The Mechanical Devil

by Kate Ellis

  He noticed the flower arranger hovering at the edge of the group, standing on tiptoe to see over the shoulder of the man in front of her. Once the volunteers had dispersed with their clipboards and pencils to carry on their work Neil went over to her.

  ‘Like to see the pictures I took up on the roof?’

  The woman looked as though she wasn’t sure how to answer. Eventually she nodded warily.

  He was about to select the photographs when she spoke. ‘I heard you talking to Oliver about Alcuin – the student who died.’

  ‘You knew him?’

  There was a short silence before she answered. ‘I met him during the summer before I went away to uni. Lower Torworthy isn’t the most exciting place for a teenager so it was good to have someone to talk to.’

  ‘What did you study?’

  ‘History – at York.’

  ‘Amazing,’ said Neil, sensing the presence of a kindred spirit although he couldn’t help noticing that she was fidgeting with the secateurs she was holding, as though she was anxious to cut their conversation short. But Neil was intrigued.

  ‘How come you ended up back here?’

  ‘I married one of my fellow students.’

  ‘History?’

  ‘No, computer science. My husband’s originally from London and he thinks this is a good place for kids to grow up…’ She sounded doubtful.

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘We both work from home. He runs a software company and I run a business too – silk flowers.’

  ‘Tell me about Alcuin.’

  She glanced over her shoulder. ‘There’s nothing much to tell. He was doing research for his PhD and he had a terrible accident. That’s all really.’

  His instincts told him she was holding something back.

  ‘Fancy a drink at lunchtime?’ he asked, hoping she wouldn’t take the invitation the wrong way.

  She made a show of looking at her watch. ‘I haven’t time. Sorry.’

  ‘What’s your name, by the way?’

  ‘Sarah. Sarah Shaw.’

  He held out his hand and she took it limply. Her hand was moist, as if she was nervous.

  ‘I’m Neil Watson.’

  ‘I know. You’re quite famous round here. Nobody’s taken so much interest in our little church since…’

  ‘Alcuin?’

  She didn’t reply. Instead she returned to her flowers, working intently as though there was something on her mind. Neil wondered if the subject of Alcuin Garrard had upset her.

  Ten minutes later he received a call from Canon Collins to say he’d found the press cuttings and Neil could pick them up any time. Neil thanked Collins and felt a tingle of anticipation. He wanted to know what Alcuin Garrard had found out about the little monk – and whether his researches had turned up any mention of a larger, faceless counterpart.

  Wesley sat at his desk going through everything they knew about Andrea Jameson and Ian Evans. After their meeting with Tabitha Ovorard he and Gerry felt there was a lot more to learn about Andrea. Ian, on the other hand, had led an apparently blameless life. Everybody who’d been spoken to – colleagues, friends, relatives, fellow members of his rambling club – told the same story and Wesley was finding it hard to believe that anything in Ian Evans’s life, a life many people would have described as dull, could have caused someone to kill him in such a violent and calculated manner.

  Nothing untoward had been found on his computer. The tech people had gone through his browsing history and found that he’d visited several sites about Dartmoor, including the websites of Princebury Hall and the Shepherd’s Arms. A couple of the sites he’d looked at mentioned the death of the student in Manor Field and Wesley wondered whether he’d been paying a special visit to the spot when he was killed. Perhaps it was a coincidence – there was a public right of way through that field after all – but he thought it was worth trying to establish a connection between the two men who’d died in the same field all those years apart; whether they’d once known each other or were related in some way. He’d ask someone to check.

  Then there was Jocasta Ovorard. He hoped she wouldn’t be found like Andrea and Ian, lying in an isolated spot with a bullet through her head. Dartmoor was vast and dotted with ancient mine workings, abandoned farm buildings and other places where bodies could lie undiscovered for years. The search with dogs hadn’t turned anything up so maybe it was time to extend it beyond the area around the village.

  It was going to be another long day and he felt he ought to call Pam to check that she was all right. Rachel had observed that he’d become quite the devoted husband since Pam’s illness and he wondered if this meant he hadn’t been one before. Perhaps she was right; a devoted husband would never have felt that pull of temptation he’d experienced with Rachel when duty had taken them up north together. Since then he’d made sure that when an overnight stay was involved, he took Gerry instead.

  Eventually he found a spare minute to call home and the phone rang out for a while before Pam picked it up and answered with a wary ‘hello’.

