The Shadow Collector (4 page)

‘He’s on a cruise, sir,’ said the constable helpfully. ‘Treasures of the Adriatic, someone said.’

Wesley had come across the formidable Dr Partridge before and knew her to be a woman of ample proportions and a bluntness
to match Gerry’s own. She and Gerry hadn’t got on. He imagined they were too alike to hit it off.

Wesley had had the foresight to put on the wellingtons he kept in the car boot as soon as he’d arrived but Gerry’s shoes were
getting ruined as he skirted the house and traipsed across the muddy pasture. The land rose sharply behind the house and Wesley,
who was used to a steep walk to and from work each day, was soon striding ahead.

Eventually they reached a large field on the crest of a rolling hill, Gerry puffing and panting behind. The crime scene tent
set up to protect the body looked out of place amongst the lush grass and sheep droppings, and as Wesley slipped on his crime-scene
suit, he could see the activity through the open flap. The photographer, the officer taking video footage, the forensic people
negotiating the metal plates they’d placed on the ground to protect any footprints the killer might have left. And at the
centre of it all, like a queen bee at the heart of a hive, he saw the statuesque form of Dr Partridge squatting next to the
corpse. Wesley could see that the dead woman was wearing a bright red coat which looked smart and fashionable – not the sort
of
thing most people would choose for a walk in the countryside.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ the doctor said as soon as she spotted Gerry. Her dark-rimmed glasses were perched on a hooked nose and Wesley
guessed that she was in her fifties but he’d heard rumours that she was younger than she appeared. He’d also heard that she
was married but nobody he knew had ever seen her husband. Gerry had once joked that she’d probably eaten him after their wedding
night.

‘Nice to see you too, Jane.’ Wesley saw that his boss wasn’t smiling. ‘What have we got?’

Dr Partridge straightened herself up. ‘Single stab wound to the abdomen. It’s my guess – and this is only a guess – that her
killer stood in front of her and thrust a knife into her stomach.’ She mimed the action with some enthusiasm.

‘So he would have been covered in her blood?’ Wesley asked.

Jane Partridge stared at him for a few moments. It was hard to know what she was thinking. He found himself wishing that the
affable Colin Bowman hadn’t decided to take his holiday just at that time. Colin was only too happy to give chapter and verse
on the cause of death but getting information out of Jane wasn’t always easy.

‘Not necessarily. Most of the blood would have been absorbed by the thick woollen coat she’s wearing.

He forced himself to look down at the corpse. ‘Any ID?’

She shook her head. ‘Not that I can see. No handbag.’

‘What kind of weapon?’

‘A knife. A sharp one thrust in with some force. I’ll be able to tell you more when I’ve got her on the slab.’

‘Time of death?’

‘She’s not been dead that long. Two to four hours at a guess. But I can’t be more specific,’ she said in a voice that brooked
no argument. ‘I blame all these silly detective series for raising expectations.’ She began to pack her equipment away. ‘Postmortem
tomorrow. Two o’clock sharp.’ She looked directly at Gerry. ‘Don’t be late.’

‘We won’t,’ said Wesley. ‘Anything else you can tell us? Has the body been moved?’

‘If it had been, I would have mentioned it,’ she said sharply before marching away, off down the field towards the farmhouse
without a backward glance. Wesley could see the vehicles lined up in front of the building next to the film van, looking like
toys from a distance: three patrol cars, Jane’s four-by-four, two unmarked police cars, including their own, and the black
mortuary van waiting to convey the victim to a refrigerated drawer at the hospital.

Gerry stared at the dead woman as though he was willing her to get up and tell him who had done this terrible thing to her.
She was probably in her twenties, and she had been attractive in a waiflike sort of way. And she looked totally out of place
in that field with her short red coat and her shiny high-heeled boots.

‘Doesn’t look like one of nature’s walkers, does she?’ Gerry said.

‘There’ve been reports of fans hanging around the filming making a nuisance of themselves.’

‘That was a couple of weeks ago. That pop star’s been voted off,’ said Gerry.

‘There’s still Zac James. Maybe she was one of his fans. Or perhaps she was meeting someone.’

‘Well we won’t find out unless we ask.’

‘Funny, we were near here this morning visiting Lilith
Benley. Her place must only be about a quarter of a mile from here.’

