by Kate Ellis
‘I know him better than he knows himself. And once he’s sorted things out with that mad wife of his he’ll be back here with me. You’ll see.’
She sounded confident – the brittle confidence of self-delusion.
‘What do you do for a living, Ms Whittingstill?’ Rachel asked, purely out of curiosity.
‘I’m a solicitor. I work in Neston.’
‘You don’t fancy living anywhere more… central?’ Trish asked.
‘Jason and I chose this place together. He likes the privacy,’ she said with a distant smile, as though she was imagining a future of romantic bliss.
Rachel suddenly felt sorry for Gemma Whittingstill.
‘If you know where Jason Fitch is at the moment you should tell us. The sooner we can eliminate him from our inquiries, the better.’
‘I can’t help you.’
Rachel didn’t believe her but she knew there was no point pushing it.
‘If you hear from him or have any thoughts about where he might be, please contact me.’ She handed her card to Gemma, who took it between her finger and thumb as if it were contaminated.
‘Think she’s our killer?’ she asked Trish as they drove back to the incident room.
‘I wouldn’t rule anything out just yet,’ was the reply.
As soon as Wesley and Gerry reached the incident room Gerry was whisked off to Tradmouth in a patrol car for a meeting with Noreen Fitton. He needed to bring her up to date with developments and Wesley wondered what he would tell her. There’d been developments all right – too many leads which ended nowhere.
Belinda Crillow was still on Wesley’s mind and he couldn’t banish the uncomfortable feeling that he’d fobbed off a woman who genuinely feared for her life. He tried to reassure himself that he’d had no choice but couldn’t quite manage it. He resolved to call the station later, just to make sure everything was being dealt with properly at their end.
At 5.45 Gerry returned, announcing he was hungry as he marched into the incident room. Then he spotted Wesley and took him to one side.
‘Let’s go and pay Mrs Ovorard a visit. She won’t be expecting us to turn up unannounced at teatime. I’m wondering whether she knows where Jocasta is and she’s keeping it from her husband. And I want to know why Jeremy’s so anxious to keep her out of the investigation.’
‘Probably just being protective.’ Wesley paused. ‘I’ve heard he’s a good MP – sorts out people’s problems.’
‘Even if he’s a cross between the Dalai Lama and Mother Teresa, we’ve still got a job to do.’
The September sunshine had vanished behind a layer of cloud earlier in the afternoon and there was a chill in the air as they set off for Jeremy Ovorard’s house on the far side of Morbay. To Wesley’s relief rush hour was over.
Unlike their last visit, it took some time before the door opened, just a crack as though the person inside was expecting trouble.
‘Mrs Ovorard?’ Wesley said, poking his warrant card through the gap. ‘I’m DI Peterson and this is DCI Heffernan. We’re sorry to bother you but can we have a quick word about Jocasta?’
The door opened wider and Wesley saw Tabitha Ovorard for the first time. Looking considerably younger than her husband, she had long fair hair like her daughter’s. She was dressed in tight white jeans and a white cotton shirt and Wesley’s first thought was that Pam would have considered her outfit impractical – but perhaps Mrs Ovorard had someone else to see to the housework.
‘Go through to the lounge.’ A slight lisp gave her voice a childish quality. ‘Would you like something to drink. Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’
‘No thank you. We’ll try not to keep you long,’ said Wesley, surprised that she hadn’t demanded the latest news about her daughter.
When she invited them to sit Wesley sank into the oversized sofa, feeling like a child nestling in a grown-up’s armchair. Gerry, wisely, perched on the edge of the chair opposite.
‘I take it Jocasta hasn’t contacted you, Mrs Ovorard?’
She shook her head without meeting his gaze. ‘Please, call me Tabitha. Mrs Ovorard seems so… unfriendly, doesn’t it.’
Wesley smiled. ‘Very well, Tabitha. Can you tell me when you last saw your daughter?’
‘Hasn’t Jeremy told you?’
‘We’d like to hear your version.’
She sighed. ‘It was three weeks ago. She was busy with her drama course and…’
‘She came home?’
‘No, I met her in Neston for lunch in a strange little café – a hippy place that serves vegan food. She said she was getting on fine with the course. She’d hated school, you see, and I was glad she’d found something she liked at last.’
‘You’ve heard about the woman who was shot up on Dartmoor? Andrea Jameson.’
Tabitha Ovorard began to fidget with a button on her shirt. ‘There was something on the news but I didn’t take much notice.’
‘Hasn’t your husband told you that Jocasta was seen getting out of the victim’s car?’ said Gerry.
