by Kate Ellis
‘What happened?’
‘The father refused to pay because the party hadn’t gone ahead and Andrea had to point out to him that it didn’t work like that. After our solicitors became involved he paid up eventually but there was some bad feeling.’
‘Anything else?’
She hesitated as though she was making a decision. Wesley waited expectantly and eventually his patience was rewarded. ‘There was an… incident last year. A French millionaire asked us to arrange a party on his yacht and a young student on the catering staff was… assaulted by one of his guests.’
‘You mean she was raped?’ Gerry said bluntly.
Emily bowed her head and gave an almost imperceptible nod.
‘I don’t remember the case. Was it here in Tradmouth?’
‘The yacht was moored here at the time, yes. The girl was paid off by the owner of the yacht and she never made a formal complaint.’
‘She should have come forward,’ said Wesley, trying to hide his anger at someone being able to get away with wrecking a young woman’s life just because he had money.
‘Of course she should,’ Gerry chipped in. ‘We might have been able to make an arrest.’
‘The yacht had sailed off to God knows where before she plucked up the courage to tell her parents. Then they blamed us because we oversaw the event and, however much Andrea tried to convince them she had no control over the behaviour of her clients’ guests, they kept threatening to sue. They didn’t, of course.’
‘Your solicitor again?’
‘There was no need to involve him on that occasion. Once the parents had calmed down, they saw they didn’t have a legal leg to stand on, or even a moral one. What happened was hardly Andrea’s fault. They were just looking for someone to blame.’
‘If you could let us have the details of these two cases…’ Wesley said, his voice cold. He waited while she tapped into her computer and a couple of sheets of paper slid from the printer beside her desk.
‘What do you know about Ms Jameson’s private life?’ Wesley asked as she handed him the printouts.
‘I know she was seeing someone.’
‘Jason Fitch?’
‘I believe his name’s Jason, yes. But I didn’t know his surname.’
‘Ever meet him?’
She shook her head.
‘She was on her way to a place on Dartmoor when she was killed.’
Emily smiled. ‘The Well-being Centre. I wouldn’t have thought all that New Age stuff would be Andrea’s cup of tea. She was a hard-headed businesswoman and she’d always been very scathing about that sort of thing.’
‘Did she say much about her plans?’
‘Not really.’
‘She was supposed to be meeting Jason Fitch there.’
‘Then that explains it. He was married so I suppose it was a place to meet up.’
‘Couldn’t they have met at her apartment?’
‘No way. His wife found out the address so Andrea always feared she’d turn up there like an avenging fury. From what Andrea told me about her she sounds like a nightmare. I really don’t know why this Jason didn’t leave her. Perhaps he was scared of her. Or her brother – apparently he has convictions for violence and he’s very close to his sister.’
‘What did Andrea say about Jason’s brother-in-law?’
‘I think she was frightened of him.’
‘Did she mention that he owned a gun?’
‘Definitely not.’ She stood in silence for a few seconds as the suggestion sank in. ‘Did he kill Andrea?’
‘We haven’t ruled anything out at the moment. Is there anything else you can tell us?’
Emily shook her head and as Wesley prepared to take his leave he glanced at the printouts in his hand. The name of the family whose daughter had been attacked wasn’t familiar but his heart beat faster when he saw the name on the other sheet. Andrea Jameson had argued with the father of an awkward teenage girl who had insisted that the birthday party he’d arranged for her was cancelled at short notice. And that father’s name was Jeremy Ovorard.
Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard
July 1995
With the all-too-familiar enthusiasm of a scientist so excited by his creation that he pays no heed to its potential dangers, Sir Matthew embarked upon what appears to be a programme of healing which involved taking his little monk ‘unto divers sick and dying and setting him to pray’.
There is no record of the efficacy of his efforts, apart from a few scribbles in the parish records against a list of sick parishioners that say ‘healed by the intercession of my monk’.
Contemporary sources suggest that word of Sir Matthew’s miraculous monk spread rapidly beyond the village to the surrounding district and eventually the news reached Oswald DeTorham, lord of the manor of Lower Torworthy, patron of the church and owner of the fine manor house which stood half a mile outside the village, setting in motion a series of disturbing events that ultimately led to murder.
15
Neil Watson had gone straight from the university lab to a meeting with developers about a planned rescue dig in the centre of Plymouth. The meeting had gone on longer than expected so when he reached Lower Torworthy he parked outside the Shepherd’s Arms and hurried to the church, hoping his volunteers had used their initiative and started without him.
