A Perfect Death (12 page)

Wesley had to hand it to him – he sounded very convincing.

‘What kind of research does Nadia do for you?’

‘I have a great interest in the history of the Languedoc region of France in the thirteenth century.’

‘The Cathars?’

The professor turned his gaze to Wesley. He looked surprised, and rather impressed. ‘You are familiar with the history of
that region, Inspector?’ The expression of surprise faded, to be replaced by one of amused cynicism. ‘Or have you just been
reading cheap fiction and conspiracy theories?’

Wesley shook his head. ‘As a matter of fact I’ve just come back from Carcassonne. My wife and I spent a week there and we
met Ian Rowe. He was living there and working in a restaurant. He recognised me. I was at university with him. I studied archaeology
at Exeter.’

‘Nadia never mentioned that Rowe had an archaeology degree.’ He sounded rather hurt.

‘He hadn’t. He dropped out after his second year. Usual case of a misspent youth, I’m afraid.’

‘And you?’

Wesley shuffled his feet modestly. ‘I stuck the course.’

‘And with this degree in archaeology you became a detective.’ He raised his finger and smiled. ‘I will have to watch what
I say, no?’

‘Does the name Jeanne de Minerve mean anything to you?’

Demancour smiled. ‘This is easy, Inspector. In 1210, when the crusade led by Simon de Montfort against the Cathars in Languedoc
was at its height, many so-called heretics were burned in the town of Minerve, which was a Cathar stronghold. A Stephen de
Grendalle joined the crusade. He held estates not far away from here.’

‘Near Queenswear?’

‘That’s right. How did you …?’

‘A friend of mine is excavating a site round there. He mentioned the name.’

Demancour nodded. ‘I have not discovered why de Grendalle chose to join the crusade against the Cathars but it is on record
that he sailed to San Diego de Compostela from Tradmouth in 1209 and made his way to southern France where he took part in
the siege of Carcassonne. He was then in the force that laid siege to the town of Minerve in 1210. Raymond Tresorer was a
knight in the household of Guillaume de Minerve. He was burned for his faith in that year. He had a daughter called Jeanne.’

‘He was a Cathar?’

Demancour nodded. ‘It seems so. As was his daughter. It is said she escaped the flames somehow and married Stephen de Grendalle,
who brought her back with him to his estates here in Devon. She was called
Jeanne, known as Jeanne de Minerve and there are many stories about her. Legends. Hearsay. As yet, I have found some written
evidence but not a great deal … only tantalising fragments. Solid evidence of her life story is my holy grail, Inspector,’
he said with a smile. Then he paused. ‘You say Ian Rowe is dead. He died in a house fire?’

‘I’m afraid so. The body hasn’t been formally identified yet but his passport and other belongings were found at the scene
and …’

‘That is truly terrible.’ Demancour bowed his head for a moment, a gesture of respect. Although the Ian Rowe Wesley had known
briefly hardly seemed likely to inspire respect in a man like the professor.

‘Rowe had your name and address in his room in Carcassonne.’ Wesley watched Demancour’s face carefully.

‘I do not know why this should be. Perhaps it was something to do with Nadia. I myself have had little to do with him.’

‘I realise that but anything you can tell me about him would be helpful.’

Demancour shrugged. ‘I know very little. When we were out in the Languedoc he would come to meet her sometimes. They used
to work together. That is how they met.’

‘Where did they work?’

‘They both worked for Sir Martin Crace. You have heard of him?’

Wesley and Rachel exchanged glances. Then they nodded.

‘What kind of work did they do?’ Rachel asked.

‘Nadia once worked for Sir Martin’s PA but I am not sure what position Ian Rowe held. A driver perhaps, or maybe he worked
in the gardens. Or the kitchens?’

‘Not Crace’s PA then?’

The amused smirk appeared again. ‘I think not. I had the impression from Nadia that Rowe was – how do they put it? – a free
spirit.’

‘Do you know where can we find Nadia? We need to speak to her urgently.’

‘You have tried her address?’

‘Yes, but there’s no answer.’

‘Then I cannot help you. I have not seen her for a week.’

‘Did she say she was going away?’

‘No. You do not suspect her of any crime?’

‘Oh no, not in the least,’ Wesley said quickly. ‘I just want to talk to her, that’s all. Do you have her mobile number?’

Demancour frowned then spread his hands apologetically. ‘I’m afraid I do not have it with me. There is a list of contact numbers
back in her office back at the university. It will be there.’

The professor stood up, flashing a charming smile in Rachel’s direction. ‘I’m sorry that I cannot help. Nadia has seemed troubled
recently … preoccupied. But, alas, she has not confided in me.’

‘Are you worried about her?’

The answer was a small, reluctant nod.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Wesley formally.

As they walked down the front path to the car,
Wesley glanced back and saw Professor Yves Demancour standing in his window watching them. It was hard to read the expression
on his face. But it might have been fear.

Gerry Heffernan thought Chas Ventisard was worth another interview. Even though he had obviously decided to play dumb.

