by Kate Ellis
The woman who stood facing them was, like her house, small and neat.
‘You’re the officers from Devon?’ she said anxiously, as though she was afraid they’d turn out to be imposters.
‘That’s right,’ said Wesley as they showed her their IDs.
They followed her into a small front lounge where the dark, busy wallpaper gave the room a claustrophobic feeling. Wesley’s attention was drawn to three graduation photographs, hanging side by side above the fireplace: two boys and a girl, all smiling proudly and each wielding a scroll like a sceptre. Wesley recognised the young man in the middle photograph as Ian, minus his beard. There was an elaborate bouquet of lilies and white roses on a side table and more flowers on the mantelpiece.
After the initial pleasantries had been exchanged, Wesley asked to see Ian’s room and Mrs Evans led them upstairs without a word.
‘We’d like to have a look around if we may,’ Rachel said gently. ‘You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ the woman said before leaving the room.
They both knew the routine. They were looking for anything that would tell them more about Ian Evans’s life.
‘He liked walking,’ said Rachel after a while. ‘He was a member of the local ramblers’ group and there’s a lot of walking magazines. And birdwatching. There was a pair of binoculars in his rucksack, wasn’t there?’
Wesley nodded. He was searching the wardrobe and everything he found confirmed Rachel’s verdict. Clothes suitable for the outdoors hung beside office wear: smart jackets, black trousers, shirts and ties. Two lives: one to make a living and one to make that living worthwhile.
There was nothing in Ian’s room to suggest anything other than dull respectability. They found a page cut neatly from the travel section of a Sunday newspaper dated a couple of weeks ago, featuring places to stay on Dartmoor. One of those mentioned was Princebury Hall and below a photograph of the building there was a short piece about Xander Southwark – the bad lad who turned his life around and now helped others to do the same. It seemed that he was using his dubious past as his unique selling point. The Shepherd’s Arms also featured on the page, described as a suitable pub for walkers; Ian had underlined the phone number twice.
They found no pornographic material on his laptop and all his emails seemed to be from his fellow nature enthusiasts, which suggested that Ian Evans was a middle-aged man who lived with his mother and led an apparently blameless life. The more Wesley discovered about him, the more convinced he was that Andrea Jameson had been the killer’s target and it had been Ian’s misfortune to witness her murder. The post-mortem hadn’t been able to establish which victim had died first but at that moment Wesley would have put money on it having been Andrea.
‘We’ll get his computer examined properly,’ said Wesley with a sigh. ‘But I can’t see anything remotely suspicious.’ He walked around the room, testing the floorboards to see if a loose one might conceal a hiding place. But there was nothing.
‘Ian was very keen on walking,’ said Wesley once they were sitting in Mrs Evans’s front room sipping tea.
‘It was his passion – that and nature. He’s been like that since he was a little boy.’
‘What did he say about his latest trip?’
‘He’d been wanting to go walking on Dartmoor for a while so when things were quiet at work…’
‘Did he say why he chose that particular place?’
Mrs Evans shook her head. ‘No, but he said he’d found a nice place to stay.’
‘He didn’t say he was going to meet anyone or… ?’
‘No.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But he was very quiet before he left. I thought he’d been working too hard. He’s very conscientious, you know.’
Wesley flinched inwardly at her use of the present tense.
‘Did he ever mention the name Andrea Jameson?’
‘Is that the woman… ?’
Wesley nodded.
‘He never mentioned an Andrea. I would have remembered.’
‘Did he have girlfriends?’ Rachel asked. The question was gentle, almost tentative, as though she feared causing pain.
‘He’s had a couple. There was a nice girl from church I was hoping he’d… but…’
‘Where did Ian work?’ Wesley asked.
‘At Rowberry, Rowberry and Barrow, the solicitors in the middle of town. He dealt with conveyancing. He’s always been a bright boy,’ she added proudly.
‘Has he always lived at home?’
‘No, when he finished at university he worked in Exeter for a while but he wasn’t keen on the job. I don’t think he liked the people he was working with and there was some trouble so he left and took another job in Honiton. Then when his father died he came back home and began working for Rowberry, Rowberry and Barrow. It’s a very nice firm and he gets on with everybody. He’s very well liked.’ She pointed to the bouquet Wesley had noticed before. ‘They sent me those. Isn’t that kind of them?’
‘They’re beautiful,’ said Rachel.
