts were interrupted by a CSI who placed a plastic box containing the contents of Andrea Jameson’s car on his desk, together with a list of calls made on the victim’s phone. Then the man put a smaller box beside it: the contents of the male victim’s pockets. As soon as Gerry saw it he came over, rubbing his hands in anticipation.
‘Right, Wes, let the dog see the rabbit.’
Wesley stood aside and watched as the DCI lifted the lid of the smaller box.
‘Our man travelled light,’ he said with a disappointed frown as he viewed the contents of the box. A handkerchief – clean, a watch and a packet of indigestion tablets. A small rucksack contained an Ordnance Survey map of the area, a first-aid kit, a pen and notebook (blank), a penknife, a torch and a beer mat but no phone. Wesley picked up the beer mat and smiled to himself. It bore the name of the Shepherd’s Arms; the pub in the village which, according to the sign Wesley had noticed outside, provided en-suite rooms.
Wesley turned his attention to the second, larger box and inside he found an expensive leather handbag with its contents beside it in a plastic bag. There was a mobile phone, an iPad and a glossy brochure for a place called Princebury Hall. It took Wesley a few seconds to realise why the name was familiar.
He stared at the brochure. Andrea Jameson’s death in the field bore the hallmarks of an execution-style killing. And she had a connection with Princebury Hall – the place where Della had planned to take Pam.
8
Each time Wesley tried to call Della he reached her voicemail and he was beginning to feel uneasy. If Princebury Hall was linked to something dangerous, he feared that his mother-in-law wouldn’t have the common sense to walk away… fast. It was one of Pam’s days off work so he called her at home, only to find that she hadn’t heard from her mother since she set off for Princebury Hall. When she asked why he wanted to know, he was non-committal. The name of the hall had come up in their inquiries – that was all.
As soon as he’d finished speaking to Pam, his phone rang again and the caller display told him it was Belinda Crillow again. He hesitated before answering. Then he pressed the key and heard her voice. She sounded breathless, as though she’d been running.
‘I’ve had a phone call from him.’
‘Who?’
‘The man who attacked me.’
‘I thought you told my colleagues you didn’
t know who he was.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘If he called you he must have your number.’
‘I… I suppose he must. What if he knows where I live?’
Wesley’s initial irritation started to melt away. The woman was terrified. ‘Tell me exactly what he said?’
‘He didn’t say anything but I knew he was there.’
Wesley closed his eyes, relieved. ‘So you can’t be sure it was him? It might have been a call centre. They sometimes —’
‘I know it was him. I could hear him breathing. I think he’s watching me.’ He could hear the panic in her voice; the panic of a woman being stalked by a stranger in the shadows. ‘Please. I need to see you.’
‘Have you seen anything suspicious?’
‘No, but —’
‘I’m sorry, Ms Crillow, but I’m in the middle of a murder inquiry at the moment. I’ll ask one of my colleagues to call round and take a statement from you.’
‘If you came round yourself – if he saw you there – I know he’d stop.’ She sounded desperate and this made him feel bad.
‘I assure you my colleagues are just as capable of —’
‘It’s that girl, isn’t it? That MP’s daughter you were talking about on the TV. You’re running around looking for her just because of who her father is while I’m in real danger and —’
‘Like I said, Ms Crillow, I’ll get on to my colleagues right away. I’m up on Dartmoor at the moment so someone on the spot will be in a better position to help you.’
He felt guilty about fobbing her off again but he had no choice.
Next he made a quick call to the station and DC Rob Carter answered. Rob was bright and hadn’t yet come to terms with the fact that most police work is dull and painstaking. Wesley knew he’d be bored by now with sifting through the information coming in on Jocasta Ovorard, so the task of identifying Ms Crillow’s tormentor might provide just the challenge he needed.
‘She’s vulnerable,’ Wesley reminded him. ‘She was the victim of a particularly nasty robbery eighteen months ago and she lives alone. This recent attack has shaken her so be sympathetic, eh, Rob.’
As soon as he’d finished the call he turned to Rachel and she gave him a warm smile. She’d seemed more relaxed recently, maybe because her wedding to farmer Nigel Haynes was exactly a month away.
‘Everyone listed on Andrea Jameson’s phone’s been contacted,’ she said.
‘And?’
