by Kate Ellis
‘Gerry can manage on his own for a bit longer. I think your mother should come down.’ His opinion of Della wasn’t high but Pam was her daughter.
‘I’ve tried calling her but I don’t think there’s a signal where she is.’
‘I’ve got to get back to Lower Torworthy so I’ll drive up to Princebury Hall and tell her what’s happened.’
Pam looked doubtful and began to make for the kitchen, head bowed, until the sound of his ringtone shattered the silence, at which point he saw Pam freeze. It was Belinda Crillow and he hesitated before answering. Then he told himself that all she probably needed was reassurance.
‘Inspector Peterson? Is that you?’ She sounded breathless, as though she’d been running. ‘When I had the break-in last year you said I could call you any time if I was frightened but whenever I try to call you I get your voice mail,’ she said, on the verge of tears.
‘Sorry about that but I’m in the middle of an investigation,’ he told her as gently as he could. ‘DC Carter at Tradmouth Police Station is dealing with your case. I’m sure he —’
‘He says there’s nothing he can do without more evidence, but I know the man’s out there watching. Am I supposed to wait till he attacks me again?’
‘I’ll have another word. I promise.’
‘He’s not taking it seriously. He…’
Wesley could hear the hysteria rising in her voice and he was struck by a disturbing thought. ‘You haven’t been calling my home number, have you?’
‘Of course not.’ She sounded hurt and he suddenly felt bad about asking.
‘Look, I’ll contact the station right away and see what’s going on.’
He took a deep breath before calling Rob, who made the point that she hadn’t been able to describe her assailant so he was working in the dark. He could almost hear the unspoken words: ‘I’m not bloody psychic.’
‘I know, Rob, but she’s in a right state. Do what you can.’
‘How can I when she won’t cooperate? She keeps asking for you.’
This wasn’t what Wesley wanted to hear. He ended the call and reluctantly left Pam alone with the mechanic, who was still hard at work outside. Before setting off he tried to call Gerry but was told he was interviewing Jason Fitch. It looked as though Gerry was managing fine without him so he drove out to Dartmoor. It was time Della did her bit.
Passing through Lower Torworthy on the way to Princebury Hall, he saw the crime-scene tape fluttering around Manor Field. He found it hard to envisage Fitch meeting Andrea in that spot and shooting her dead along with an innocent walker. Although unexpected things could happen when passions ran high.
When he reached Princebury Hall he tried Della’s number but there was no signal. Mobile reception up there was notoriously bad and he wondered how the Hall’s guests coped with being cut off from the outside world. Perhaps it was all part of the Princebury Hall experience.
The building seemed deserted as he made his way up the grand central staircase. When he reached Xander Southwark’s office he gave a token tap on the door before walking in.
For a second Southwark looked irritated then he swiftly rearranged his features into a calm smile of welcome. Wesley’s first thought was that he’d seen that same smile on the faces of conmen and art fraudsters but he knew he mustn’t allow his knowledge of the man’s past to cloud his judgement.
‘Inspector, you’ve come back to us – presumably with that search warrant your colleague was talking about.’ The words were smooth and confident.
‘We know the name of Jason Fitch’s other lady companion so there’s no need for a warrant… for the time being.’
Southwark arched his fingers and tilted his head enquiringly like a doctor asking what the trouble was. ‘Your colleague could really benefit from one of our courses, you know. He’s stressed and overweight. I could do wonders for him – transform his life.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ he said, glad Gerry wasn’t there to hear. ‘But I need to speak to Della Stannard. I’ve been trying to contact her but…’
‘I consider our lack of mobile signal a blessing.’ Wesley caught a note of self-righteousness in the statement.
‘I’m afraid it’s a family emergency.’
‘You could always have used our landline.’
Wesley had thought of this but rejected it because he’d wanted to take another look at the place Andrea Jameson had been heading for when she died. ‘Where can I find Della?’
‘You’re related?’
‘She’s my mother-in-law. My wife, her daughter, hasn’t been well,’ he said, hoping this would satisfy Southwark’s curiosity.
Southwark consulted a large chart which took up most of the wall behind the desk. ‘She’s having a hot stone massage at the moment – finishing at five. If you’d like a herbal tea while you’re waiting…’
He was about to press a key on his desk phone to summon one of his underlings but Wesley interrupted. ‘I’d like to ask a few more questions if I may.’
Southwark assumed a patient expression, as though he was indulging an inquisitive child. ‘Fire away but I don’t see how I can help you.’