  ‘It’s me. Something the matter?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  He could tell she was anything but fine so he repeated the question.

  ‘I’ve been getting more silent calls. There’s definitely somebody on the other end because I can hear him breathing.’

  ‘Are the kids there?’

  ‘No, they’re both with friends and my mum’s still gallivanting up on Dartmoor.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m feeling a bit nervous about being on my own, to tell the truth.’

  ‘If you’re worried why don’t you go next door?’ he said. His amiable retired neighbours were the type who’d be good in a crisis. ‘I’m sure they —’

  ‘They’re away, remember? They dropped their key off on Friday.’

  Wesley was annoyed with himself for forgetting.

  ‘What if it goes beyond phone calls?’ he heard Pam say. ‘What if he’s watching the house?’

  21

  ‘Right.’ Gerry waited for the room to fall silent. ‘It’s just come to light that Jason Fitch is the proud owner of a forty-foot yacht called The Silvery Moon moored in Tradmouth. According to the harbour master there’s someone aboard. He’s promised to let us know if there’s any movement.’

  ‘Strange neither Sharon Fitch nor Gemma Whittingstill mentioned a yacht,’ said Wesley, knowing this new development meant that he’d lost any chance of an early finish.

  ‘My thoughts exactly. Let’s get down there. I’ve put the river patrol on standby.’

  When Gerry was in this mood there was no stopping him, so Wesley followed in his wake and as they were on their way to the car he received a call from Neil. As soon as he answered he asked Neil where he was. If he could ask him to call in to see Pam, it would allay his worries. Neil, however, said he was in Lower Torworthy and that he’d had an interesting conversation with a flower arranger. This conjured strange images in Wesley’s head of his friend garlanded with flowers or arranging to have one of his trenches decorated with a floral display. Then Neil told Wesley he was meeting a clergyman later in the hope of making an interesting discovery which might or might not be linked to Wesley’s inquiry. But before he could explain, Wesley said he had to go; he had a suspect to pick up – hopefully. They’d catch up soon.

  Once they’d reached Tradmouth they made for the waterfront where they were met by the harbour master, who greeted Gerry like an old friend.

  After a short conversation Gerry turned to Wesley. ‘The Silvery Moon’s moored at the marina,’ he announced before climbing back into the passenger seat.

  ‘That’s near Andrea Jameson’s apartment.’

  ‘Handy for a bit of how’s-your-father,’ said Gerry.

  They were met at their destination by three uniformed constables and Wesley could see the police launch stationed on the river nearby as Gerry strode ahead along the jetty. The boss was an experienced sailor, having been an officer in the merchant navy be
fore joining the police. After his wife Kathy’s death he’d renovated a thirty-foot yacht to take his mind off his grief so he looked at home amongst the gleaming hulls of the vessels Wesley had heard him describe as gin palaces for the idle rich.

  The Silvery Moon, as its name suggested, was shiny and white and Gerry estimated that she must have cost a fortune. They stood aside as the uniforms boarded. Then Gerry leaped aboard, moving with the confidence of an expert. In contrast Wesley, no fan of boats, clambered over the rails gingerly, just in time to hear raised voices coming from the cabin.

  He followed Gerry to the cabin where he saw shadowy figures struggling in the confined space. By the time they burst in it was all over and a man was kneeling on the floor, subdued and in handcuffs. The prisoner had a deep tan and tattoos on his bare arms and legs; the sunglasses perched on top of his well-cut hair had been knocked askew in the melee. Wesley supposed many would call him good-looking in a flashy sort of way. He’d seen his type so many times before strutting up and down on the esplanade in the summer months or lounging on the decks of expensive yachts.

  ‘Jason Fitch, I presume?’ Gerry said with relish. ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Andrea Jameson and Ian Evans.’ He recited the familiar words of the caution while Fitch stared up at him, his mouth hanging open to show two rows of unnaturally white teeth.

  ‘This is a joke, right? I never touched Andrea. And I’ve never heard of this Ian whatever his name is.’

  As soon as a constable had hauled Fitch to his feet one of his colleagues appeared from the cabin beyond holding a long object wrapped in canvas.

  ‘I found this, sir,’ the young man said eagerly, hoping to impress his superiors.

  And Wesley was impressed, because when the constable unwrapped the object he saw that it was a rifle.

  Jason Fitch was in the cells and the clock was ticking away the time until they had to decide whether to charge or release him.

