by Kate Ellis
Oliver Grayling looked at Rachel, who was sitting expectantly with her pen poised over her notebook. ‘Can we speak in private, Inspector?’
Rachel stood up. ‘I’ll be outside,’ she said before leaving the room.
Once they were alone Grayling buried his head in his hands and when he eventually looked up Wesley saw that his eyes were filled with tears.
‘He was blackmailing me,’ he said in a shuddering whisper.
Wesley wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting but it certainly hadn’t been this. ‘I’ll need to know the details, I’m afraid.’
‘You don’t understand, I could lose everything.’
‘Have you broken the law?’
Grayling brushed his sleeve across his face and Wesley saw a snail trail of tears on the black cloth. ‘Not as you would see it, no.’
‘In that case I’ll do my best to ensure that whatever you tell me goes no further, providing it doesn’t turn out to be relevant to our case.’ He arched his fingers. ‘Just think of it as making your confession.’
It was a few seconds before Grayling leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘It happened ten years ago when I was curate at a parish in Truro. There was a woman – the wife of a parishioner who’d been badly injured in an industrial accident and was in a coma. She came to me because she wanted someone to talk to but… Things developed between us. It’s not something I’m proud of, Inspector. She was vulnerable and many people would say I took advantage of the situation for my own gratification, although I didn’t see it that way at the time. Eventually my vicar found out and I was sent to another parish as far away as possible.’
‘It was hushed up.’
‘What good would it have done to broadcast it to the world? By that time the lady’s husband had died of his injuries and she had children so it was thought best to forget the whole thing. I took a post as curate in a parish near Axminster and I never saw her again, although I heard that she remarried a couple of years later. It was a part of my past I wanted to put behind me but about three weeks ago I received a visit from a man who claimed to be a curate visiting the area. My instincts told me at once that he wasn’t genuine. Then he began to talk about my old parish in Truro – how his mother used to clean the church. He said she’d told him some interesting things.’
‘Do you remember her?’
Grayling gave a snort of disgust. ‘She was always poking her nose into other people’s business. My boss, the vicar, spoke to her on several occasions about the evils of gossip – not that it did much good.’
‘What was her name?’
‘I knew her as Maggie Rowyard. I was vaguely aware she had a son but he never darkened the doors of the church and I think he was always in trouble of one sort or another. When he turned up I asked him if he was Maggie’s son and he admitted he was but he said he’d changed his name to Davies.’ He hesitated. ‘Then he told me he had contacts with a tabloid journalist who’d think all his Christmases had come at once if he got hold of a story about a vicar who’d seduced a vulnerable woman with a dying husband. He soon came to the crux of the matter and said he was going through a hard time and he needed money to pay off his debts, the suggestion being that if I didn’t pay up he’d call the journalist and tell him about Truro.’
‘How much did he get out of you?’
‘I think the total came to around eleven thousand pounds – money I’ve managed to save over the years plus a small inheritance from my grandmother. In the end I told him my savings were running out but he kept asking for more.’
‘You should have come to us.’
‘You don’t understand. I’d taken advantage of a woman who came to me for help. I was ashamed.’
Wesley sat in silence for a few moments. ‘You were weak. It was a mistake and even the best of us can make those.’
‘It was unforgivable.’
‘You’re supposed to believe that God forgives everything.’
Grayling looked surprised; then he nodded.
‘Look, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to make a statement.’ The vicar looked devastated but his next question had to be asked. ‘Do you own a gun, Mr Grayling?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Ever served in the forces?’
‘I did a brief spell in the army cadets at school.’
‘You learned to handle a rifle?’
Grayling hesitated. ‘Yes, but…’
‘If you come to the incident room, someone will take your statement.’
‘Can’t you do it now? Discreetly?’
Wesley couldn’t help feeling sorry for Oliver Grayling, although he was only too aware that suspects he’d felt sorry for in the past had sometimes turned out to have blood on their hands. ‘I’m afraid I have to go to Tradmouth soon but whoever deals with it, everything you say will be treated in the strictest confidence. I promise.’
Grayling looked as though he was about to object but then he gave a resigned nod.
‘I presume you’ve been asked where you were when Andrea Jameson and Ian Evans were murdered?’
‘I gave a statement to one of your constables like everyone else in Lower Torworthy. I was in a meeting with the Bishop of Exeter.’
Wesley smiled to himself. Alibis didn’t come much better than that.
