by Kate Ellis
The MP’s face reddened. ‘Er… someone’s already checked. She’s definitely not there.’
Wesley nodded. It would have been a happy solution to the case but it wasn’t to be.
‘What about Jocasta’s boarding school? Did she have any friends there?’
‘I doubt it. She described the other girls as “sad” and I don’t think she meant they were unhappy.’
‘Has Jocasta ever mentioned a place called Lower Torworthy?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What kind of girl is she?’ he asked gently.
Ovorard didn’t answer for a while and Wesley couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was something he wasn’t sharing with the police. Then he broke the silence. ‘She led her own life.’
It seemed a sad thing for a father to say about a daughter. ‘So you aren’t close?’
‘Not particularly. I’m away a lot.’
‘She must be closer to her mother?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I really would like to speak to your wife. Or maybe she’d prefer to talk to a woman officer…’
The man’s expression suddenly hardened and he pressed his lips together in a stubborn line. ‘As I said before, she’s too upset to speak to anybody.’
‘Are you absolutely sure your daughter doesn’t have a boyfriend?’
‘I’ve already told you. No.’
‘Teenagers have secrets from their parents. It’s all part of growing up. But if those secrets are dangerous you have to worry. Is there any chance Jocasta’s become involved in something she’d rather you didn’t know about?’
When Jeremy Ovorard got up and walked out Wesley knew he’d touched a nerve.
Neil had spent the afternoon putting the finishing touches to the site report for the large rescue excavation in Exeter he’d headed earlier in the year. The medieval graffiti survey in Lower Torworthy church was ongoing.
St Bartholomew’s was rich in carvings made by parishioners over the centuries, especially in times of trouble. Some reckoned these protective symbols to ward off evil represented foolish superstition but Neil suspected they’d fulfilled a deep need in rural people of the past, who’d had no control over nature or their own destiny in the often harsh Dartmoor landscape.
But it was the mystery of the little wooden automaton that was at the forefront of his mind. He’d been in touch with Annabel, who worked in the archives in Exeter and usually knew where to lay her hands on any historical documents he needed in the course of his work. Annabel hung round with the county’s hunting and shooting set. She was way out of his league socially but their professional relationship had always been mildly flirtatious so he felt obliged to switch on the charm whenever he called her – not an easy thing for a man most at home squatting in a muddy trench.
Annabel had promised to search for any fifteenth- or sixteenth-century records that mentioned Lower Torworthy but she hadn’t been particularly optimistic. So much precious medieval stuff had been destroyed by the Luftwaffe during the Baedeker raids, she’d told him sadly.
He returned to his Exeter flat feeling restless and mildly depressed. Since Lucy Zinara had left in the spring to take charge of a dig in archaeology-rich Orkney, he’d lived there alone and, although he’d never admitted it to anyone, including Lucy herself, he found himself longing for her return. Archaeology isn’t a solitary occupation and all was well during the day while he was working. But when he returned to his empty flat the loneliness hit him. In his younger years the camaraderie of the dig had been all he needed but now he looked on his friend Wesley Peterson with something approaching envy. Wesley had a wife and two growing children and Neil was starting to wonder whether he’d missed out, something that wouldn’t have occurred to him just a year ago.
After he’d eaten his ready meal on his knee in front of the TV he eyed his phone, tempted to call Lucy, just to hear her voice, but something made him hold back. The last thing he wanted was to make her feel pressured.
Then to his surprise his phone began to ring and he saw Wesley’s name on the caller display.
‘Hi, Wes. How’s it going? Found your missing girl yet?’ He suddenly realised his friend was investigating the disappearance of somebody’s child and his cheerful enquiry probably sounded insensitive.
But Wesley hadn’t seemed to notice. ‘Still ongoing, I’m afraid.’
‘I saw you making that TV appeal. Fine performance.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ve been working in Lower Torworthy and I saw all the police activity. Double murder they said on the news. One of yours?’
‘Afraid so. Two people were shot in a field outside the village.’
‘So I heard. That particular field features in the Historic Environment Record, you know – site of an old manor house. But I don’t suppose that has anything to do with your case.’
‘Probably not.’ There was regret in Wesley’s voice. Neil knew that archaeology still interested him, although these days he didn’t have time for it.
‘We’ve set up an incident room in the church hall,’ Wesley continued.
‘I saw all the activity. I looked out for you but there was no sign.’ Neil paused. ‘I haven’t seen you since that strange dig at Newfield Manor.’