Rachel perched herself on the edge of his desk. She was wearing a short skirt which rode up to reveal an expanse of thigh. Wesley did his best to focus on the sheet of paper she was holding.
‘Andrea was thirty-eight and ran her own business – party planning. She was divorced. No kids.’
‘You’ve spoken to the ex-husband?’
‘He lives in New York and hasn’t been over here for six months. He’s out of the frame.’
‘Not necessarily. If he hired someone to get rid of her…’
‘He’s a surgeon.’
‘So?’ Wesley came from a medical family and, from the gossip he’d heard, he knew members of the caring professions didn’t always behave in an exemplary manner.
‘The divorce was amicable and nothing’s known against him. And she hasn’t been making any financial demands.’
‘So he says. We can’t rule him out just yet.’
Rachel looked sceptical. ‘Apparently her business is doing well. She has lots of dealings with the Tradmouth and Millicombe yachting and second-home-owning sets and she owns an apartment overlooking the river in Tradmouth. The new development down by the marina.’
‘Nice.’
‘As far as family’s concerned there’s a widowed father in Plymouth who’s remarried recently and a brother up north. Both have been spoken to and nothing rings any alarm bells. Everyone we’ve talked to speaks well of her. She’s hard-working. Generous. Popular.’
‘Too good to be true?’
Rachel shrugged.
‘I want all her friends and contacts interviewed in person. Nobody likes to speak ill of the dead over the phone, do they. And we need someone to do the formal ID.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ said Rachel, scribbling in her notebook.
‘What about men?’
Rachel leaned forward. ‘One of her friends, a woman called Sally, says there’s a man she’s been seeing for a while. His number’s on her phone but we just reached his voicemail. Left a message but he hasn’t got back to us. Sally said she was due to go on a motivational retreat at Princebury Hall on Friday and the boyfriend was joining her there.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Jason Fitch. Married, no kids. Owns an IT company. I found his home number and when I called a woman – presumably his wife – answered and said he was away on business. She asked why I was calling but I said it was just routine. Didn’t want to give too much away at this stage.’
‘Have we an address for him?’
‘Dukesbridge. Posh new development.’
‘Has someone contacted Princebury Hall?’
‘Yes. Both Andrea and Jason were expected on Friday evening but neither of them turned up.’
‘Well, we know why Andrea didn’t make it but is Jason Fitch our mystery man in the field with her? He didn’t look like her type but…’
Rachel shook her head. ‘Her friend Sally met him once so I asked for a description. Fair hair. Six foot. He’s not our second victim.’
Before Wesley could reply DC Paul Johnson clattered up the steps at the side of the stage, his lanky runner’s frame moving fast. From his keen expression, Wesley could tell he had news.
‘House-to-house came up with something interesting. A girl fitting Jocasta Ovorard’s description was seen being dropped off near the Shepherd’s Arms by a woman in a red Mercedes around six p.m. on Friday. Sounds like our victim’s car.’
The mention of the Shepherd’s Arms reminded Wesley that the village pub had to be visited as a matter of urgency. The man in the field had been carrying a beer mat bearing the pub’s name so it was a fair bet he’d frequented the place – and if their luck was in, he might even have been staying in one of its en-suite rooms.
‘I was talking to your curate earlier.’
Oliver Grayling looked puzzled. ‘I thought Philip was out all morning.’
‘The man I met was called John Davies.’
Oliver frowned. ‘You must have misunderstood. Maybe this John Davies just called in to see the church. We have a very impressive rood screen and some nice memorials in the DeTorham chapel.’
Neil shrugged. Like the vicar said, he’d probably misunderstood.
‘I wanted to tell you what we found in the lead box.’
The vicar’s face clouded. ‘A child’s remains, I presume.’
Neil waited a few seconds before making his revelation. ‘No. It was a carved figure – probably early sixteenth century.’ He leaned forward. ‘And the best bit is there’s a mechanism inside. It’s an automaton.’
The vicar opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.
‘It’s rare to find one so old. It’s an exciting discovery.’
‘Why bury it like that?’
‘My guess is that it was hidden during the Reformation when images and statues were being destroyed on the King’s orders, which didn’t go down too well around these parts. You can’t blame the priest and parishioners for wanting to preserve something they regarded as precious.’