‘Rowyard’s death bears similarities to the double murder and we’re working on the theory that the same person is responsible.’
A look of relief passed across Grayling’s face. Wesley had seen a similar look on Pam’s face when the consultant had given her the all-clear after her cancer diagnosis.
‘So I’m ruled out?’
Wesley didn’t answer. He couldn’t reassure him of anything at that stage in the investigation. He looked at his watch. ‘If you come to the church hall at four I’ll ask my sergeant to take your statement.’ He caught sight of the small arrangement of flowers on the desk. ‘While I’m here can you tell me if you have a flower arranger called Sarah?’
‘Sarah Shaw. Why?’
‘Do you happen to know what her name was before she married?’
‘It was Booker. Her family are regulars here and I married Sarah and Paul myself.’
Wesley felt a flutter of excitement. ‘Can I have her address?’ He knew it might be there somewhere buried in the house-to-house statements taken after the first shootings but hoped this would be a quicker way of finding out.
‘The house is called Tarn End Barn – it’s a barn conversion at the other end of the village. Can you tell me why you want to talk to her?’ He sounded anxious to protect his parishioner against the sort of intrusion he’d just had to endure.
‘I want to ask her about something that happened years ago. Nothing to worry about.’
Rachel was waiting for him in the church, sitting in a pew at the front gazing at the stained-glass window above the altar.
‘Well?’ she said, rising to her feet.
‘I’ll tell you later.’
As they walked back to the incident room in silence his mind was on Oliver Grayling’s revelations. And whether someone had been prepared to kill to prevent their own dark secrets from being revealed to the world.
28
Jeremy Ovorard had been in touch at least twice a day since the TV appeal and each time Gerry had to disappoint him, although he always reassured him that Jocasta’s disappearance was still top of their priority list. Gerry had offered the services of a family liaison officer but Tabitha Ovorard had refused on the grounds that she couldn’t bear the intrusion. When Wesley said he found this hard to understand Gerry observed that different people react to tragedy in different ways.
Gerry still had a bad feeling about Jocasta. The fields and woods in the vicinity of Lower Torworthy had been searched by tracker dogs but her body hadn’t been found. There were a lot of old mine workings on Dartmoor but he’d been assured that there were none in the immediate vicinity – although that didn’t mean the killer hadn’t transported her body further afield af
ter disposing of her. Then there was the possibility, hard though it was to contemplate, that the killer was holding her prisoner somewhere.
Wesley’s arrival interrupted his thoughts.
‘Rowyard’s PM’s in an hour,’ Gerry said, looking at his watch. ‘Time we set off.’
‘Can I have a word in private?’ Wesley made for the little kitchen at the side of the stage and Gerry followed. A young constable was in there making tea for his colleagues, but as soon as he saw the boss enter he finished what he was doing and hurried from the room carrying a tray of mugs, in his haste allowing tea to slop over the rims.
‘What is it?’ Gerry asked as soon as the door closed.
‘Nathan Rowyard was blackmailing the vicar, Oliver Grayling. He handed over eleven grand to hush up an affair he’d had with a woman in one of his previous parishes.’
‘Must have been some affair.’
‘He slept with her while her husband was in a coma. I don’t think the bishop would approve.’
‘Probably not. But eleven grand…’
‘He abused his position and Rowyard’s mother was privy to the gossip. That’s how her son found out.’
‘So we treat Grayling as a suspect. People have killed for less.’
Wesley shook his head. ‘He has a cast-iron alibi for the double murder.’
‘Rowyard’s murder could be a copycat…’
‘Ballistics have confirmed Rowyard was killed with the same weapon as Jameson and Evans. How would Grayling get hold of it?’ Somehow he couldn’t see Oliver Grayling as a killer but he knew he could be wrong. ‘Know what I’m thinking, Gerry? If Nathan Rowyard was blackmailing Grayling, who’s to say he wasn’t trying the same trick on the killer?’
‘Rowyard’s phone records and bank details are being examined and his cottage is being searched. If he was in touch with the killer we’ll find out eventually.’
Wesley wondered whether to mention Sarah Shaw and her possible link to the death of Alcuin Garrard all those years ago but Gerry spoke again before he had the chance.
‘Someone went to pick Kyle Ball up earlier but he wasn’t at his flat. I told Plymouth to let us have him when he shows up.’
‘Think he’s lying low?’