Gerry looked at him. ‘Mmm. You can even see it if you stand at that gate over there. Bit too close for my liking.’

‘You can’t think …’

‘I don’t know what to think yet, Wes.’

Wesley left the tent with Gerry trailing behind, as though he was reluctant to leave the dead woman alone. He nodded to the
uniformed sergeant who had assumed the role of crime scene manager, and once he’d been ticked off on the clipboard that recorded
the comings and goings, Wesley made his way back down the field, treading carefully over the uneven ground.

He waited for Gerry who seemed to be having some difficulty negotiating the terrain, and when they found themselves back at
the farmhouse the PC they’d spoken to before was waiting for them at the door, looking alert.

‘Anyone see any unusual vehicles earlier today? Or notice anyone strange hanging around?’

‘Nobody’s mentioned it in their statements and the TV people have been around all afternoon. No one saw anything until Rupert
Raybourn went for his walk. Raybourn likes to get away on his own as soon as filming stops apparently, which doesn’t go down
well with the producer.’

‘I would have thought he’d be the life and soul of the party type,’ said Gerry.

The constable didn’t answer. Wesley had vague memories of Rupert Raybourn on the TV in his early youth. One of those self-satisfied
comedians who graduated to hosting TV quiz shows and upstaging the hapless contestants. He tried to recall his catchphrase
but couldn’t quite manage it.

‘According to the pathologist the woman probably died between one o’clock and three,’ said Gerry.

‘The production team can vouch for each other all afternoon. Rupert Raybourn was feeding the animals till just before three
then he went for his walk at half past four. Zac James was filmed cleaning the milking shed then he went up in his room at
two-thirty or thereabouts and came down shortly before Raybourn went out for his walk. He’s given a statement – says he didn’t
see or hear anything unusual but he seems very jumpy. He’s gone to his room if you want a word. Raybourn’s in the kitchen
giving a statement.’

Wesley caught Gerry’s eye. ‘Want to speak to them now?’

‘We might as well while memories are still fresh.’ Gerry pushed the front door open. ‘Joyce isn’t going to believe I’ve been
mixing with the rich and famous.’ He looked at Wesley and grinned. ‘I’ll be able to shatter all her illusions.’

Wesley smiled. Gerry’s lady friend, Joyce, who worked at Morbay register office, seemed to have become a permanent fixture
in his life. Wesley was glad: Gerry’s late wife, Kathy, had died some years ago and Gerry wasn’t suited to a life of solitude.

The hallway was lined with laden coat hooks, walking sticks bristled from a large basket in the corner and lines of muddy
wellingtons formed a guard of honour against both walls. They turned left into a large kitchen with a scrubbed pine table
in the centre and a range at one end. A classic farmhouse kitchen. No doubt the house had been chosen by the TV company for
its traditional features.

Wesley recognised Rupert Raybourn’s face at once. Strange, he thought, how people who were on the TV screen regularly in your
youth can seem like old acquaintances. The comedian was looking appropriately serious as
he gave a written statement to DC Paul Johnson. If he had nipped upstairs to put on a black tie, Wesley wouldn’t have been
surprised. The man was still conscious of the effect he was having on his public – it was probably a habit that was hard to
break.

Paul looked up at Wesley and nodded. ‘We’re just finishing here, sir. Everyone’s given their statements now.’

Raybourn stood as Paul made the introductions and solemnly shook hands with the two newcomers. He was in his early fifties
but his toned body, permanent tan and expensively cut hair – brown with a hint of distinguished grey at the temples – did
wonders for him.

‘It must have been a shock, discovering the dead woman like that,’ said Wesley.

Raybourn nodded and bowed his head respectfully.

‘What were you doing in the top field?’ Gerry asked.

Raybourn answered quietly, not what Wesley had expected at all. ‘There are a lot of breaks in filming so I seize every opportunity
I can to get away. There’s a stifling atmosphere down here in the house, you see. You’re aware you’re always on show and it
drives you mad after a while. Especially now it’s just me and …’

‘Zac James?’

‘I’ve had my fill of pop stars. When Jackie Piper was thrown off it came as a great relief. At least when that MP, Charles
Cloaker, was here you got some intelligent conversation. He mostly talked about himself, mind, but …’

‘Are you in the habit of going up to that particular field?’

