The Cadaver Game (31 page)

‘We think we’re getting closer to making an arrest,’ he said. It sounded better than a stark ‘no’.

Pickard walked ahead of them into his lounge.

‘We’ve got hold of Evie’s phone records,’ Wesley said as they took a seat.

Pickard waved a bottle in their direction. ‘I suppose you’re going to say “not while I’m on duty” like they do in the cop
shows,’ he said, pouring himself a generous measure into a crystal glass.

‘Thanks, but we have to keep a clear head,’ Wesley answered quickly. ‘Did you know Barney had Evie’s number?’

Pickard’s head jerked up sharply. He suddenly looked sober. ‘What do you mean? Of course he didn’t have her number. How could
he?’

‘We were hoping you could tell us. When we were here before you were looking for her business card. You couldn’t find it.
Barney spent some time here, didn’t he?’

‘Yes but … Oh, I see what you’re getting at. He found the card and his curiosity got the better of him. It’s possible, I suppose,
but he never mentioned anything to me.’

‘Did you ever talk to him about Evie?’ Gerry asked. ‘Man-to-man stuff?’

Pickard frowned. ‘I might have let something slip; made some remark. He wasn’t a kid. He was eighteen. But I certainly didn’t
give him her address and tell him to give her a call if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘You wouldn’t have to if he’d found her card. He might have used his initiative.’

‘Like I said, he never mentioned it. And neither did Evie. She was picky. High class.’

‘If Barney told her he was your son …’

Pickard shrugged. ‘It’s possible. But we can’t ask them now, can we?’

Wesley produced a still from the party video, blown up so the card was plain to see. ‘It looks as if Barney’s showing a card
to one of his friends. We’ve had it enhanced but it’s still not clear. Look carefully. Could it be Evie’s card? The one you
lost?’

Pickard took the picture and studied it carefully. ‘It’s hard to tell.’

‘Evie received a call from Barney shortly before the estimated time of her death.’

Pickard put down his glass. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘Nothing,’ said Wesley. ‘I’m just stating a fact.’

The man rose from his seat like an avenging fury. ‘Then
you can keep your facts to yourself. My boy’s dead and he can’t defend himself. You can’t go accusing him of—’

Gerry raised a calming hand. ‘We’re not making any accusations here. We’re just trying to get to the truth.’

‘Then do it somewhere else.’ He was shouting now. ‘My son’s dead and you’re trying to smear his memory instead of getting
out there and finding his killer.’

Wesley felt Gerry’s hand on his arm and, reluctantly, he turned to go.

Wesley was in low spirits when they returned to the incident room. It was almost half eight now and he just wanted to get
home. He wanted to spend what was left of the evening with Pam: he wanted to see the kids, maybe read them a bedtime story.
But when Gerry ordered a Chinese takeaway to be delivered to the office, he knew the night was still young.

‘Who’s your money on for Evie’s murder, Wes?’ Gerry said as he tucked into a spring roll.

Wesley stared into space for a few moments. From where he was sitting he had a good view of the noticeboard in the incident
room with pictures of all the dramatis personae of their particular pair of dramas pinned on, with Gerry’s comments scrawled
beneath each image. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘Maybe one of her clients; we’re tracing them from the incoming calls on her
mobile phone, but it might take time.’ He thought for a moment. ‘How about Kris Kettering from Morbay Properties? He admitted
he was a client of Evie’s. He even let her rent Twenty-three Roly Walk without the usual references.’

‘And his motive is?’

Wesley shook his head. He couldn’t think of one.

‘What about Keith Marsh?’

‘He’s up there with the best. He was obsessed with her so the psychology’s right, and he could have reported her death because
he couldn’t bear the thought of her lying there undiscovered. She was laid out respectfully, and that shows love in my book.’

‘But is he our man?’ Gerry issued a theatrical sigh and helped himself to another spring roll. They were almost gone and Wesley
had only managed to have two. ‘What about the two kids? Why would someone kill them? Stalk them like that then blast them
both with a shotgun?’

‘It’s a scene from that game.’

‘So someone didn’t want them to reach the next level?’

Wesley tilted his head to one side. ‘What did that next level involve?’

‘Being together? Making the killer feel jealous?’

