by Kate Ellis
Neil looked at his watch. Much as he’d like to investigate further, he had to be at Lower Torworthy.
Jason Fitch lived just outside Dukesbridge in a modern detached house on the main road into the town. The house stood apart from its neighbours and had new grey-framed windows and a small, glass-fronted balcony above the front door. Wesley guessed it had only recently been built with no expense spared and Gerry observed that Fitch’s work in IT must be considerably more lucrative than working for the police.
They parked down the road because they didn’t want to give Fitch prior warning of their visit if he was lying low indoors. But when they knocked on the door all they heard was distant birdsong, passing traffic and the faint buzz of a neighbour’s lawnmower.
‘He’s not in, Wes. Must have gone away.’
‘Like his brother-in-law.’
‘All patrols are on the lookout for our so-called Hit Man so he’s bound to be picked up before long.’ Gerry had always had an optimistic streak.
‘I’m having a look round the back,’ Wesley said, making for the side gate. Luckily it was unlocked and they found themselves in a large garden with an immaculate lawn.
‘Philandering isn’t his only hobby then,’ said Gerry.
‘Perhaps his wife’s the gardener – or they get someone in.’
Before Gerry could reply Wesley heard a voice.
‘Can I help you?’ The tone was scrupulously polite with an undercurrent of challenge.
When Wesley looked round he saw a grey head poking over the wooden fence to their right. If there’s one thing any detective likes, it’s a nosy neighbour.
When they introduced themselves the man gave a knowing smile.
‘Do you know where we can find Mr and Mrs Fitch?’
‘I saw them piling suitcases into the car on Sunday, which surprised me because they hadn’t mentioned they were going on holiday. I usually keep an eye on things for them, you see.’ He suddenly frowned, as though he feared they were there to impart tragic news. ‘Has something happened? An accident?’
‘Nothing like that. We just need to talk to them,’ said Wesley.
‘Mrs Fitch’s brother was with them on Sunday.’
‘Would that be Kyle Ball?’
‘I don’t know his name but he’s a stocky man with lots of tattoos,’ the neighbour said with disapproval. ‘I tried to speak to him once and he was quite rude.’
‘Did he go with them?’
‘No. He stayed behind for a bit then he drove off.’
‘You didn’t happen to overhear what they were saying, I suppose?’ Wesley asked. Gerry was listening carefully, awaiting the answer.
‘Not really. But I could tell Sharon – Mrs Fitch – was upset about something. Giving Jason a hard time, she was. Wouldn’t have liked to be in his shoes.’ The man raised a hand as though he’d just remembered something. ‘Of course they might have gone to the cottage in Littlebury. Jason inherited it from his grandmother and they often go there at weekends out of season when they’re not renting it out to holidaymakers.’
‘Know the address?’ Gerry asked hopefully.
The neighbour shook his head.
Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard
July 1995
Sir Matthew’s records contain a detailed account of the day-to-day work of the church. Offerings brought by his pious flock were stored under the watchful eyes of the churchwardens and later distributed amongst the needy or used for the upkeep of the church. Money was also raised at the church ales, social gatherings held in the church to celebrate holy festivals – of which there were many.
Sometimes new images of saints were made for the church. In 1528 Sir Matthew commissioned a new carved and gilded image of St Sidwell – a venerated Exeter saint – and placed it above the side altar where she soon became a focus of devotion. After this it seems that Sir Matthew, who refers to himself several times as ‘the son of a carpenter like Our Lord himself’, began to make images of his own. Eventually he started experimenting with new techniques and ideas and this culminated in the creation of his ‘little monk’.
However, there is no indication that he foresaw the trouble his innocent innovation would ultimately unleash into the village of Lower Torworthy.
13
Rachel was satisfied that their visit to Widedales School hadn’t been a waste of time. They now knew that Jocasta Ovorard didn’t get on with her parents and kept them away from her friends and she wondered whether this had something to do with her father; the man she described as a creep. But if there was anything untoward about Jeremy Ovorard surely every tabloid journalist in the land would be after him. There was always somebody out there ready to blow the whistle… eventually. Rachel thought it more likely that a teenage girl with problems was kicking out against her family, something she’d seen happen many times.
They’d also discovered that her parents’ marriage was unhappy and that her mother might or might not be involved with a younger man. According to her husband, Jocasta’s mother was too upset to talk to the police but now Rachel wondered if there was another reason for her reluctance. She knew Wesley wanted to speak to the mother – and now there might be her lover to consider – although she also knew that any approach would require tact.
