by Kate Ellis
‘I wanted a word with you. That girl who’s staying with you, she looks familiar.’
The man was staring at him and Luke found his unblinking gaze disconcerting.
‘She was here in Newquay last season,’ Luke lied with confidence. ‘Maybe you saw her then.’
‘That’ll be it.’ The man’s lips twitched upwards in a cold smile and he examined the cheap watch on his hairy wrist. ‘Better get to work. Those cod aren’t going to batter themselves.’
As Luke followed him into the shop he felt uneasy.
Wesley’s instincts screamed at him that seeing Belinda Crillow might be a bad mistake. But he needed to know whether her ordeal at the hands of a faceless attacker had anything to do with what had happened to Pam.
He found her at the backstreet B and B near the town centre where she’d taken refuge while the CSIs went over her cottage. Rob Carter had advised her to get better locks fitted while she was there and Wesley imagined that she wouldn’t feel safe until this was done. He wondered whether Pam was beginning to feel like that about their own home. His house was a sanctuary; somewhere he could escape the world of crime; somewhere his children could grow up safely. It was precious and he couldn’t bear the thought of it being tainted by violence.
He’d arranged to meet Belinda in the little lounge at the front of the house but when he arrived he was given a message by the landlady, delivered impatiently as though she had better things to do. Belinda felt too nervous to come down so could he go to her room. Suddenly he wished he’d brought someone else with him – Rachel perhaps – but she’d asked to see him alone.
When he tapped on her door it was opened immediately. Belinda Crillow’s left arm, he noticed, was bandaged and there was a dressing on her right hand. The black eye she’d sustained in the previous attack was now a vivid shade of yellow. He’d thought her attractive when they’d first met and her injuries gave her an added vulnerability. She looked fragile; in need of protection.
‘You asked to see me,’ he said, trying to remain businesslike.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ She gestured towards the tray of tea-making equipment provided by the landlady.
Wesley declined her offer and remained standing.
‘Have you remembered anything else about the man who attacked you?’
Belinda shook her head.
‘What exactly did he say? Please think hard.’
She gazed up at the ceiling, making a great effort to remember. ‘It was something like: “You’ve been blabbing to Peterson again. You need to shut your mouth.” He said it was my final warning. Next time he’d kill me.’
She looked at him appealingly. For a moment she reminded him of a puppy in an animal shelter begging to be given a loving home, but he banished the thought from his mind. She was a grown woman and she might be in serious danger.
‘I said I hadn’t told you anything but he wouldn’t listen.’ She took a step closer to him. ‘I’m frightened, Wesley. I need protection.’
‘My colleague DC Carter…’
‘I don’t feel safe with him. Will you stay with me?’
The hysteria rose in her voice as she moved even closer to him, her eyes fixed on his, pleading. He feared the situation was hurtling out of his control.
‘You’ll be safe here for the time being and I’ll have another word with the station.’
‘If you were here…’ She clasped his arm tightly and he could feel her fingers pressing through the cloth of his jacket like talons.
He removed her hand gently, holding it in his for a few moments. ‘I’ll arrange for a female officer to stay with you if you want. And if you remember anything else – or if you have any more trouble – call the station right away. Promise.’
‘Stay with me… please.’
He could sense her despair but what she suggested was out of the question.
He called the station, asking them to send a female officer round at once. He needed to go.
32
‘You’ve got to nip this in the bud now,’ was Gerry’s verdict when Wesley reported back.
‘If it’s the same person who’s been targeting Pam…’
‘I’ve gone through all our old cases in my head and I can’t think of anyone who fits this particular bill. Can you?’
Wesley shook his head.
‘Could it be someone you offended before you came to Devon – someone you nicked in London while you were working in the Met?’
‘I was a DS in the Art and Antiques Squad and to be honest, Gerry, I can’t remember anybody I arrested being that scary. And I certainly didn’t receive any threats. I’d remember.’
Wesley knew further speculation was futile. He’d done all he could – until the adversary made his next move.
As he returned to his desk his attention was drawn to the crime-scene photographs on the wall. Alcuin Garrard, Ian Evans and Andrea Jameson had met their deaths in the same field but so far he’d found nothing to suggest this wasn’t just a coincidence. But Dartmoor was a huge area so why that particular place? It was a question that kept running through his mind and he was grateful for anything that distracted him from his more personal problems.
