The Cadaver Game (29 page)

Richard rushed from the room, his feet clattering on the old oak floorboards as he hurtled down the staircase.

The Steward’s Journal

27 July 1815

One of the women from the village came to prepare Pegassa’s body for burial and she now lies in her coffin which has been
set upon the long table in the dining room. I gaze on her pale, dead face and marvel at her loveliness, even in death.

If her claim to be an Exeter maid is true, her family must be told the tragic news. Perhaps it will be my sad duty to enlighten
them, although I dread the task of telling her kindred that she has met with such a terrible end.

I have been thinking much upon her murder, for murder it was, and I am certain of her killer’s identity. I witnessed the depth
of John Tandy’s jealousy and I know that on the night of her death there was a hunt, although little was spoken of it.

I saw Tandy that night and he certainly lacked the usual
bravado that befits a Master of Ceremonies on such an occasion. Rather he appeared most furtive, as though he was committing
some shameful act. And there is no act more shameful than murder.

The Jester’s Journal

27 July 1815

There has been talk that Pegassa was killed during one of our hunts, that one of the huntsmen came upon her and when she refused
his advances, he put his hands around her neck and strangled her. It is true that a hunt was held that night, the quarry being
two lads from the household of Henry Catton, but I suspect the real truth will never be known. The Squire himself did not
attend, for he has lost his appetite for the chase after the death of Robert on the last occasion. However, I am of the opinion
that the death of the quarry added much excitement to the proceedings. I had not thought the Squire so lily-livered.

Our sober steward stopped me today and said he was making enquiries of his own into Pegassa’s death. Perhaps I will seek Henry’s
advice as to how we should rid ourselves of the troublesome meddler. I would create some tale for the Squire that would bring
about his dismissal, but I know he will not hear of it. With Christopher Wells having charge of the mundane and tiresome running
of the estate, he can dedicate himself solely to pleasure and the welfare of his beloved hounds.

But our steward, Wells, and his Methodist cronies threaten our liberty so somehow he must be silenced. I will think upon the
problem.

The cast had been taken of the remnants of the Feast of Life with much fuss and ceremony. Neil and his colleagues watched
as latex was poured into the trench, and when the cast was set, it was prised off to be taken back to Orford’s London studio
and filled with plaster so that the form of the rotting meal could be preserved.

The archaeologists had been promised an invitation to the opening of the exhibition at Tate Modern. Neil wasn’t sure whether
he’d accept and the others hadn’t displayed much enthusiasm either. They’d had enough of Orford and the thought of going all
the way to London to sip a complimentary glass of wine in his company hardly appealed. Although, Neil was mildly curious to
see the film of the dig. We all like to see ourselves as others see us from time to time.

Orford mentioned that he wanted to speak to Richard Catton before he left, so Neil, bored and in need of a walk,
volunteered to pass on the message. He left his colleagues backfilling the trench, covering the picnic up again for future
generations, and made his way towards Catton Hall. Being polite to Orford, a man he considered to be a fool and pretentious
buffoon, was a strain and he wanted time to think.

When he reached the hall and knocked on the front door there was no answer. He knew Richard’s father would probably be in,
immersed in his documents, but as the old man was unlikely to answer the door, he decided to try the kitchen entrance. As
he walked to the rear of the house, he was surprised to see Richard Catton emerging from the back door, his face red and a
haunted look in his eyes. He looked like a man who’d just had a bad shock.

When he saw Neil, he came to a sudden halt and stared at him for a moment. Then, after a few seconds he broke his silence.
‘That skeleton you found. I think I know who it is. He disappeared around the time the trench was filled in.’

‘Who did?’

‘Daniel. Daniel Parsland. My lover.’

Jodie sat in the kitchen where she’d last been interviewed by Rachel and Trish. Wesley had wondered whether they should take
her down to the police station to emphasise the seriousness of the situation, but Gerry reckoned they’d get more out of her
in her home environment. And it seemed now that he was right.

‘Yes, I admit I didn’t like Sophie. I used to go out with Barney and she pinched him off me.’