‘There’s a spectacular view over the countryside from up there …’

‘And across to the adjoining properties,’ said Gerry. ‘You can see Devil’s Tree Cottage from up there, can’t you?’

Wesley saw a flicker of panic in his eyes. ‘Where?’

‘The smallholding to the east of the farm. You’ll have heard about the murders there eighteen years ago.’

Raybourn looked flustered. ‘I seem to recall something about it but …’ He looked away. He wasn’t a good liar.

‘I believe there have been a lot of girls hanging round.’

‘They were Jackie Piper’s fans and they went as soon as he was voted off.’

‘Doesn’t Zac James have fans? Maybe ones who are a bit older?’

‘Contrary to the way Zac talks, I think being followed by hordes of adoring fans is a thing of the past. I certainly haven’t
seen any.’

‘I believe Jackie Piper’s fans caused a bit of a nuisance,’ said Wesley.

Raybourn shrugged. ‘They used to stand in the lane screaming and they kept trying to slip into the farm but, by and large,
the crew kept them away.’

‘Had you ever seen the dead woman before?’

He hesitated. ‘I think I’ve seen her hanging about in the lane but …’

‘When?’

‘Over the past couple of days. I can’t remember when exactly. I didn’t keep a record.’

‘You didn’t speak to her?’

‘No. I only saw her from a distance. I’m not even sure it was her. I just saw a woman in a red coat. Sorry but I’ve told you
everything I know.’

Wesley smiled reassuringly. ‘Thank you, Mr Raybourn. We may need to speak to you again.’

Raybourn stood up, slightly unsteady on his feet, and left the room.

Once Wesley and Gerry were satisfied he was out of earshot, they sat down opposite Paul. Gerry leaned forward. ‘Any chance
of a cup of tea? I’m spitting feathers here.’

Paul stood up and walked over to the sink, opened the cupboard underneath and took out an electric kettle. ‘They use a kettle
on the range for the TV show. The producer says it’s more authentic. But Mr Raybourn told me this was here.’ He filled the
kettle and clicked it on before collecting together some clean mugs and taking a milk carton from the old-fashioned fridge
in the corner of the room.

‘Right, Paul, what have we got?’ Gerry asked once they had the tea in front of them.

‘Everyone says more or less the same thing. People have seen her about over the past couple of days but nobody knows who she
is. We’ve taken statements from the producer and the film crew but they all say they saw nothing out of the ordinary. The
farmer, Joe Jessop, was at the market in Tradmouth all afternoon until someone phoned him to ask him to come back and deal
with the sheep. If he’s telling the truth it looks like he’s out of the frame.’

‘We’ve seen Rupert Raybourn. What about our other celebrity?’

‘Zac James claims he went to his room around two-thirty after he’d been filmed cleaning out the milking parlour. Says he stayed
there for over an hour then he came downstairs. The crew were taking a break. The next scheduled filming was of the two contestants
making the evening meal with things they’d gathered earlier. That was due to start around five. James swears he never left
the house but, according to the crew he could have slipped out any time
without anyone noticing.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Mind you, I think he might be telling the truth.’

‘Why’s that?’ Wesley asked.

‘He was very agitated when we showed up. Like he was high on something. And as soon as we arrived I heard the loo flushing
a few times.’ He raised his eyebrows significantly. ‘I’ve heard his cocaine habit is legendary. And he’s edgy, fidgety. Either
something’s really troubling him or he’s high as a kite.’

‘I’ll take your word for it, since you’re obviously more in touch with these things than I am,’ said Gerry, a little surprised
that the sober and sporty Paul was so au fait with the drug habits of has-been singers. ‘Being high on coke doesn’t mean he
couldn’t have killed that woman. And if he could have left the house any time without anyone noticing he goes to the top of
our list. What do you make of Raybourn?’

‘He seems genuinely shocked and I don’t think he’s putting it on. And he’s telling the truth when he says he goes up to that
top field regularly. According to the crew, he’s been doing it since filming began. Probably to get away from the others.
Can’t say I blame him.’

‘Any nearer getting an ID for the dead woman?’

‘Not yet. But a couple of the crew thought she might have been a fan of Zac James.’

‘I need to speak to this James character,’ said Gerry. ‘Go and get him, will you?’

Paul stood up. He was over six feet tall and lanky so he towered over them, temporarily blocking out the light trickling in
through the dusty glass of the kitchen window.