Tabitha stared at him as though he’d yelled an obscenity. ‘You don’t think… ?’
‘She was seen walking away from the car so there’s nothing to suggest she was there when…’ said Wesley, trying to calm the mother’s fears.
Tabitha pressed her hand to her mouth as if she was trying to suppress a scream. Wesley wished Gerry’s question hadn’t been so blunt but then nobody could have realised her husband had kept this development from her.
‘I’m sorry if this has come as a shock,’ said Wesley.
Tabitha took a clean white handkerchief from the pocket of her jeans and dabbed her eyes. It was then he noticed that she hadn’t actually been crying and he wondered if the whole thing had been a show put on for their benefit.
‘Is it all right if we ask you a few more questions?’ he asked gently.
The answer was a brave nod.
‘The dead woman’s name was Andrea Jameson. I believe you and your husband had dealings with her last year.’
‘I don’t think so.’ She didn’t sound sure of herself.
‘Let me jog your memory. You’d arranged a birthday party for Jocasta using Andrea Jameson’s company. At the last minute Jocasta cried off and the whole thing had to be cancelled. Mrs Jameson presented you with a bill which your husband disputed. Do you remember now?’
She nodded. ‘Jeremy was annoyed that she was charging us so much when it hadn’t gone ahead.’
‘How annoyed?’ Gerry asked, leaning forward and looking Tabitha in the face.
She pondered the question for a while. ‘He was within his rights. She was ripping us off. People do when you’re in the public eye. They think you won’t fight back because the publicity will cause embarrassment.’
‘Did you meet Mrs Jameson?’
There was a moment of hesitation before she nodded. ‘We needed to choose the food and the marquee, that sort of thing. That’s all we talked about so I wouldn’t say I knew her and when things became… awkward, everything was done through our solicitor. We didn’t go round there and shoot her if that’s what you’re getting at.’ She pouted, like a little girl falsely accused of taking another child’s toys.
‘When did you last see Andrea Jameson?’ Wesley asked.
‘I told you, when she came here to discuss the arrangements for the party.’
‘You haven’t seen her since?’
She shook her head.
‘Has your husband seen her since that incident?’
She looked at Wesley. Her face was a mask of innocence, as though she didn’t understand the significance of his question. But he could see through the act.
‘I’m sure he would have mentioned it if he had.’ She shifted in her seat, as though she was preparing to stand up. ‘Is that all you wanted to ask me?’
‘There’s one more thing if you don’t mind,’ said Wesley. ‘A couple of our officers had a chat to the girl who shared a room with Jocasta at Widedales. She told
them she thought Jocasta had a boyfriend.’
Tabitha shook her head.
Wesley took a deep breath, knowing that he was about to broach a sensitive subject and that his question would probably be met with indignant denials. ‘Her room-mate also said that you and Jocasta don’t get on.’
He watched Tabitha and saw her body tense. If she’d been a cat she would have arched her back and bared her claws.
‘That’s ridiculous.’ She’d given the answer Wesley had expected but he pressed on.
‘So you and Jocasta are close?’
‘I’m her mother.’
‘Do you know where she is?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Are you concealing her whereabouts to get back at your husband for some reason?’
She shook her head vigorously and the curtain of blonde hair fell over her face, hiding her expression.
‘Or are you doing it to protect Jocasta? We heard your husband lost his temper with Andrea Jameson. Did he lose it with your daughter too?’
She pushed her hair back and looked up. ‘No. Nothing like that.’
‘What then?’
She looked away.
‘If you know where she is we don’t have to share the information with your husband. As long as we’re satisfied she’s safe and well that’ll be the end of the matter as far as we’re concerned.’
‘I don’t know where she is. That’s the truth.’ The words came out in a whisper.
‘I’m sorry to have to ask you this but it might be important. We’ve heard rumours that you’re having a relationship with another man. Is it true?’
She sprang up. ‘I’d like you to go now. I’m not feeling well.’
Wesley knew they wouldn’t learn anything else that day, but he also knew Tabitha Ovorard was lying about something. If only he could work out what it was.
‘I wonder if they have any staff,’ Wesley said on their way to the car.
Gerry stopped and looked back at the house. ‘Shouldn’t be hard to find out.’
20
It was Saturday morning and Neil had arranged to meet his team of volunteers at the church at 10.30. There was a wedding at 3.30 so time was limited, which disappointed those volunteers who could only make it at weekends; Sundays were out for obvious reasons.
