by Kate Ellis
Oliver Grayling glanced at the safe in the corner of the vestry. ‘The parish records from the sixteenth century aren’t here. You could try the cathedral archives.’
As Neil left his instincts told him that whoever had hidden the automaton so well would hardly have recorded the fact in the parish records and that any evidence would probably have been destroyed centuries ago.
9
The new sighting of Jocasta Ovorard in Lower Torworthy was causing considerable excitement in the incident room. It raised the possibility that their two major cases were connected, but Gerry didn’t want to share this fresh development with Jeremy Ovorard until they knew more.
Jocasta’s photograph had been shown to everybody in the village and a couple of elderly ladies claimed they’d seen a girl matching her description walking down the road towards the telephone box, a rucksack slung over her shoulder. In addition, a man out walking his golden labrador thought he’d seen her on the back of a motorbike driving away from the village although he couldn’t swear to it.
If, as Wesley suspected, there was a link between the village of Lower Torworthy and the disappearance of Jocasta Ovorard, this raised the possibility that the vanished girl was connected in some way to the murders. But had Jocasta met the same fate? If she had seen Andrea’s killer the possibility couldn’t be ruled out.
His musings were interrupted by Paul Johnson.
‘I’ve got more on Jason Fitch, sir. Seven years ago he married a Sharon Ball.’ He paused as though he was saving the best for last. ‘Sharon has a brother called Kyle. Ex-army. And when I say “ex” I don’t mean he left of his own accord.’
‘Chucked out?’
‘Spent most of his career in the glasshouse and he’s got a record for GBH and ABH. He’d probably know where to get hold of a firearm and he’d certainly know how to use it. Lives in Plymouth.’ He paused. ‘And according to his local station he’s got a nickname – the Hit Man.’
Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘In that case we’d better bring him in.’
But before Wesley could find Gerry and tell him about this promising new development, Trish Walton appeared by his desk giving Paul a sideways look. The pair had been an item at one time and recently Wesley had noticed furtive conversations between them. If the flame had been rekindled no doubt Rachel would enlighten him in due course.
‘I’ve been to the Shepherd’s Arms like you asked, sir,’ said Trish, slightly breathless. ‘The dead man was definitely staying there.’
‘Thanks, Trish.’
Gerry had just emerged from the kitchen at the side of the stage, hands in his pockets and completely relaxed as though he didn’t have a double murder and the disappearance of a teenage girl to worry about.
‘Andrea Jameson’s fancy man, Jason Fitch, has a brother-in-law with a history of violence and a knowledge of firearms,’ Wesley said as he hurried down to meet him. ‘If he’s taken exception to his sister being made a fool of he might have taken it into his head to get rid of her rival. The brother-in-law’s called Kyle Ball and he lives in Plymouth where he’s known as the Hit Man. I’m having him brought in for questioning.’
‘Let’s hope it’s that straightforward so we can start concentrating our resources on this missing girl. I’ve had Aunty Noreen on again. Mr Ovorard’s not happy with our progress.’ He rolled his eyes.
‘Are we telling him about the Lower Torworthy connection?’
Gerry thought for a moment. ‘Not worth worrying him with that till we’re sure.’
‘Jocasta was last seen near the Shepherd’s Arms and Trish has just confirmed that our male victim was staying there.’
‘Then we’d better drop in. We can get something to eat while we’re there,’ Gerry added, rubbing his large stomach. ‘Kill two birds with one stone.’
Wesley didn’t answer. They didn’t have time to dally longer than necessary in country pubs, attractive though the prospect was. But this particular establishment was only yards from the incident room and who knew what they could learn from the staff and regulars.
The Shepherd’s Arms was a quintessential English pub with whitewashed walls and a thatched roof. As well as a neat reception desk in the passage to deal with the residential side of the business, there was a tempting array of hand pumps on the polished mahogany bar and as they walked in everyone turned to watch them for a few seconds. The clientele was mixed: holidaymakers enjoying sustaining sandwiches and locals who’d just popped in for a pint. An assortment of dogs – mostly labradors and border collies – lounged at their owners’ feet, and water bowls had been provided by the management for their refreshment.
A capable-looking woman in her forties appeared behind the bar with a smile of professional welcome on her face. Her air of confident authority told Wesley that she was the landlady.
Once Wesley had made the introductions, the landlady, whose name was Yvonne Stirling, led them into a back room, issuing orders to her bar staff en route to keep an eye on things.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ she said after inviting them to sit. ‘The officer told me one of my guests had been shot. I find it hard to believe it could be anything but a tragic accident.’ Her words sounded businesslike, as if she was more concerned for the effect on her trade than the unfortunate man’s demise.