‘Tell me, Mr Southwark, when were you convicted of fraud?’ He knew he should have looked up the case but he hadn’t had time. Besides, it might be useful to see what the man himself had to say about it.
‘Nineteen ninety-seven – that’s a year I’ll never forget.’ He bowed his head, the picture of penitence.
‘Where were you working?’
‘Exeter. I considered moving to a different part of the country after my release but that seemed like cowardice. I think people should face up to their wrongdoings, don’t you? One thing I’ve always admired about the Catholic Church is their sacrament of confession. It forces people to acknowledge what they’ve done. I operate something similar here in our private counselling sessions.’
‘But, unlike priests or doctors, you have no obligation to keep what you learn confidential,’ said Wesley. ‘Perfect opportunity for a spot of blackmail, I should think.’
For the first time Southwark looked uncomfortable. ‘If I suspected any of my staff of abusing their position of trust…’
‘Did Jason Fitch attend these confession sessions?’ Wesley asked.
‘Not that I recall.’
‘What about Andrea Jameson?’
‘No.’
‘You told us you didn’t know Andrea Jameson personally but according to a list of her clients she organised a party for you a couple of years ago to celebrate the third anniversary of your opening.’
For a split second Southwark looked flustered. If Wesley hadn’t been watching the man’s face closely, he would have missed it.
‘You’re absolutely right. She did.’
Wesley’s waited expectantly for him to continue.
‘Her company came highly recommended.’
‘Who by?’
‘Jason Fitch if you must know.’
‘So you were friendly with him before he became a regular here?’
‘Let’s say I knew him in a former life. When I was a solicitor he was one of my clients.’
Wesley was surprised by this revelation. He would have thought that anybody who’d had professional dealings with Southwark before his conviction would avoid any further involvement with him. Either Fitch had a very forgiving nature or he was as crooked as Southwark was.
‘We’d always hit it off so we stayed in touch.’ He smiled. ‘Jason might not be a faithful husband, Inspector, but he’s been loyal to me over the years.’
‘So he’s a friend?’
‘More of a business acquaintance, I’d say.’
‘Do you think he’s capable of killing Andrea?’
‘Absolutely not. Although I can’t say the same for his wife if she finally tired of his philandering.’
An idea sprang into Wesley’s head; a connection he hadn’t considered before. ‘You say you worked in Exeter? Did you ever come across a man called Ian Evans
? He was a solicitor too.’
‘The name’s not familiar. Why do you ask?’
‘He’s the other victim found with Andrea Jameson. His mother said he used to work in a solicitor’s office in Exeter.’
‘There are a lot of solicitors in Exeter,’ Southwark said, looking at his watch. ‘Della should be finishing her massage around now. If you’d like to wait for her in the hall, I’ll let her know you’re here.’
Wesley had the impression Xander Southwark wanted rid of him. Even though the mention of Ian Evans hadn’t appeared to faze him, he suspected the man knew Jason Fitch and Andrea Jameson far better than he cared to admit.
Ten minutes later Wesley met Della in the hall and as soon as she heard his news she fussed a lot then went to her room to pack her bags. Pam needed her.
Once back in the Lower Torworthy incident room Wesley phoned Gerry, who reported that they’d made no progress with Jason Fitch. As soon as he could get a word in, Wesley told him about his meeting with Xander Southwark and his suspicion that he’d known Fitch and Andrea Jameson a lot better than he’d first admitted.
There was something else on his mind, something he hadn’t mentioned to Gerry. Alcuin Garrard had died in Manor Field in 1995 and, even though no connection had as yet been established between Garrard and either of the latest victims, he wanted to find out more.
After looking through Neil’s press cuttings he’d called Headquarters to request details of the police investigation. He’d been expecting a long delay so he was pleasantly surprised when he reached his desk and found the file on Garrard’s death squatting on top of his paperwork.
He opened the file carefully but, even so, loose papers fluttered to the ground like giant grubby snowflakes and he had to get down on his hands and knees on the dusty wooden floor to retrieve them. Once everything was in place he settled down to read.
Alcuin Garrard had been found dead in Manor Field on the evening of 4 September 1995 and, according to the post-mortem, his injuries were consistent with him falling on uneven ground and hitting his head on an old section of wall. Traces of blood, hair and brain matter had been found on the stones and a small, fallen stone half covered with grass had been dislodged as though somebody had tripped over it, which seemed to confirm the theory. The field was outside the village, hence there were no witnesses to what actually happened, but Alcuin had told several people he was going there in connection with his research. When his body was discovered it was assumed from the first that he’d met with an unfortunate accident so the investigation hadn’t been particularly thorough and no alternatives to the fall theory were explored. One passing motorist thought she’d seen a dark-coloured car parked near the field that evening but her testimony was vague and this wasn’t followed up.