  ‘What do you think, Wes?’ Gerry said. He was in his office in Tradmouth Police Station, sinking into the worn leather swivel chair that had moulded itself to his body over the years.

  Wesley leaned back and closed his eyes. He found it easier to think here than in the makeshift incident room.

  ‘What’s his motive?’

  ‘Andrea was making life awkward for him. Making demands. He already had a wife and Gemma Whittingstill – by the way, neither of them knew about the yacht. He was a devious bugger and maybe Andrea was a complication too far.’

  ‘He’d arranged to meet her at Princebury Hall for a weekend of yoga and motivation and sex. Surely if he was planning to get rid of her…’

  ‘Who knows what goes on in people’s minds – or what pressure Andrea was putting on him.’ Gerry sounded unsure of himself. Usually making an arrest fired him with fresh enthusiasm, but not on this occasion.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Wesley asked.

  ‘I was hoping to take a few days off next week to go up to Liverpool. Alison’s taking time off work and…’

  ‘If Fitch is our man, you’ll still be able to make it,’ Wesley said with an optimism he didn’t really feel.

  ‘Still no sign of Jocasta Ovorard. We were going to have a word with Ovorard’s staff, weren’t we.’

  ‘According to Morbay nick they’ve got a cleaner and a part-time gardener. I don’t know whether that counts as staff.’

  Gerry tapped the side of his nose. ‘Cleaners know things. She might be worth talking to.’

  ‘Might be a he,’ said Wesley with a grin. ‘And gardeners can observe comings and goings. He maybe even had a thing going with Jocasta.’

  ‘You’ve been reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover again.’

  They started to laugh and Wesley felt a release of tension. For months he’d lived with the worry of Pam’s health coupled with pressure at work and the simple act of laughter lifted the shadow from his soul.

  But the respite wasn’t to last. His phone rang and when he looked at the caller display he saw Belinda Crillow’s number.

  ‘I’ve told her I’m not dealing with her case but she keeps on calling me,’ he said to Gerry, staring at the ringing phone.

  ‘Who did you pass her on to?’

  ‘Rob Carter. He says she hasn’t been cooperative.’

  From Gerry’s office window he could see Rob at his desk, deep in paperwork. He looked fed up, as though he’d rather be out chasing villains up dark alleys.

  ‘He’s contacted Ms Crillow several times but she says she’ll only speak to me.’

  Gerry sighed. ‘I’ll have a word with her?’ he said, stretching out his hand to take the phone.

  Wesley passed it over. ‘DI Peterson’s phone, DCI Heffernan speaking.’ Gerry sounded authoritative; the man to sort out any problem.

  But the line went dead and Gerry was left shaking his head. ‘Looks like it’s you she wants, Wes.’ He paused and lowered his voice. ‘It happened to me once. I was kind to this woman – prostitute she was. I got her away from her pimp, fixed her up with somewhere to stay and listened to her woes. From then on I was the first person she called whenever anything went wrong – and in a life as chaotic as hers that was every other day. In the end Kathy put her foot down. I’d got too involved.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I put her in touch with a charity and they arranged for her to move out of the area. Never heard from her again. Give it time. It’ll sort itself out. You know your trouble, Wes? You’re too soft.’

  ‘There have been times when I could have said the same about you.’

  ‘Hard as nails, me. Scourge of every villain this side of the Tamar,’ Gerry said with a wink.

  Wesley’s phone rang again and this time the number was one he didn’t recognise. When he answered he heard a male voice. Whoever he was he sounded young – and he was speaking quietly as though he didn’t want to be overheard.

  ‘Inspector Peterson? This is Craig Carswell. We met at Tradington Barn when you came to ask about Jo. Remember?’

  It took Wesley a few seconds to place the name. Then he recalled the cocky boy with the top knot and wispy beard who had made the introductions. Now he sounded nervous. Perhaps the blasé confidence had been an act he’d put on for the benefit of the others in the group.

  ‘I remember. What can I do for you?’

  ‘You spoke to Kimberley, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, she doesn’t know the whole story. Jo and me…’

  ‘You were close?’

  ‘For a short while. Nothing heavy. Look, I haven’t been in touch before now because I’ve been thinking things over.’

  ‘Do you know where she might be?’

  ‘Afraid not.’ He hesitated. ‘We went our separate ways a week before she left. She gave me the usual crap about it being her not me but I reckon I was just a distraction. I think there’d been someone else all along.’