‘The Fitches will have tipped him off that we’re looking for him.’ Gerry sighed. ‘If Andrea Jameson was the killer’s target there are an awful lot of people who’d be glad to see her out of the way.’ He began to count them off on his fingers. ‘There’s Jason Fitch, his missus and her brother, Kyle. Then there’s her love rival Gemma Whittingstill and Richard Jakes, who blames her for what happened to his daughter. And Jeremy Ovorard, who had a run-in with her over Jocasta’s birthday party. We’re spoiled for choice.’
‘She certainly had a gift for making enemies. And there could be others we don’t know about yet.’
Gerry stretched like an animal awakening from sleep. ‘Better go and see what Colin has to tell us about Nathan Rowyard. Although I don’t anticipate any surprises, do you?’
Before Wesley left the church hall he gave Pam a call. But there was no answer.
As Wesley anticipated, the post-mortem didn’t throw up anything unexpected. Colin estimated that Nathan Rowyard died sometime between Saturday evening and Sunday night. Colin always insisted that the super-accurate times of death given on TV cop shows were pure fiction so Wesley nodded politely and accepted his verdict.
As they were leaving the hospital mortuary, Gerry received a call to say that Rowyard’s bank account was remarkably healthy. Fifteen thousand pounds in cash had been deposited by Rowyard himself over the past five weeks.
‘Fifteen grand,’ Wesley said. ‘Grayling gave him eleven so where did the other four thousand come from?’
‘We’re trying to get his mobile records as a matter of urgency so there’s a chance we’ll find our killer’s number, if Rowyard was blackmailing him as well as Grayling.’ He paused. ‘I can’t see Grayling shooting someone like that, can you, Wes? It seems so… cold-blooded.’
Before Wesley could reply his phone began to ring. For a brief moment Belinda Crillow leaped into his mind. He still felt uneasy that the man who’d broken into her house had mentioned his name. It was something he didn’t understand – just like the attack on Pam’s car and the silent phone calls she’d been receiving.
This time, however, there was nothing familiar about the female voice on the other end of the line. She sounded wary, but so did a lot of people when they were calling the police.
‘Inspector Peterson. A DC Thorne from Morbay Police Station asked me to call you. I clean for the Ovorards.’
‘Thanks for calling, Ms… ?’
‘Pepper. Shona Pepper. Look, I’m free this afternoon if you want to meet. I don’t drive so can it be somewhere in Morbay? The Blue Lagoon Café on the front’s very nice and it shouldn’t be too crowded now it’s out of season.’
Wesley looked at his watch. ‘I’ll see you there at two.’
When Wesley entered the Blue Lagoon, setting the bell above the door jangling, he realised he was hungry because he’d missed lunch. With all the developments in the case, food had completely slipped his mind.
The café was cheap, cheerful and empty apart from an elderly couple in the corner. The vivid seaside murals decorating the walls reminded Wesley more of his parents’ native Caribbean than the English Riviera.
He was five minutes early so he ordered tea for two and a tuna sandwich for himself. He hoped Shona Pepper drank tea and not coffee. He’d assumed that a cleaner would prefer the former but perhaps he was pandering to stereotypes, he thought guiltily.
At two on the dot a woman pushed the door open and looked round. She was in her twenties, slightly chubby with curly auburn hair, tight jeans and a mouth that smiled readily. Wesley stood up.
‘Shona?’ he said tentatively. If he’d got it wrong there was a chance she’d think he was trying to pick her up and he was relieved when she gave him a warm smile and hurried to sit down at his table. When she took off her denim jacket he saw a fine display of floral tattoos on her forearms.
‘Inspector Peterson, I presume.’ There was a friendliness about her which made Wesley warm to her at once.
‘That’s right. I’ve ordered tea. Want anything to eat?’
She shook her head. ‘I grabbed a butty at home thanks.’
‘Thanks for meeting me. Did DC Thorne tell you what this is about?’
‘I presume it’s about Jocasta.’ She tilted her head to one side and looked at him appraisingly. ‘I saw you on telly making that appeal with Mr Ovorard. You were good if I may say so.’
Wesley felt the blood rushing to his face. ‘Thanks. I was hoping you could help me. You must be near Jocasta’s age…’
She gave a little giggle. ‘Flatterer. I’m nearly thirty. Jo’s twelve years younger.’
She was flirting and her vivacity was so infectious that Wesley was sorely tempted to reciprocate. Then he remembered that a young woman was missing, possibly dead, and he was there to do a job.
‘But you speak to her when she’s home?’