By the time they’d finished their tea Wesley was satisfied they’d learned everything they could. Since Pam’s illness he’d become more sensitive to the grief and worries of others and he knew he’d stay longer if the bereaved mother needed to talk. However, she was expecting her daughter to arrive in half an hour so she’d have company. The daughter was going to move in with her for a while and her other son lived nearby with his family; she wouldn’t be alone.
‘Do you want to talk to his colleagues or shall we leave that to the local force?’ Rachel asked as they left.
Wesley looked at his watch and considered her question. ‘We’ll send one of our team over to have a word.’ He paused. ‘Although I’m finding it hard to believe that Ian was the killer’s target, aren’t you?’
‘It’s beginning to look that way. So we concentrate on Andrea Jameson?’
‘Hopefully by the time we get back to the incident room they’ll have tracked down Jason Fitch and Kyle Ball,’ he said. ‘Then there’s Andrea’s link to Jocasta Ovorard.’
Rachel’s face darkened. ‘Think we’ll find her dead?’
There was a long silence before Wesley replied, almost in a whisper as if he didn’t want to tempt fate.
‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’
Belinda Crillow had tried Wesley Peterson’s number but he hadn’t answered.
But now he couldn’t ignore what had happened. As she looked at herself in the mirror she saw a thousand jagged images of herself in the broken glass. And the bright redness of her blood.
14
On his return to the incident room in Lower Torworthy Wesley found Gerry pacing up and down, his eyes alight with excitement.
‘Jeremy Ovorard provided an old toothbrush of Jocasta’s so we could get her DNA,’ said Gerry, catching hold of Wesley’s elbow and leading him towards his desk.
‘We’ve got a result?’
‘Her DNA was found around the front passenger seat in Andrea Jameson’s car.’
‘Anything to suggest Ian Evans was in the car too?’
‘Absolutely nothing, which suggests they either met up at the murder site – possibly by arrangement – or they were complete strangers.’
‘I’m beginning to favour the last theory, Gerry. I think Evans was just unlucky. Wrong time, wrong place.’
‘I’ve got the keys to Andrea’s apartment. It’s already been searched but I think it’s time we had a look for ourselves, don’t you?’
‘What about speaking to Jocasta’s mum?’
‘Jeremy Ovorard told us to stay away.’ Gerry winked. ‘But we don’t always do as we’re told, do we – even by a man who’s tipped to be Home Secretary one day. Let’s give it another day and if the lass still hasn’t turned up…’
Wesley was glad to return to Tradmouth, which seemed positively cosmopolitan compared to Lower Torworthy. Nobody took much notice of the colour of his skin in Tradmouth and the othe
r towns along the coast but he’d received some curious looks up in Lower Torworthy and that made him uncomfortable.
Before heading for Andrea Jameson’s apartment by the marina they called in at the station to see whether anything new had come in on Jocasta’s disappearance. But the flood of interest triggered by Wesley’s TV appeal had dwindled to a trickle and his pessimistic feeling that Jocasta was lying dead and undiscovered somewhere on Dartmoor was growing stronger by the minute.
Rob Carter was entering the CID office just as he was leaving.
‘Heard anything from Belinda Crillow?’ Wesley asked.
‘She’s called asking for you a few times – won’t speak to me.’
Wesley heard a note of relief in Rob’s voice. Maybe it had been a mistake to pass Ms Crillow over to someone relatively inexperienced. On the other hand help had been offered and if she wouldn’t take it that was her problem. He had more pressing things to deal with at that moment.
It was only a short walk to Andrea’s apartment, part of a complex which included a four-star hotel with a spa. Like the others in the small block apartment four overlooked the river.
When Wesley and Gerry climbed the thickly carpeted staircase and let themselves into the flat they found themselves in a luxurious living room, sparsely but expensively furnished in pale hues. Wesley couldn’t help wondering what it would look like if some sticky-fingered young children and a muddy dog were unleashed in there for an hour or so.
There was a magnificent view of the river from the massive set of glass doors that could be folded back to access a wide balcony outside. As Wesley opened them the heavy silence was replaced by the chug of boat engines and the clinking of halyards against metal masts. He stood on the balcony watching the yachts on the river, their sails catching the sunlight. A pleasure boat steamed past. Thanks to the kind weather, its top deck was filled with tourists armed with cameras. Some waved as they passed and he waved back.
‘How much do you reckon a place like this would go for?’ Gerry asked. ‘A million?’