The Xander Southwark fraud case file he’d requested was waiting for him, balanced on top of his computer keyboard. When he flicked through it he learned that Southwark had been a partner in a successful law firm; handsome, charming and with a taste for the high life. His clients had trusted him implicitly, probably because he had a silver tongue and a good line in persuasion. Wesley had long ago given up trusting anybody with the gift of the gab but he knew how well it worked with many victims, especially the elderly. Southwark had been methodical in his fraudulent activities. He’d selected elderly clients with few relations – or relations who lived at a distance and took no interest – and, after obtaining power of attorney over their affairs, he systematically plundered their accounts, in several cases altering wills in his favour. When asked, the clients in question said they thought he was wonderful – such a kind and trustworthy young man who did a lot for charity and the community.
Wesley searched the file for familiar names but there were none he recognised. One thing, however, shone through all the statements – wherever Xander Southwark went he made friends and influenced people. It was only after an irate relative from Canada questioned the fact that her mother had left her nothing in her will, naming instead her trusted solicitor as her main beneficiary, that Southwark’s wrongdoings came to light.
Once his crimes were discovered, however, people began to come forward with accusations. As well as plundering the accounts of elderly clients, his secretary accused him of starting an affair with an impressionable young girl who was on work experience in his office. No complaint, however, was ever made so the allegation was put down to spite – or even envy – on the secretary’s part.
As Wesley read on he formed an image of the man in his mind. Ruthless, risk-taking and arrogant to the point of recklessness.
He stared at the list of party guests provided by Andrea Jameson’s assistant and Xander Southwark’s name stood out as though it had been printed there in large scarlet letters. Rachel was engrossed in paperwork and Wesley thought she looked as though she needed a break.
Forty-five minutes later they pulled up outside Phoebe Jakes’s house. He’d briefed Rachel during the drive and it would be up to her to do the talking.
The call from the chip-shop proprietor in Newquay came in at four o’clock, an hour and a half after Wesley and Rachel had left the incident room. When DC Paul Johnson heard what the man had to say he immediately transferred him to DCI Heffernan, who was soon barking excited questions into the phone.
‘You absolutely sure it’s her?’ Paul overheard him saying, disappointed that he couldn’t hear the answer.
‘We’ll get someone there right away. Where are they now?’
Again Paul listened but all he could hear was a tantalising silence.
Phoebe J
akes was still adamant that she didn’t know her attacker’s identity. She said he’d come up behind her and pushed her into a pitch-dark cabin and all she knew was that he was strong and smelled of expensive aftershave – she didn’t know which brand. After the ordeal she’d been paralysed with fear; too shaken to move until Andrea Jameson had come to find her, demanding why she wasn’t handing round the drinks.
Wesley let Rachel do the talking, noting how Phoebe shot him nervous looks every now and then. When Rachel showed her the picture of Xander Southwark they’d taken from the files, he was certain he’d seen a reaction. Then she’d glanced at her mother who was sitting next to her with a protective arm around her shoulders and shaken her head vigorously. It definitely wasn’t him.
Wesley wasn’t convinced by her refusal to name Southwark as her attacker but he said nothing and struggled to control the pent-up anger he felt; an anger he suspected was born of prejudice. He’d met Southwark’s type before.
On the way back to Lower Torworthy he suggested that they drive straight to Princebury Hall to speak to Southwark. Rachel, however, advised against it.
‘Phoebe didn’t name him and even if she had it would be her word against his. Can you imagine her in a witness box?’
He acknowledged that Rachel was right. They needed more on Xander Southwark if they were to take the matter any further.
His phone rang. It was the station to say that a female constable had been sent to look after Belinda Crillow, who wasn’t being very cooperative, insisting that only Wesley could deal with her case.
‘Who was that?’ Rachel asked, fixing her eyes on the narrow lane ahead.
Wesley explained. ‘I might have been too hard on her. She’s terrified.’
‘You can’t keep running every time she snaps her fingers.’ She hesitated. ‘You don’t think she’s becoming obsessed with you?’
Wesley shook his head.
For a few moments Rachel said nothing, then: ‘Has it occurred to you that she might have made up the bit about the attacker mentioning your name to get your attention? I know Rob might not be God’s gift to sympathetic policing but he’s doing his best. I think Belinda Crillow sees you as her knight in shining armour.’
‘How do you explain the incidents at my home?’
‘Ex-con out for revenge? If he really intended to harm you or your family, he’d have done it by now. He’s either letting off steam or sending you a warning.’
‘What about?’