‘You were jealous of her?’

Jodie didn’t answer.

‘We’ve heard that she said some cruel things about you … spread stories,’ said Wesley gently.

Jodie lit a cigarette and took a first, greedy puff before pursing her lips and exhaling a neat plume of smoke. ‘Who told
you that?’

‘Marcus.’

Jodie looked away. ‘That figures. Yeah, she said some things. She could be a real cow at times, but it was no big deal.’

This last statement didn’t sound convincing. Wesley guessed that Jodie had been hurt by Sophie’s allegations, and she wasn’t
particularly good at hiding it. He had only heard Paul’s version of his cousin’s nature and that had been rosy. But either
Paul had been deceived or he was protecting family sensibilities by ignoring the shortcomings of the dead. From what Jodie
was saying, the real Sophie wasn’t the sweet-natured lass that they’d assumed she was.

‘Look, Marcus fancied Sophie. More than fancied – he was obsessed with her. If you’re looking for whoever killed her and Barney,
he should be at the top of your list.’

‘Funny, love. He said the same about you.’

‘Then he’s a fucking liar.’

‘You knew where Barney and Sophie would be that night. You know how to handle a shotgun.’

‘So?’ She put the cigarette to her lips again and inhaled deeply. Her hand was trembling.

‘Did you kill her?’ Gerry asked with his usual bluntness.

The girl looked up horrified. ‘Of course I didn’t.’

‘Marcus said you were quite capable.’

She stood up, sending her chair flying. ‘If anyone hated Sophie and Barney it was Marcus. I heard him threatening to kill
Sophie at her party. And he’s got a foul temper. It’s
him you should be looking at. Dun can’t stand him either. He’s always having a go at him – makes jokes about him living in
a pigsty, just ’cause he hasn’t got a nice house like the rest of us. You ask Dun about Marcus and he’ll tell you the same
as me. He’s bad news. And he likes shooting things.’

‘People?’ Wesley asked.

‘Wouldn’t surprise me.’

Jodie had spoken with sincerity and somehow they couldn’t see her driving out to Catton Hall with a shotgun and stalking Sophie
and Barney through the woods. But they’d been wrong before.

Gerry left the kitchen but Wesley hung back and handed the girl his card. ‘Look, if you think of anything else, give me a
call.’

She took the card from him and stared at it. ‘OK,’ she said before stuffing it into the pocket of her jeans.

They were driving back to the police station when Wesley’s phone rang and he looked at the display; he saw Neil’s name. He
answered it, hoping that Neil had some relevant news – perhaps something about Carl Heckerty. It wasn’t the right time for
social chat.

It was then that Neil informed Wesley that if, contrary to expectations, the dating tests turned out to say the bones he’d
found were recent, he had a possible name for the skeleton.

‘He says he knows who it is,’ Neil said softly, nodding towards Richard Catton who was sitting on a garden bench, head in
hands. He looked as if he could do with something stronger than hot, sweet tea. When Wesley had first started at the Met as
a callow young graduate, his DCI
had always carried a hip flask of single malt in his pocket. But in these days of political correctness, he had nothing to
offer but a few comforting words. And he doubted whether these would have any effect.

‘Are you going to let me in on the secret?’ Wesley asked. He’d left Gerry in Tradmouth and come straight over, hoping it wouldn’t
be a wasted journey.

‘He keeps saying it’s someone called Daniel. We’re still waiting for those dating results to come back. All the indications
are that they’re old but our expert’s admitted she could be wrong.’

Wesley looked at his watch. The skeleton wasn’t at the top of his priority list just at that moment, but this was something
he couldn’t ignore, especially when it was so closely connected with Catton Hall, the site of the shootings.

‘I think it’s time I had a word with Mr Catton.’

Neil put a soil-stained hand on his arm. ‘Go easy, Wes. I think he’s in shock.’

Wesley approached Catton slowly and squatted down by his side. ‘Let’s go somewhere we can talk,’ he said.

Richard offered no resistance and allowed himself to be led towards the house, Wesley’s guiding hand at his back.