‘Sorry I haven’t been in touch but I haven’t had a moment. Look, Neil, I need a favour.’
‘Name it.’
‘Can you put me in touch with a local metal detectorist? Someone absolutely reliable. Our CSIs reckon it’d speed up their search of the crime scene.’
‘There’s a bloke called Charlie Perks who lives about a mile from Lower Torworthy. He’s helped us out on a lot of digs in the Dartmoor area. His equipment’s state-of-the-art and he’s completely reliable. Always hands anything of interest to the local finds liaison officer.’
‘Honest then.’
‘Absolutely. I’d give you his number, only I often have trouble getting hold of him. He hasn’t got a landline and his mobile signal is temperamental to say the least so it’s probably best if I ask him to call you.’ He walked across the room and took his contacts book from the pocket of his favourite digging garment – an ancient, many-pocketed combat jacket hanging in his tiny hallway. ‘I’ve got his address and I can call in tomorrow morning. Unless you want to…’
‘No, the request’s probably better coming from you. Thanks. I owe you one.’
‘I haven’t told you about my latest find yet.’
‘What is it?’
Neil knew he’d aroused his friend’s interest.
‘A workman from the Water Board, or whatever they call it now, found a lead box in a trench they were digging just outside the wall of the churchyard and he thought it might be a burial.’
‘Was it?’
‘Not exactly. I’d expected to find a child’s body and I had Margaret and the team lined up to deal with it in the lab. But when the box was opened we found a wooden figure. At first we presumed it was the statue of some saint, buried during the Reformation. Then the side fell off and we saw a mechanism inside. It looks like some sort of early automaton. We’re consulting the Mechanical Engineering Department at the university.’
‘Amazing.’ Wesley sounded impressed. ‘When I’ve got a moment, I’d love to see it.’
‘Any time.’
‘Thanks. Sorry, Neil, I’ve got to go.’
Afterwards Neil stared at the phone for a few seconds. Wesley had sounded harassed and he realised he hadn’t asked after Pam. Her diagnosis in the spring had cast a shadow over their friendship as the unwelcome glimpse of darkness intruded into Wesley’s life. Neil had known Pam since their student days – they’d once gone out together before she chose Wesley – so her illness had shocked him too.
He was clearing away his dirty plate when he heard the scraping of a key in his lock. He watched as the door opened slowly. Then he smiled.
11
As soon as his interview with Jeremy Ovorard was over Wesley returned to Lower
Torworthy to report back to Gerry. It was 6.30 already and he knew it would be a late night.
‘Ovorard became a bit touchy when I asked whether Jocasta had a boyfriend and he still doesn’t want us to talk to her mother.’
Gerry leaned forward. ‘Suspicious?’
‘Probably just being protective. Even so, I’d like to speak to Mrs Ovorard sooner rather than later.’ Wesley examined the sheet of paper he’d scribbled notes on; things he needed to remember. ‘I’m arranging for a local metal detectorist to help the CSIs locate the bullets. He comes highly recommended by Neil and it’ll speed things up. Neil’s fixing it up tomorrow.’
Gerry scratched his head. ‘Good idea. While you were out I heard from Dorset. Someone’s been round to Ian Evans’s address in Dorchester. He lived with his old mum so we need to pay her a visit.’
‘Before we do I’d like to visit Princebury Hall. For all we know Jason Fitch might have turned up after all.’
‘Can’t you phone to check?’
‘I’d rather go and see for myself. If Andrea Jameson and Jason Fitch have stayed there before someone might be able to tell us something about them. You can’t see people’s faces when you’re talking on the phone – can’t tell when they’re lying.’
‘One of the DCs has already been up there.’
‘I know, but it’s only a couple of miles away. Come on, Gerry, the fresh air will do you good.’
‘I take it there’s still no sign of our so-called “Hit Man”?’
‘Afraid not.’ Wesley had given the matter some thought and concluded that no bona fide hit man would be so indiscreet about the nature of his business. But, due to the calculated nature of the recent murders, the name still buzzed in the back of his mind like an annoying wasp.
Gerry gave a loud sigh and hoisted himself out of his seat. ‘Right then, Princebury Hall it is. Isn’t your mother-in-law up there at the moment?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then with any luck she’ll have some inside info for us.’
Wesley led the way out of the incident room, stopping at desks to check whether anything new had come in. But it hadn’t, and there was still no word of Jocasta Ovorard from the police station at Tradmouth.