Wesley turned to look at him, curious. It wasn’t like the DCI to speculate on house prices.
‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ Wesley answered.
‘Party planning must pay well. We’re in the wrong job, Wes.’
‘Her finances are being looked into so we’ll soon know if she was involved in anything dodgy.’ Wesley always found it hard to believe that people accumulated wealth by honest means; he put it down to a career spent dealing with villains. ‘When they searched this place they took her computer away but they’re taking their time getting back to us.’
Gerry didn’t answer. He was circling the room, opening cupboards and drawers with a disappointed expression on his face. Wesley stepped back inside, locking the balcony door behind him, and made for the bedroom where he conducted a quick search. Every garment inside the wardrobe bore a designer label and he couldn’t help thinking of the other victim’s clothes. Everything Ian Evans wore had been from chain stores or outdoor shops and he was struck once more by how little the two victims had in common. The only link between them appeared to be their deaths.
He heard Gerry sigh. ‘Don’t think we’re going to learn much here, Wes,’ he shouted through from the next room.
‘Why don’t we go and have a word with her work colleagues,’ said Wesley.
Gerry agreed and as they left the apartment Wesley felt that their journey hadn’t been entirely wasted. He was getting a better picture of Andrea Jameson’s life, and once he talked to the people who knew her he hoped he’d have more idea of why she died.
Andrea’s company had an office in the centre of Tradmouth on the ground floor of a converted sail loft opposite the town’s main car park, a stone’s throw from the police station.
‘Rachel was talking to Dan Noakes, the farmer who found the bodies,’ Wesley said as they walked down the esplanade towards their destination. ‘He told her someone else had died in that field in the nineteen nineties. A student fell and hit his head on the wall near where Ian Evans was lying.’
‘Coincidence?’
‘Probably… but I might look it up when we get back.’
‘If it makes you happy,’ said Gerry. ‘This must be the place.’
They’d reached the offices of AJ Celebrations and Wesley pressed the intercom key to announce their arrival.
‘Looks posh.’ Gerry grinned. ‘They probably have a “no riff-raff” rule.’
The smiling young woman who greeted them in the reception area was dressed entirely in black and had the over-perfect look of a lifelike female robot Wesley had once seen in a film. When they showed their ID the smile vanished suddenly, to be replaced by a solemn expression that, somehow, looked as false as the smile.
As she led them through an outer office staffed by equally slender and attractive young women, all clad in black, Wesley noted his surroundings. No expense had been spared on the conversion of the ancient sail loft into an ultra-modern office space, remarkably similar in style to Andrea’s apartment. He looked round at the faces of the workers, who appeared to be engrossed in their tasks; like a crew who’d just lost their captain but were determined to pull together in order to get the ship back to port safely.
‘We’re all devastated, of course,’ said the woman who introduced herself as Emily Boase, Andrea’s second-in-command. ‘It came as such a dreadful shock. Andrea was so… amazing. She built this company up from nothing and now we’ve got more work than we can handle.’
‘You’re keeping going?’
‘It’s what Andrea would have wanted.’ She pointed to her desk. ‘Next week we’ve got a wedding in Millicombe and a sixtieth birthday party. The week after we’ve got another wedding near Neston and —’
‘I take it your customers aren’t short of a bob or two,’ said Gerry.
The young woman looked at him with undisguised curiosity and Wesley guessed Gerry wasn’t the kind of person who usually graced the premises. ‘We cater for the more discerning client, yes. We have TV stars, media people, top London bankers and lawyers.’
‘Aristocracy?’ Gerry asked.
Emily smiled sympathetically. ‘They can’t usually afford our services, I’m afraid. Too busy mending leaking roofs in their ancestral homes.’
‘Tell us about Andrea,’ Wesley said before they became sidetracked by tales of wealth and stardom.
‘Like I said, she was amazing. Some clients can be awkward, believe me, but she always managed to smooth things over.’
‘Are you thinking of any awkward clients in particular? Had she fallen out with anybody?’
‘Not recently, no.’
Wesley and Gerry exchanged a glance. ‘But in the past?’
‘There was someone…’ she said slowly.
‘Who?’
‘It was a sixteenth birthday party for a family in Morbay. It was cancelled at the last moment because the birthday girl was having a teenage tantrum but Andrea sent a bill for all the preparation we’d done. We’d gone to a good deal of expense and the caterers needed paying for the food they’d bought and the marquee firm had to be paid.’