He slowed his pace as he passed the church hall, hoping to see Wesley. But he was out of luck. Then he heard someone calling his name and when he turned he saw Charlie Perks with a metal detector slung over his shoulder like a rifle.
‘Charlie. Good to see you,’ Neil said, glancing at his watch. ‘Have you been in touch with the police?’
Charlie Perks nodded earnestly. ‘I’ve been helping out their Forensics team,’ he said with a hint of pride.
‘Helping the police with their inquiries.’
Charlie’s face remained solemn, as though he hadn’t caught on to Neil’s feeble joke. ‘You could say that, I suppose.’
‘Any success?’
‘Oh yes. I located their bullets for them. They would have had a hard job finding them without this little beauty.’ He gave Neil a distant smile and touched his machine lovingly, like a mother with a precious baby. Neil had encountered a lot of people like Charlie in his line of work; obsessives who were more at home with artefacts and technology than they were with people.
‘I hope you didn’t mind me giving the police your name. Only the inspector working on the case is a friend of mine and I thought…’
‘Not at all. I was glad to help,’ Charlie replied. ‘I’ve always been interested in forensics and all that.’ He hesitated. ‘A big house used to stand in that field in the olden days and I reckon the foundations are still there. And there’s that bit of old wall.’
‘I know. I’ve been thinking it might be a suitable site for a training excavation. I’ll look into it when the police have packed up. Might need your services again.’ Neil made a show of checking his watch. ‘Sorry, Charlie, better go. I’ll be in touch.’
Neil left, knowing that if he hadn’t been firm with Charlie he might have become embroiled in a long and probably tedious conversation.
As he neared the church he could see the contractors who’d found the lead box sitting on the churchyard wall drinking tea and sharing jokes while their mini digger lay idle. Neil wondered whether there was anything else of interest in the trench they’d dug. He strode over to them and introduced himself but they assured him nothing else had turned up, although he wasn’t sure whether to believe them. He had a fear that they might have pocketed some rich artefact for themselves or discarded something of historical significance because they didn’t want any further delay to their work. Not everyone was as honest as Charlie Perks. However, he could hardly stand there and call them liars so he walked off up the church path.
Suddenly the roar of an engine shattered the peace of the afternoon as a motorbike tore out of the small church car park, its lea
ther-clad rider hunched over the handlebars. Neil was sure the bike belonged to the man who’d introduced himself as the curate but he continued inside where he found his little team working away armed with clipboards, torches and cameras.
For a while he watched them shining their torches at oblique angles to make any shallow carvings on the stone walls stand out so they could be photographed and recorded.
Relieved to see them engrossed in their tasks, he headed for the vestry at the far end of the church and gave a token knock on the door.
Oliver Grayling was sitting at his desk and when he turned his head Neil saw that his eyes were bloodshot as though he’d been crying.
It was Friday. A week since, according to the available evidence, Andrea Jameson and Ian Evans had met their deaths; Wesley felt frustrated that every lead they’d followed so far had met a dead end or a delay.
Pam was working that day so Wesley had risen early to make breakfast for the family. As his daughter, Amelia, chatted away at the breakfast table the house phone rang and Pam answered with a weary ‘hello’ before replacing the receiver, a look of disgust on her face.
‘Is it Mr Nobody again, Mum?’ Amelia said.
‘Yes. I wish he’d go away.’
Wesley put down his toast.
‘What do you mean?’
‘All yesterday the phone kept ringing but there was nobody there when I answered.’ She sounded exasperated as she sat down at the table. ‘Number withheld.’
‘I answered it a couple of times,’ said Michael, who was shovelling cereal into his mouth.
‘Put the phone down or unplug it. They’ll soon get fed up,’ said Wesley, kissing the top of his wife’s head. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go.’ He ruffled Michael’s hair and gave Amelia a hug before heading to the car. Normally he got his daily dose of exercise by walking down the steep hill to the police station in Tradmouth but today he had to drive out to Lower Torworthy. At least the time spent in the car gave him the opportunity to go over the case in his mind.
He arrived in the incident room before Gerry to find the team hard at work tapping information into computers and making calls. Once at his desk he made a list of everything he needed to do. Someone needed to talk to Ian Evans’s colleagues at the Dorchester solicitors and he wanted to ask Jeremy Ovorard about his dispute with Andrea. Speaking to Mrs Ovorard was also high on his list. Then there was the family of the girl who’d been attacked aboard the yacht; the family who’d blamed Andrea Jameson for their daughter’s ordeal. Kyle Ball still hadn’t been found and his brother-in-law, their main suspect Jason Fitch, had vanished, possibly to his second home in Littlebury. They needed the address and he hoped it wouldn’t be long before they found it.