‘Someone needs to speak to Jocasta’s classmates at her old school,’ Wesley said as they climbed into the car. ‘Her father said she had no friends there but she might have told him that for reasons of her own.’
‘Mmm,’ said Gerry. ‘They can be very secretive at that age. We’ll put it on our list. Where is the school?’
‘Near Ilfracombe.’
‘Not that far then.’
The light was starting to fade and as Wesley programmed Princebury Hall into his sat nav it struck him that the surrounding landscape – the rolling fields laced with drystone walls beneath the vast grey sky – would be desolate in winter. He wondered whether Xander Southwark still ran his courses in the unkinder months.
Half a mile outside the village they passed the murder site, cordoned off with crime-scene tape, and as Wesley drove on a thin mist started to descend, blending with the twilight and forcing him to switch on the headlights. They met no other vehicles but from time to time a small animal appeared in the beam and scurried off into the dusk.
Princebury Hall stood two miles from Lower Torworthy, meaning Andrea Jameson had almost reached her destination when she met her death. It was tucked into a hollow in the landscape, shielded from the road by trees. Wesley’s headlights picked out the new-looking sign beside a stone gate which bore the words Princebury Hall Well-being Centre.
‘I could do with some well-being,’ Gerry muttered beside him.
‘Couldn’t we all.’
Wesley continued up the drive until the Hall appeared before him. It was a large stone house with tall chimneys and a long oriel window to the left of the central doorway. Wesley, who’d always taken an interest in architectural history, could tell it dated from the sixteenth century and that it had been a high-status home in times gone by.
Figures in tracksuits milled in and out of the well-lit main door and as he brought the car to a halt a group of people – all young, slim and dressed in dark-blue polo shirts bearing the Hall’s embroidered logo – watched his arrival with curiosity.
‘I’ll have to be careful or they’ll put me on carrot juice,’ said Gerry in a loud whisper.
‘Might not be a bad thing,’ said Wesley, glancing at his boss’s protruding stomach.
He led the way in and asked one of the polo shirts, a bearded young man whose badge announced that his name was Dylan, where he could find Xander Southwark. Dylan was gushingly helpful as he accompanied them up a wide oak staircase to an office on the first floor. The door was open and as Dylan slid away the man sitting behind the desk rose to greet them, pushing a pile of paperwork to one side. Even at this time of day when most people were looking forward to an evening of relaxation, he was on duty. At least he and the police had that in common.
Xander Southwark had a ponytail and a golden tan. When he stood Wesley noticed that he was tall and muscular with an unmistakable air of authority.
‘I’ve already spoken to your colleagues about Andrea,’ he began. ‘Terrible business.’ He bowed his head for a moment as though he was paying his respects. Then he emerged from behind his desk and closed the office door before inviting them to sit on a sofa in the corner. As he made his way to the chair opposite Wesley noticed he walked with a pronounced limp: a single flaw in the picture of health and vigour.
‘I understand Ms Jameson had arranged to meet someone here,’ Wesley began. ‘A Jason Fitch.’
‘Jason booked in at the same time as Andrea but he never arrived. He didn’t phone to cancel either, which isn’t like him at all.’
‘You know Jason Fitch?’ Wesley noted the use of first names – although perhaps it was that sort of establishment.
‘He’s visited us before, yes, although I wouldn’t say I know him well. I find it best to keep a professional distance from the souls we help here. It must be the same in your line of business.’ He smiled, showing a row of perfect teeth.
‘What can you tell us about him?’
‘He’s stayed with us a total of four times and on three other occasions he booked and had to cancel at the last minute, which often happens with busy people. I understand he has his own business.’
‘Can you tell me anything about his personal life?’
‘I can’t discuss that, I’m afraid. Our clients rely on our discretion, so unless you have a warrant I can’t help you.’ He paused as though he was making a decision. ‘But I can tell you he’s been here with Andrea twice.’
‘What about the other two occasions?’
Southwark hesitated. ‘Er… he was with another lady.’
‘We’ll need her name.’ Wesley took out his notebook.
‘Sorry, that’s confidential.’
‘This is a murder inquiry, sir,’ Wesley said, aware that the words sounded like a cliché from a TV cop show. ‘And we can be discreet too.’
Southwark considered the matter for a few seconds. ‘My assistant will provide you with Andrea’s details but I’m afraid that’s all I can give you until you obtain a warrant.’ He sounded pleased with himself, as though he was enjoying getting one over on the police.