Gerry shifted in the stiff leather armchair he’d chosen, trying to get comfortable. ‘What can you tell us about him, love?’
‘He booked a couple of weeks ago by phone and turned up last Wednesday. He said he wasn’t sure how long he was staying but he paid in advance for a fortnight.’
‘Is that usual?’
‘Some people prefer it.’
‘Did he say why he was here?’ Wesley asked.
Yvonne looked at him as though she’d only just noticed him for the first time. ‘To do some walking, he said. We get a lot of walkers staying here. He seemed a pleasant sort of man. Quiet. Very ordinary really.’
‘When did you last see him?’
She thought for a few moments. ‘I think it was last Friday at breakfast. Full English.’
‘You didn’t think to report him missing?’
For the first time Yvonne looked flustered. ‘I did wonder whether I should but often serious walkers decide to stay in a bed and breakfast further up the moor for a few nights before coming back. They usually tell me if that’s what they’re planning to do but I thought he might have forgotten, although I must admit I was a bit concerned, because the moor can be a dangerous place. There are rivers and mine shafts, not to mention the mires. I feel bad about not saying anything now.’
‘You weren’t to know.’ Wesley could tell she was upset. ‘He will have given you an address.’
As if she’d anticipated the question she had the hotel register to hand and passed it to Wesley, pointing at the relevant entry.
The name was Ian Evans and he’d given an address in Dorchester. It would be up to the local police to visit his address and break the news to any relatives they could find. Wesley didn’t envy them the job.
‘Did he mention what he did for a living?’
‘He wasn’t really the chatty sort. They’re all different – walkers. Some like to talk, others would rather commune with nature.’
‘Can we see his room?’
She led the way upstairs and unlocked a door at the end of a wide carpeted passage. The floorboards creaked under Wesley’s feet. It was an old building and not altogether symmetrical which, in his view, added to its attraction.
Wesley took Jocasta Ovorard’s picture from his pocket and handed it to Yvonne. ‘Have you ever seen this girl? She was spotted getting out of a red car outside this pub a few days ago.’
‘One of your constables has already asked,’ Yvonne said as she handed the picture back. ‘Sorry. I didn’t see her.’
‘Did Ian Evans speak to anybody else while he was staying here? Or did he have any visitors?’
‘Not that I saw. He was out walking most of the time. He ate
here in the bar on Wednesday and Thursday – we serve till nine – and he was definitely on his own. I tried to make conversation but he didn’t want to talk. I got the impression he was shy.’
Yvonne opened the door for them and left them to it. The room was bright and airy and the bed neatly made. There were fluffy white towels in the bathroom and the only evidence of Ian Evans’s recent occupation was a closed suitcase on a stand in the corner and a wash bag in the bathroom. Wesley opened the case, which contained only underwear, socks and nicely ironed handkerchiefs, before turning his attention to the wardrobe. The clothes inside were hanging neatly – trousers at one side, shirts at the other – suggesting that Ian Evans had been a meticulous man. Wesley thrust his hand into the pocket of a linen jacket dangling from a wooden hanger and his fingers came into contact with a mobile phone, which explained something that had been puzzling him. The killer hadn’t taken his phone; it was more than likely the victim had just forgotten to take it with him. Perhaps he’d planned to return to the pub before embarking on a longer walk. Alternatively, he might have realised the signal was patchy in the area and left the phone behind; one less thing to carry.
He passed it to Gerry, who dropped it into an evidence bag. Someone would be given the job of getting in touch with all his contacts. In the meantime, they continued the search but found nothing of any note.
‘It’s as though he hardly existed, Wes.’
‘As someone observed when we found him, he travelled light. He was here to walk so he only brought the bare minimum.’
Gerry looked round. ‘Know what I’m thinking, Wes? He was collateral damage. Someone wanted Andrea Jameson dead and he got in the way: wrong place, wrong time. Unless he was meeting Andrea. There might be a connection between them we haven’t found yet.’
‘There’s no Ian on her phone, and none of her contacts live anywhere near Dorchester. I think you might be right about him being collateral damage. We know Andrea had at least one potential enemy – the Hit Man.’
‘What about Jocasta?’
‘If she was in Andrea’s car there’s a chance she witnessed the murder.’ He paused. ‘Which means she might have been eliminated as well and we haven’t found her yet. I think we should get sniffer dogs in and make a thorough search of the area.’
‘You’re right, Wes. Sod the budget.’
Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard
July 1995
In common with many men of science, Sir Matthew’s intentions were good and his sole aim would appear to be the healing of sick members of his flock. He was a pious man who believed in the power of prayer, so the idea of a praying machine would have made perfect sense. Although it is a concept we might find bizarre in modern times, pre-Reformation Devon languished in the beliefs of the Middle Ages and only a very few – who had come under the influence of what was then known as the ‘new learning’ – would have considered these beliefs superstitious.
There is mention in the parish records of ‘Sir Matthew’s workshop and the items therein’ which begs the question of what a country priest might have made in this ‘workshop’ of his. There is reference in October 1531 to a machine made of wood and iron and the records state that payment was made to a clockmaker in the city of Exeter for work of miraculous delicacy.
It is possible that those who knew the true nature of Sir Matthew’s ‘miraculous machine’ were sworn to secrecy. And later developments would suggest that certain aspects of Sir Matthew’s work needed to be hidden from inquisitive eyes.
10
After leaving the Shepherd’s Arms Wesley returned to Tradmouth Police Station, intending to go through everything he’d learned so far without the inevitable interruptions of the incident room. As Gerry had stayed in Lower Torworthy Wesley grabbed the opportunity to shut himself away in the boss’s office with his notebook and his thoughts.
Through Gerry’s glass door he could see the team outside in the main CID office, working on the Jocasta Ovorard case with new urgency. Earlier Wesley had asked Rob Carter whether he’d made any progress with the attack on Belinda Crillow but Rob had answered in the negative: Ms Crillow hadn’t been able to identify her attacker so it was hard to know where to begin. The only clue, if you could call it that, was that she thought the attack was linked to the break-in at her last address eighteen months ago; and nobody had been caught for that particular crime. It had been one of Wesley’s failures.
A couple of hours passed before Wesley received a call to say that nothing out of the ordinary had been found on Ian Evans’s phone; just calls from family, colleagues and friends from his walking club. Also someone had called at Kyle Ball’s Plymouth flat but there’d been nobody at home and, according to the neighbours, Ball hadn’t been seen for a few days. Another visit had been paid to Jason Fitch’s address but again there’d been no answer.
The delays were frustrating but Wesley decided to use the time productively by following another lead. Andrea Jameson hadn’t turned up at Princebury Hall and neither had Jason Fitch but Wesley reckoned he might learn something from visiting the place himself. Besides, Della was there so there was a chance she might be able to supply some inside information – although he wasn’t getting his hopes up.
He was clarifying things in his mind when Gerry’s phone rang. When he answered he heard the voice of Jeremy Ovorard MP.
‘I need to speak to you,’ he heard Ovorard say. ‘I’ve just finished a constituency meeting so I can be with you in twenty minutes.’
Wesley experienced a sudden surge of panic. He had no reassuring news for the man and the possibility that Jocasta had been murdered like the others was weighing on his mind. But at least this impromptu meeting might allow him to gain some further insight into the missing girl’s life. Last time he and Ovorard had met they’d both been focused on the TV appeal and there were questions he hadn’t had a chance to ask.
When Ovorard arrived he took him into one of the interview rooms; the one reserved for witnesses and vulnerable victims. It was comfortable, with tea-making facilities and soft furnishings, unlike the spartan interview rooms used for questioning suspects.
Ovorard’s former confidence seemed to have vanished. He was fidgeting nervously with his shirt cuffs and for the first time Wesley found himself warming to him.
‘I take it there’s no news?’ he said after refusing Wesley’s offer of tea.
‘We’re doing our very best, Mr Ovorard. Every police force in the country is on the lookout for her and there have been sightings. I assure you every one is being followed up.’
‘But you’ve made no real progress?’
‘There’s been a promising sighting on Dartmoor.’ Wesley thought it best not to mention the link with Andrea Jameson. There was no point worrying him before they knew anything for sure.
‘Dartmoor?’ Ovorard’s voice squeaked with surprise. ‘That couldn’t be Jocasta. The countryside “freaks her out”, as she puts it. Has the Met been alerted?’
‘They’ve been notified, of course. You think she might be in London?’
‘It’s possible.’ Ovorard’s reply was guarded.
This was the first mention of the capital and Wesley wondered whether the girl’s father knew something he was reluctant to share with them. ‘Does Jocasta have friends in London?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. When she wasn’t at school she always stayed in Morbay with her mother while I was in Westminster. I have a small pied-à-terre near Parliament but it’s hardly suitable for a family.’
‘I presume you’ve checked she isn’t there?’ If her father had a place in the capital, he thought, it was surely possible that Jocasta had gone there to sample the bright lights for a change. Perhaps the girl seen in Lower Torworthy hadn’t been her after all.