‘That would cover Marcus and Jodie. Or maybe the next level was about achieving something? Or revenge of some kind? We’re
going round in circles here.’ He sighed as he began to open a container of egg fried rice.

‘What about Jimmy Yates?’

‘Maybe he knew something. Or maybe his death’s unconnected after all.’

‘At least we’ve got that skeleton out of the way now. Full confession. Good for the clear up rate, unless those test results
come back and say he died recently. And what was a human skeleton doing in a pets’ cemetery anyway?

‘It’s not like you to look for complications, Gerry. That’s usually my job.’

‘I just feel there’s more to it than meets the eye, that’s all.’

There was a bold knock on the open door and when Wesley looked up, he saw Trish standing on the threshold.
She had the satisfied look of a hunter who’d just run the quarry to earth. Wesley suddenly felt hopeful.

‘Can I have a word?’ She stepped into the DCI’s office, carrying a file in her left hand, half hidden behind her back. ‘You
know you’ve had someone going through all the available CCTV footage from the area around Lister Cottage for the estimated
time of the murder.’

Gerry rolled his eyes. ‘I know most of it had been wiped and reused by the time we got round to making the request.’

She held out the file. ‘We’ve had a bit of luck. These are from the convenience store down the road taken on the Saturday
we think she died. They don’t cover Lister Cottage, but they do show some of the street nearby. I’ve had some still photographs
printed out. They’re timed and dated.’

Wesley took the file from her and emptied the contents onto Gerry’s cluttered desk. Both men grabbed at the photographs, studying
them closely. Eventually Gerry gathered them up and favoured Trish with a beaming smile.

‘You did well, Trish.’

‘It wasn’t me, it was Paul.’

‘Then tell him well done,’ said Wesley.

‘But we could have done with them a bit earlier,’ Gerry added under his breath as they began to sift through them.

‘Oh, this is good,’ said Gerry, rubbing his hands together with glee. ‘Isn’t that Carl Heckerty large as life and walking
towards the crime scene just before midday.’

Wesley picked up the photograph and examined it. ‘All it proves is that he was on St Marks Road. It doesn’t prove he called
at Lister Cottage,’ he said, introducing a note of caution.

‘He won’t know that. We’ll have a word with him anyway.’

Trish selected another picture and passed it to him. ‘This was taken an hour later. This kid’s walking towards the convenience
store. Then in this one he comes out with a carrier bag and walks off down the road.’

Wesley stared at the picture. ‘It’s Barney.’

He handed it to Gerry who opened his desk drawer and took out a pair of reading glasses, which he perched on the end of his
nose. ‘So it is.’

‘There is something else I’d like your opinion on,’ said Trish as she began to sift through the pictures again, eventually
selecting another and presenting it to Gerry.

‘That boy at the bus stop over there looks as though he’s watching him. Could it be Jimmy Yates?’

Trish was right. The figure leaning on the bus stop, looking in the direction of Lister cottage, did bear a strong resemblance
to the dead boy. She was on a roll. She pushed another picture towards him. ‘There’s this one too. It was taken a bit earlier
… just before eleven. That man’s walking towards Lister Cottage. You can only see his back view but …’

Wesley obediently stared at the picture. The man in question had a shaved head and he wore combat trousers and a white, sleeveless
vest. There was something familiar about the distinctive tattoos on the man’s bare arms but he couldn’t think where he’d seen
them before. Maybe it would come to him.

He peered at the photograph, taking in every detail. ‘That looks like a Land Rover parked there. Pity we can’t see the registration
number.’

Gerry pushed his glasses up his nose and examined the
image closely. ‘They’re common as seagull shit in this part of the world.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We’ll put Heckerty and
Marcus on our visiting list. There’s nothing much more we can do tonight, Wes. Why don’t you get home.’

‘Pam’s invited our new neighbours round for a barbecue tonight.’

‘Then with any luck you’ll be too late for burger duty,’ said Gerry with a grin.

Wesley stood up. He needed to get out of there. He needed a break from the case.

The Jester’s Journal

31 July 1815

Our hare was released at twenty minutes to midnight, stripped naked, his pale flesh glowing in the moonlight against the darkness
of the foliage.