He parked his car, unable to forget the events of the previous day and suddenly apprehensive about seeing Oliver Grayling again. He was sure that the ‘curate’ John Davies wasn’t who he claimed to be and in his imagination saw the man as a blackmailer – or a kidnapper who was holding the vicar’s nearest and dearest hostage in some long-disused Dartmoor mine. His instinct was to ask Wesley’s advice but Grayling had been adamant that he didn’t want the police involved.
Neil’s team were waiting for him in the church porch, perusing the parish notices and chatting amongst themselves. When they made their way into the church Neil noticed the flower arranger who’d directed him to the vicarage the other day was busy putting the finishing touches to a large display by the pulpit. She was around his own age, slim in jeans and sweatshirt, with bobbed sandy hair and a pretty face. When he asked her if the vicar was about, she pointed to the vestry.
After telling the others to carry on with the survey, he knocked on the vestry door. He wanted to speak to Grayling in private.
He heard a cheerful ‘Come in’ and pushed the door open. To his surprise the vicar displayed no sign of embarrassment; it was as though the previous day had never happened.
‘Are you OK?’ Neil began. ‘It’s just that after yesterday…’
‘It was a silly misunderstanding. I’d rather not talk about it.’
‘Up to you.’
There was a long silence before Neil changed the subject.
‘I saw Canon Collins yesterday.’
‘How is he?’
‘Fine. He told me a student called Alcuin Garrard found an old journal in the vestry cupboard in the nineteen nineties. I was wondering if it mentioned our mechanical figure.’
‘As far as I know the cupboard’s full of dusty old hymn books but you’re more than welcome to have a look if you wish.’
Neil thanked him and conducted a swift search of the huge cupboard, only to find that Grayling had been right about the hymn books. If Alcuin Garrard had found anything interesting in there, he’d taken it away with him and never returned it. Perhaps death had prevented him.
‘There’s just one more thing,’ Neil said when he’d finished. ‘Is it possible to get up on your roof? You often find graffiti in out-of-the-way places. I don’t like asking the volunteers so…’
‘Of course. I’ll show you the way.’
Ten minutes later Neil was stepping through a rickety door off the clock chamber near the top of the tower on to the lead roof. There was a high, crenellated parapet between him and the long drop to the ground but, even so, Oliver Grayling made his excuses and returned to the vestry. Neil looked down on to the churchyard and from his lofty position the graves looked tiny, like toys made for a child with a particularly morbid imagination, and Lower Torworthy, tucked into the green Dartmoor landscape, reminded him of a model village he’d visited as a child.
He leaned against the sloping lead watching people come and go from the Shepherd’s Arms and the village shop. He could see police cars parked outside the church hall and he wondered whether Wesley was in there – even though it was Saturday he guessed he’d still be working on his double murder.
The sun emerged from behind the clouds and he shielded his eyes. These weren’t ideal conditions to see any shallow carvings left by the villagers of days gone by but he began to edge his way carefully around the parapet, his gaze fixed on the ancient stones.
In the sunlight he managed to spot a mason’s mark, identical to one he’d seen several times inside the church, and it wasn’t long before he came across more marks; the initials of long-dead souls who’d left signs of their presence up there for posterity. He spotted what looked like the imprint of a foot carved into the stone between the lead roof and the parapet along with more protective marks; the same signs to ward off evil that he’d found inside the building. However it wasn’t until he was at the far end of the church, just above where the altar stood, that he saw an image that made his pulse race.
It had been incised deep into the stone of the parapet with a knife or compasses and Neil immediately recognised it as the little mechanical monk they’d found. It was pictured in an attitude of prayer and, although the carving was crude, he could make out its face, tilted upwards towards heaven.
Three feet away someone had carved another figure, similar in shape but twice the size of the first. This too looked like a monk but its cowl half concealed a face that was a deeply incised void. This figure, unlike the first, was covered in protection marks: crosses, daisy wheels, M for Mary; every symbol in the medieval armoury of defence against the devil.
Neil stared at the two images for a while before taking out his phone and photographing them from several angles. If he wasn’t mistaken, these were the most exciting carvings in the whole place.
He made his way unsteadily down the tower steps, clinging to the rope which served as a banister. He wanted to share his discovery with somebody and the first person he thought of was Lucy, who was enjoying some retail therapy in Exeter after her long stay in Orkney. However, in her absence he gathered the volunteers around him as soon as he reached the church and when he showed them the photographs the news was greeted with excitement and speculation about the meaning of the larger figure, which had clearly been regarded as evil by whoever had carved it.