The echoing acoustics in the incident room made her head throb so she retreated to the kitchen behind the stage and took a couple of paracetamols. The DCI and Wesley hadn’t yet returned from Jason Fitch’s house in Dukesbridge so she decided to get some fresh air.
She stood outside the church hall for a while watching the comings and goings at the Shepherd’s Arms opposite. Ian Evans, the shooting victim, had been staying there and she knew that Dorset police would have broken the news to his mother by now. They’d have to talk to his family in due course and she suspected that she’d be given the job. She had a reputation for being good with bereaved relatives, although facing other people’s grief was something she always dreaded.
A man wearing an old waxed jacket and cloth cap had just emerged from the front door of the pub with a border collie at his heels. He had the leathery complexion of one who spent his life out of doors and Rachel recognised him at once. He looked across at her and when she waved Dan Noakes raised a hand in acknowledgement before crossing the road to join her, the dog trotting at his heels.
‘Sergeant. Have you found who killed them yet?’
Rachel bent and patted the dog, who gazed up at her with soulful brown eyes. She loved dogs; she’d lived with them all her childhood on her parents’ farm and missed having them around now she was sharing with Trish. Of course once she was married to a farmer that would change and they’d become part of her life again. At times she wondered whether she was looking forward to that more than the actual wedding.
‘We’re following several lines of inquiry,’ she said. ‘Did you know one of the victims was staying at the Shepherd’s Arms? Did you ever see him there?’
Dan shuffled his feet. ‘I didn’t take a good look at him in that field, maid. Didn’t seem proper to stare.’ He paused. ‘You got a picture?’
Rachel had pictures of both victims in her pocket. Ian Evans’s image had been provided by his mother and sent through by Dorset police. In it Evans was wearing a suit with a carnation in the buttonhole and smiling stiffly at the camera as though he’d rather be somewhere else. She passed it to Dan, who fished in his pocket for a pair of reading glasses.
‘Aye, I’m sure I saw him in the Shepherd’s, sitting on his own in the corner with a half of bitter. He looked like a typical walker so I didn’t take much notice ’cause we get a lot around here. When I found… you know, I never put two and two together or I would have said.’
Rachel smiled. ‘I’m sure you would. Is there anything else you can tell me?’ Her headache was receding now. She stroked the dog again and as she ruffled his silky fur she was rewarded by a wag of his tail.
‘Odd,’ the farmer said.
‘What i
s?’
‘That they were found in Manor Field the same as the other one.’
‘What other one?’
‘Poor lad who fell and hit his head on that bit of old wall. It was in the papers at the time.’
‘When was this?’
‘Let me see.’ Dan’s brow furrowed in concentration as he did an impromptu calculation on his fingers. ‘’Ninety-five it was. Lot of fuss there was at the time.’
In 1995 Rachel had been a schoolgirl, already eager to join the police and make her mark. When she’d lived at home she known most of the families who farmed near her parents and the inevitable gossip about local goings-on, but Lower Torworthy had been off her patch.
‘What was the name of the man who died?’
‘Can’t rightly remember, my lover,’ he said, using the traditional Devon form of address. Rachel thought nothing of it but she knew it had amused Wesley when he’d first arrived in the area. ‘But he had something to do with the university in Exeter.’
‘A student?’
‘Maybe. Lying by the old wall he was… not far from where that walker was found. There used to be a big house in that field and that bit of wall’s all that’s left of it. In the old days they used to say the place was cursed.’
In spite of the excitement Neil hadn’t forgotten his promise to call on Charlie Perks. But as he drove out of the Exeter suburbs and on to the winding Dartmoor roads his mind was on the mystery of the strange little automaton. When word got out it would cause a sensation – and he needed to find out more about it.
He reached Lower Torworthy but instead of parking outside the Shepherd’s Arms, he carried on to Charlie Perks’s address.
He pulled up in front of a small, shabby cottage standing on a lane that meandered off the B road to Princebury Hall, although the title ‘lane’ was probably generous; it was little more than a track and Neil feared for his suspension.
The tiny front garden was better kept than the cottage, with roses still in bloom and a neatly trimmed hedge separating it from the lane. The cottage walls were salmon-pink, stained with lichen, and the front door was a dull shade of red. As with the window frames, the paint on the door had flaked off to reveal greying, half-rotten wood beneath.
There was no bell or knocker so Neil banged on the door with his fist and waited. When he heard footsteps approaching he stood back a little, examining the building. His training told him it was old and constructed of cob like many ancient Devon houses. The walls needed attention and he wondered, not for the first time, what Charlie Perks had done for a living before dedicating his life to metal detecting.