The contents of the dead student’s pockets were listed but the only thing of interest appeared to be a letter dated three months before his death. A photocopy of the handwritten letter was attached to the list and Wesley saw that it was from a Ralph Detoram. The address at the top of the headed notepaper caught Wesley’s attention at once: it was Princebury Hall.
The letter offered Alcuin access to anything in the hall’s muniment room that might be of use to him and, from the tone, it sounded as though Detoram was looking forward to his visit. It must have been lonely up there – one elderly man in a big, draughty house. However, the letter ended on a strange note: ‘Concerning the other matter, I know you are mistaken. I assure you that I am perfectly satisfied with the status quo and I would rather not enter into further discussion.’ Wesley stared at the words, wondering what the ‘other matter’ could be. As both Alcuin and Ralph Detoram were dead, there was no chance of asking them.
The report mentioned that an eighteen-year-old girl called Sarah Booker had been spoken to in connection with his death. She lived in Lower Torworthy and they’d been seen together in the Shepherd’s Arms where he was staying. Sarah had insisted that there’d been no romantic attachment between them and that she knew nothing about his death.
In an ideal world he’d be able to talk to Sarah Booker and ask her about the man she used to drink with in the Shepherd’s Arms. But young people tended to leave isolated Dartmoor villages for work in livelier locations so she could be anywhere by now.
He flicked through the rest of the file until he came to the photographs taken of the body in situ. He stared at the picture of the dead young man, wondering again why Ian Evans had been looking up details of his death on his computer. And why, given the vastness of the Dartmoor landscape, the two men had been found dead in the same field.
The man who was calling himself John Davies took off his motorcycle helmet before tugging at his clerical collar. When it came away he stuffed it into the pocket of his jacket. It was good to be rid of it but it had the advantage of acting like a cloak of invisibility. A Church of England clergyman was above suspicion, especially in a rural location like Dartmoor.
It also provided the perfect means of learning secrets and this was how he’d made his living since his release from the open prison eighteen months ago. The scheme had come to him in a flash of what Oliver Grayling would no doubt call divine inspiration and there were times when he couldn’t help congratulating himself on his brilliance. It was an offence nobody was likely to report so it was as near to the perfect crime as you could get.
He parked the bike and made his way to the front door of the cottage he’d rented cheaply for three months; a shabby place any self-respecting holidaymaker would reject on sight. Weeds sprouted from the gravel path and the paint on the door and window frames had flaked off to reveal the bare wood beneath. The interior was little better but before Davies had a chance to let himself inside, he heard a noise behind him.
He swung round and the world exploded before he fell to the ground.
Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard
July 1995
Sir Matthew’s little monk was in great demand, even beyond the confines of the village. There are letters from the DeTorhams’ neighbours requesting the monk’s services for the sick and dying. Word spread as far as Exeter, where a wealthy merchant wrote to Sir Matthew in June 1532 begging him to bring his monk to intercede for his sick child. There is no record of whether this request was granted.
All was apparently well until early 1533 when several items of correspondence found amongst the DeTorham family papers at Princebury Hall hint at something amiss. There is mention of Oswald’s younger brother Simeon, who would have been in his early twenties at the time, losing money gaming in Exeter and getting a village girl with child.
The first mention of a second machine – a ‘big friar’ – appeared in June 1533. It seems that the little monk was a prototype and Sir Matthew’s second creation was more sophisticated and, it was hoped, more efficacious.
However, this second machine does not appear to be received with the enthusiasm that greeted the first.
25
First thing on Monday morning Neil rang the university’s History Department to see whether Professor Laurence Harris was available. He vaguely remembered the professor from his own student days as a tall, upright figure with a shock of grey hair and a distant manner, although he couldn’t recall ever actually speaking to the man. He’d heard he had a reputation for irritability and, according to popular legend, one of his students had left his office in tears after having an unsatisfactory essay ripped asunder.
Neil, however, was a student no longer and the prospect of the encounter didn’t faze him in the least.
He knocked on the professor’s door and heard a curt ‘Come in.’ Professor Harris was sitting behind his desk, half hidden by books and files. He was no longer the imposing figure of Neil’s memory; rather he looked pale and thin. But his manner didn’t appear to have changed.