The man had little to say for himself and there was a recklessness about him, as though he cared not whether he lived or died.
Perhaps it was grief at his stepsister’s passing – if indeed she was his stepsister. Or perhaps there was another reason for
his rash and bold demeanour. But it was of no matter, for the hunter takes no account of the fox’s humour.

It set my heart racing to see the Squire mount his horse and raise his cup in a toast to the hare and all who hunt him, as
the hounds bayed for blood. There were four huntsman on this occasion: myself, Henry Catton, the Squire
and one Humphrey, a friend of Henry’s and an officer at the nearby fort. Humphrey hunts with the relish his men hunted Bonaparte
before his recent defeat, and Henry urges him on.

Just after midnight, we set off, the hounds running ahead after the hare. We followed at a good pace across the fields, then
we entered the woods and our sport began in earnest.

We followed for what seemed like miles and when we were out of the trees, Humphrey halted his steed and said that if the hare
went much further we should reach the boundaries of the fort and all would be lost, for he would be seen by the sentries and
shot on sight as a French spy still loyal to his deposed Emperor. I thought this unlikely as French spies would hardly go
about their business naked. But Humphrey said that a spy might swim ashore from a boat and discard his wet clothing. I hoped
our hare had chosen a different course.

In the event, he was scented at the edge of the estate, attempting to double back to the hall. We were soon in hot pursuit.
The Squire and I rode ahead after the pale figure flitting through the dark trees. We would have him soon, I knew it.

The previous night had been fine and warm, the sort of balmy, breezeless evening that lures the British into their gardens
for a spot of alfresco dining. As Wesley had walked home at nine thirty he’d felt guilty about missing Pam’s planned barbecue.
However Neil had been invited, along with their new next door neighbours – an accountant and his wife who had a daughter the
same age as Amelia – so he’d told himself his absence wouldn’t have made that much difference.

When he’d arrived home the neighbours had long gone, but Neil was waiting for him, armed with a glass of wine, sitting opposite
Pam at the wooden table just outside the back door. He was keen to recount how he’d done the honours with the charcoal and
burned sausages, and for a few short moments Wesley felt an unexpected prickle of envy that another man, even though that
man was his best friend, should have assumed his role at what should have
been a family occasion. But his head told him that he should have been grateful that Neil had stepped in to save the evening
and, by the time the morning came, all the misgivings conjured by his tired brain had vanished. He put them down to frustration
– rarely had the solution to a case seemed so elusive.

Neil had spent the night on the Petersons’ sofa and early on Saturday morning Wesley crept downstairs and found him fast asleep
and gently snoring. It wouldn’t be long before the children woke up and shattered his peaceful slumbers so he decided not
to disturb him. But as he tiptoed out of the room, making for the kitchen, he heard Neil’s voice.

‘What time is it?’

‘Half seven. I’ve got to go into work.’

Neil sat up and stretched. ‘I’ll have a shower, then I’ll head back to Exeter. Good of you and Pam to put me up.’

‘No problem.’

Neil looked at his watch. ‘I’m back at the fort on Monday, thank God. I’ve had just about enough of Orford and the art world,
but I’m putting the whole thing down to experience.’ He shrugged. ‘The only bright spot was that skeleton. You should have
seen their faces when it turned up. I can’t believe Richard’s dad buried it.’

‘It came as a surprise to us too.’

They chatted as Wesley grabbed a hurried breakfast and steered the conversation round to the excavation of the fort, because
he wanted to put Catton Hall and its related murders out of his mind until he was forced to face it at work. The thought of
Barney and Sophie being hunted naked through the trees and finally coming face to face with a gunman haunted him. He kept
imagining their final
moments; the sudden realisation that they were about to die as they looked down the barrel of the shotgun. He hadn’t slept
well, and probably wouldn’t, until the killer was safely in the cells.

After breakfast he left the house and made his way down into the town. As he walked down Albany Street, he glanced at Dickens’s
cottage and the sight of it reminded him of Marcus Dexter and the piece he had written.

He hadn’t forgotten those words. They echoed in his head whenever he thought of Sophie and Barney dying there in that wood,
shot like vermin.
‘I am the hunter. I hunt to the death. My ears are tuned to the sound of my prey. Every breath, every sigh. Every squeak of
exhaled air, as the exertion of running forces the breath out of my victim’s gasping lungs.’