The door was opened by a small, slightly overweight man whose beard and straggly brown hair were peppered with grey. He wore a combat jacket and camouflage trousers which gave him the look of a soldier from a regiment that wasn’t too particular about discipline, fitness or appearance.
Charlie looked surprised to see Neil but not displeased. He invited him in at once and offered tea, which Neil accepted gratefully.
The cottage was spotless although the furniture belonged to another era; a time of make do and mend. It was an old person’s house with snowy antimacassars draped over the backs of the moquette armchairs and matching settee, relics of the 1950s. The patterned carpet was worn in places but clean and there was a large display of framed photographs on the sideboard showing Charlie as a baby and a schoolboy, and a much younger Charlie with a woman Neil assumed was his mother.
Charlie saw Neil looking at them. ‘Mum likes her photos.’
‘How is she?’ Neil hadn’t met her on his previous visits either and he assumed she was upstairs somewhere, completely dependent on her only son.
‘We’ll have to keep our voices down. She’s not been too well.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’ Neil couldn’t think up anything more appropriate to say.
‘I keep the house just how she likes it and I sit with her every evening.’ A fond smile came to his lips.
‘I’m sure she appreciates it.’
Charlie Perks suddenly drew in his breath and smiled, showing a set of uneven, grey teeth. Neil had never seen him smile before and found the sight slightly unsettling. ‘What did you want to see me about?’
Neil explained that Wesley wanted him to get in touch. The CSIs needed help and Neil had recommended his services.
Charlie nodded eagerly. He’d be delighted to help and he had a new machine – the latest model – which would be ideal for the job.
When Neil left the cottage he found himself wondering about Charlie’s life, stuck there in the back of beyond with his precious machines and his elderly mother, no doubt living in hope of the big discovery one day – an Anglo-Saxon hoard or Viking silver. But he hadn’t liked to pry. Some people liked their privacy.
When Wesley and Gerry returned to the incident room, Rachel rose to greet them.
‘How did you get on with Jocasta’s school friends?’ was Wesley’s first question.
‘I wouldn’t describe them as friends. She wasn’t the most popular girl in the school – thought she was too sophisticated for them.’
‘Do you think she was bullied? Girls can be very bitchy, so I’ve heard.’
‘There may have been some subtle bullying going on, although her room-mate Finola said she only had herself to blame. She sneered at the others and that never goes down well. I did learn a couple of interesting things, though. Jocasta told Finola that her father was a creep and her mother suffered with her nerves. She also said she could never take friends home although Finola reckoned she might have made it up to inject some drama into her boring existence. Then there was the suggestion that Jocasta’s mother might have a younger lover.’
‘Maybe that’s why she’s avoiding us,’ said Wesley. ‘But whatever Jeremy Ovorard says, we need to see her.’ He looked at his watch. ‘The boss has told Ian Evans’s local nick in Dorchester that I’ll go over at three to speak to his mother.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
He looked at Rachel and smiled. ‘If you’re not busy with something else.’
His phone rang and when he saw Belinda Crillow’s number on the caller display he hesitated, wondering whether to answer. Then he killed the call and returned the phone to his pocket, feeling another pang of guilt.
Rachel was unusually quiet as they drove to Dorchester, as though she was lost in her own thoughts.
‘I’ve arranged to have a look at Andrea Jameson’s apartment with Gerry when we get back,’ said Wesley, breaking the silence. ‘Someone’s already been in and made an initial search but I want to see the place for myself. You know what Gerry always says – find out how someone lived and you’re halfway to finding out why they died.’
Rachel didn’t answer.
‘Something wrong?’
She waited a few seconds before replying. ‘I’ve spoken to Dan Noakes, the farmer who owns the field where the bodies were discovered. He said there was another death there in the nineties. A man died near where Ian Evans was found – a student at your old university apparently.’
This caught Wesley’s attention. ‘He wasn’t shot, was he?’
‘No, I think it was a fall – an accident – although Dan was a bit vague about the details. He said the locals think the field’s cursed.’
Wesley didn’t comment. He’d come across a lot of rural superstitions since he’d arrived from London and he’d never taken any of them too seriously.
They’d reached the outskirts of Dorchester and it wasn’t long before Rachel pulled up in front of a small semi in a side road. Spotless net curtains hung at the double-glazed windows and there was a fine display of roses climbing up a trellis beside the freshly painted front door which opened before they had a chance to knock.