‘Who knows?’ It had started to drizzle so she flicked on the wipers. ‘It all started when we began this investigation, didn’t it? You think it could be the killer?’
Wesley had considered a lot of possibilities but not this one.
‘Or someone who doesn’t want you to dig too deeply into his background. Xander Southwark?’
Wesley shook his head. ‘I don’t think it’s his style. Besides, I’m not the only officer on the case so why pick on me?’
Rachel didn’t have an answer.
As soon as they arrived at the incident room Wesley sensed excitement in the air. When Gerry greeted him with a wide grin he found out why.
‘We’ve found Jocasta Ovorard. She ran off with her mum’s toy boy and they’ve been living under the radar in Newquay only to be rumbled by an observant chip-shop owner who gave Luke a cash-in-hand job and free accommodation above the shop. He’d been watching the local news and decided to call it in.’
‘Don’t suppose Jocasta’s too pleased.’
‘On the contrary, according to the patrol who picked her up she seemed relieved. Slumming it above a chippy loses its glamour after a while. And the excitement of running off with your mum’s personal stud no doubt wears thin when you have to live with his dirty underwear,’ he added with a chuckle.
‘Have her parents been told?’
‘Yes. She’s being brought back to Tradmouth and Jeremy Ovorard’s meeting up with us later.’
‘What about Tabitha?’
‘Thanks to Luke I imagine relations between mother and daughter will be a bit strained.’
‘He was supposed to be in the States. The cleaner, Shona Pepper, had a postcard from him.’
‘According to the officers in Newquay he’s been very chatty. He gave a couple of postcards to a mate to post while he was over that side of the pond to throw everyone off the scent. I’ll give him and Jocasta their due, they planned it well. By the way, the results on the rifles in Chantalle’s loft have come back from Ballistics. There’s no match to the bullets found at the murder scenes, which puts us back to square one. Mind you, Kyle Ball’s been looking after them for a mate so we can get him for something.’
‘And it’s possible he used one of the consignment for the killings then got rid of it.’
‘You’re right, Wes. Can’t rule him out just yet.’
When Wesley returned to his desk he found an extra file there that hadn’t been there before. It was brown, curled around the edges with a faint musty odour, and when he opened it he saw the papers concerned the death of Mary Tilson – spinster; aged eighty-four: the only murder that matched the case mentioned by Sarah Shaw.
Miss Tilson lived alone but her great-nephew, Alcuin Garrard, was studying in Exeter and called round to see her whenever he could. When Wesley saw the name he smiled to himself. Alcuin’s visits had become infrequent in the months leading up to her death but, according to the neighbours, they were on good terms.
When Mary Tilson died suddenly her post-mortem revealed that she had been smothered with a pillow found nearby and the obvious suspect was Mary’s carer, Judith Westminster, who called on the old lady four times a day. Judith had been suspected of theft in the past and Mary had complained to Alcuin about things going missing. However, Mary was forgetful so her allegations weren’t taken too seriously, especially as Alcuin wasn’t aware of Judith Westminster’s history of petty pilfering. Whenever he was there Judith played the devoted carer to perfection so he put his great-aunt’s suspicions down to a touch of paranoia.
Judith visited Mary late one evening to get her ready for bed – something confirmed by a neighbour who’d seen her car outside – and when the old lady was found dead the next morning she immediately came under suspicion.
According to the file, Alcuin Garrard had been only too ready to accuse his great-aunt’s carer. He had been fond of the old woman and had given evidence against her alleged murderer, even accusing her of stealing several thousand pounds missing from his great-aunt’s bank account. The money was never found but Judith had run up considerable debts which had mysteriously been paid in the months before Mary’s death. Consequently Mary Tilson hadn’t had much money to leave to her family.
Wesley sat back in his seat. He’d hoped to find some connection between Alcuin Garrard and either Andrea Jameson or Ian Evans, but there was nothing.
His musings were interrupted by Gerry’s voice. ‘Jocasta’s home with her mum. I said we’d go over and have a word. You up for it?’
Wesley closed the file and stood up.
33
They found Jocasta Ovorard at home in Morbay but there was no sign of her mother. Instead it was her father who greeted Wesley and Gerry at the front door, his face solemn.
‘You must be relieved, Mr Ovorard,’ said Gerry cheerfully.
‘Of course.’ The man’s exasperated expression suggested the reunion hadn’t been altogether amicable.
‘How is your daughter?’ Wesley asked.
Ovorard didn’t answer the question. ‘I take it the man concerned will face charges.’