‘Has that address in Littlebury been traced yet?’ he asked Trish Walton, who was sorting through witness statements.
‘Not yet. I think our best bet is to go there and ask around. It’s not a big place.’
‘Fancy the job?’
Trish nodded eagerly as though this was what she’d been after all along – a chance to get out of the incident room and spend a few hours at the seaside in the weak September sun.
At that moment Gerry came in and as he took off his jacket Wesley handed him the list he’d made.
‘What’s this, Wes?’
‘Lines of inquiry I want to follow up. We need to speak to Jeremy Ovorard again – and his wife. She’s worrying me, Gerry.’
‘Why?’
‘Just a feeling.’ In his opinion the missing girl’s mother’s continued absence from the investigation was odd. ‘And the family of the girl who was assaulted aboard the yacht blamed Andrea Jameson for what happened so we’ll need to speak to them as well. I’m sending Trish over to Littlebury to chat up the locals and see if she can locate Jason Fitch’s holiday home.’
‘Good idea. Anything else?’
‘I’d like someone to have a word with Ian Evans’s work colleagues – just in case.’
‘Fair enough. Mind you, Evans didn’t seem the type who’d make enemies. Whereas Andrea… Sounds like a lot of people had it in for her.’
Gerry called for attention and the room fell silent.
‘The latest from the CSIs is that the missing bullets have been found with the help of a local metal detectorist,’ he began. ‘Which means we now know for certain that Andrea Jameson died in the lay-by near the gate leading to the field and her body was moved later. It looks as if she got out of her car, either to enjoy the view or to wait for someone. That was why she left her handbag inside the car – she never expected it to be out of her sight. Ian Evans died around fifty yards away, not far from where he was found. There’s no way of telling who died first but my guess is that she was shot and he happened to be walking through the field and witnessed the whole thing. He was shot in the back so maybe he was running away – or trying to hide behind that old wall.’
‘It was important to the killer that they weren’t found immediately?’ Rachel said.
‘He needed time to get away,’ Trish said as though this was obvious.
‘Trish is right,’ said Wesley. ‘It’s not a busy road by any means but the next person who passed that way would be bound to see Andrea’s body lying there. Whereas a parked car…’
‘Nobody would take much notice.’ Gerry finished Wesley’s sentence for him.
‘Tell you what,’ Gerry said to Wesley as he returned to his desk. ‘While Trish is doing her bit over in Littlebury why don’t we pay Jeremy Ovorard a visit? We can mention his row with Andrea Jameson and see how he reacts.’
Wesley agreed but something else was nagging away at the back of his mind, something about an accident in the field in the 1990s near where Ian Evans was found. He’d been too preoccupied to follow it up but now he wanted to know more.
16
There was no sign of Oliver Grayling when Neil entered the church. Instead two flower arrangers were on duty, preparing for the weekend services. The women, one elderly and one considerably younger, looked up from their lilies and carnations and greeted him with a nod.
‘Is Oliver about?’ he asked.
The younger woman put down her secateurs. ‘He’ll be at the vicarage. Do you know where it is?’
Neil said yes and thanked them. He’d visited the vicarage to arrange the graffiti survey and he’d been given tea which, he supposed, was traditional.
Lower Torworthy’s new vicarage stood in a cul- de-sac a hundred yards from the church. Unlike its roomy and beautifully proportioned Georgian predecessor – now home to a couple from London who’d given up the world of international banking for the Devon good life – it was a small modern detached house complete with double glazing, pebble-dashed walls and all the character of a cardboard box. Neil supposed that spiritual men weren’t meant to bother about their accommodation.
Grayling looked wary as he opened the front door but when he saw Neil standing there he put on a smile and invited him in. Neil was offered a drink but when it arrived he wished he hadn’t accepted, as the coffee was powdery and the milk slightly off. Nevertheless he sipped it out of politeness as Grayling asked how the survey was going and when they’d be finished. Neil was non-committal: the work was being done by volunteers from the local Archaeology Society so it depended on their availability, he explained apologetically, hoping they hadn’t already overstayed their welcome.
‘I’ve heard that someone from the university did some research on the history of the village – this would be in the nineties.’