Soon they were in the kitchen with its low ceiling and sage-green walls, and even though the room was large, it felt claustrophobic.
He looked round for a kettle. Pam had trained him well in the early days of their marriage and he quickly found the kettle,
tea bags, milk and a couple of chipped and stained mugs.

‘Now, who’s Daniel?’ he asked as he set the steaming tea down on the scrubbed pine table and pulled up a chair.

Richard stared at the mug and Wesley waited in silence
for him to speak. Eventually his patience was rewarded. ‘His name was Daniel Parsland and he was an artist taking part in
the original Feast of Life with Kevin Orford. I was seventeen at the time and I was helping out at the holiday park for a
bit of extra cash. Even though my family own the land we had nothing to do with running the park because that was leased to
a separate company. Anyway, I used to hang about and watch the artists preparing everything. I’d never come across people
like that before and …’

He paused. The memory had brought a small, sad smile to his lips. Wesley waited for him to continue.

‘I’d suspected for a long time that I found men more attractive than women and when I met Daniel, I knew for sure. He was
in his late twenties, a lot older than me. I asked him to stay here in the hall and my father assumed he was just a friend.’

‘But he was more than that?’

‘I didn’t think my father knew. Daniel was very discreet, and he even made a point of spending time with my mother to throw
my father off the scent. Then one day he left and I never saw or heard from him again.’

‘Your mother’s not around?’

‘She walked out on us years ago. Her and dad led separate lives and her relationship with me was always rather distant.’ He
said the words matter of factly, as though his mother’s lack of interest hadn’t really bothered him. ‘She went off to Spain
to live with some man she’d met. According to my father, it had been coming on for quite a while, but I’d been away at boarding
school so I hadn’t realised what was happening. She was there that summer, bored out of her head. She was always restless;
that’s how I remember her.’

‘Have you heard from her recently? If the bones do turn out to date from the time of the picnic, we may have to talk to her.’

Richard turned his head away. ‘I haven’t seen her since she left. Apart from the occasional postcard there’s been no contact.
But then she was never very good at the whole “mother” thing.’

‘And we might have to question your father too if—’

Richard snorted. ‘If those bones are Daniel’s and my father was responsible for his death in any way, help yourself. I hope
he rots in jail.’

‘Why would your father have killed him?’

‘Because of his relationship with me. My father’s very big on family and inheritance. If I had a relationship with a man it
would prevent me giving him an heir. I’m his only family, so if I don’t have children, the whole Catton Hall thing stops with
me. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense.’

‘But I still don’t see—’

‘You don’t know him.’ Richard had raised his voice. ‘You haven’t had to live with his obsessions,’ he said as tears began
to well up in his eyes.

Trish watched Paul’s fingers moving on the computer keyboard. He’d hardly said a word to anybody since his return from his
daily visit to his aunt’s. There’d been a time when they had shared everything and she felt sad, and a little hurt, that he’d
become so distant and morose since Sophie’s death. But when violent death comes close to home, the world becomes a different
and less friendly place.

And his sadness did nothing to alleviate her uneasy conscience. She’d met Steven Bowles twice now, just for a quick
drink when she’d managed to get away from work. But she told herself that it meant nothing. She hadn’t even bothered to tell
Rachel where she was going because it wasn’t important, was it?

She thought about what DCI Heffernan had just told her about his meeting with Jodie Carter, out of Paul’s hearing of course.
The DCI had learned from Jodie that Sophie hadn’t been the angel everyone assumed she was: she’d been cruel and bitchy to
a girl who’d been her rival in love. She only hoped this information wouldn’t filter back to Paul: there was no point in ruining
his rosy memories of his cousin, even if they were an illusion.

She watched Paul stand up and make for the door, wondering whether to call after him to ask if there’d been some new development,
but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

As Paul left the room, he passed a young woman who was standing in the doorway looking a little lost. She looked around and
when she made eye contact with Trish she made straight for her desk, as though she’d spotted a friendly face in a room full
of strangers.

‘I’m looking for a DI Peterson. Do you know where I can find him?’