‘It would help us if we spoke to some of your mates. If what you say is true, they’ll back up your story, won’t they? And
once they do, you’ll be out of here. How about giving me some names?’ Gerry was at his most reasonable, trying his hardest
to ooze charm but not quite managing it.

He looked at the young solicitor sitting by Ventisard’s side and gave him what he considered to be a conspiratorial smile.
In his opinion the lad looked about twelve but he seemed to be taking his responsibility for his client’s defence extremely
seriously.

‘We’ll find out sooner or later, Chas. You might as well tell us. Save us all a lot of trouble.’ Gerry could tell by his expression
that he was tiring of the game. He wanted to be out of there.

‘OK. But I swear that none of us burned that cottage.’

‘So you keep saying. But you keep a list of second homes and you use some pretty inflammatory language on that website of
yours.’

‘I told you, that’s only to put the wind up the enemy. Know what I mean? Psychological warfare. That’s what it is. Psychological
warfare.’

The phrase sat uncomfortably on Chas’s lips and he suspected that the words had been spoken by someone further up the organisation.
Someone with a bit more intelligence and education than Chas Ventisard.

‘OK, OK, Chas. I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t. But you’ll have to sign a statement.’

‘Then can I go?’

‘We’d like some names first. I just want to talk to your mates. It doesn’t mean I’m going to arrest them,’ he said. ‘Just
a friendly chat.’

Chas Ventisard looked at the DCI suspiciously. Then, realising he had little choice, he began to mumble. ‘Jem Burrows is the
main man. But he doesn’t agree with violence. We’re a peaceful organisation.’

‘Yeah. Course you are.’ Gerry Heffernan’s mouth turned upwards into a dangerous grin. ‘Where can I find this Jem Burrows?’

Chas glanced sideways at his solicitor. ‘I’ve given you a name like you asked. I’m no Judas. You can find him yourself.’

Gerry Heffernan had to be satisfied with this morsel. It would have been too much to hope for chapter and verse on every Pure
Son of the West who ever dreamed up some half-baked threats in the public bar of their local. He had a name and Jem Burrows
wouldn’t be difficult to find. With any luck, he might have a record. Easily traced.

He left the interview room and made for the CID office. There was a lot to do and he had wasted enough time on Chas Ventisard.
He found it hard to
believe that Chas and his cronies would actually have had the guts to set fire to Owl Cottage. They were all talk, and hinting
at involvement on the website had probably been an opportunistic act – one they’d swiftly regretted.

As soon as he reached the CID office, Trish Walton came bounding up to him, as though she’d been on the lookout for his arrival.

‘I’ve just been talking to the owner of Owl Cottage, sir.’

Heffernan stopped. This was the news he’d been waiting for.

‘His name’s Jack Plesance and he lives near Birmingham. He’s coming straight down.’

‘Did he know Ian Rowe was—?’

‘Yes. He said he could have the cottage for a week while he sorted something out.’

‘Did you find out anything else? How he came to know him or …?’

Trish looked apologetic. ‘Sorry.’

Gerry said nothing. No doubt he’d learn all about Jack Plesance’s connection with Ian Rowe soon enough. Patience – or so his
mother had always told him – was a virtue.

As Trish was about to return to her desk, Gerry had a sudden thought. ‘Was it you who chased this up, Trish?’

As she nodded, she looked slightly embarrassed.

‘I asked Nick to do it. What’s up with him? Has he lost the use of his brains or what?’ He was aware that he was growing angry.
And that wasn’t good for his
blood pressure.

He took a deep, calming breath. ‘He had something to do, sir.’

The DCI looked at the new boy’s desk. It was heaped with paperwork. And the seat was empty. ‘Where is he?’

‘I’m not sure.’

Trish was covering for him, he could tell. She’d never have made a living as an actress. Good job she’d stuck to police work.

‘Tell him I want a word when he gets back.’

He looked at his watch, wondering how long it would be before Wesley returned from visiting Professor Demancour. He would
have liked to see the man for himself. But even he couldn’t be everywhere at once.

After he had instructed Paul Johnson to find an address for Jem Burrows he walked over to the open window and looked out over
the river. The waterway was teeming with craft and from time to time he caught a few words of amplified commentary from the
sleek pleasure boats that cruised up and down the river, packed with tourists. He had heard it all before so it only took
the odd word to give him the gist of what was being said. The guide was telling the passengers how ships assembled in the
River Trad before sailing off to the Crusades and how Tradmouth was a thriving port during the Middle Ages when great wooden
cogs traded with Bordeaux and returned to the town with their cargoes of French wine. But that was a long time ago.

The sound of Paul Johnson’s voice roused him from
his reverie. ‘I’ve got Jem Burrows’s address, sir. And he’s got a record. He was convicted of selling fake DVDs last year.
Flogged them in local markets. Got a two-year suspended sentence.’

‘So he’s got a lot to lose if he gets into trouble again.’

‘Two years of his life. Well, a year with full remission.’ Paul had always been a little pedantic.

‘Go and have a quiet word, will you? Take Trish.’

Gerry assumed that it was the prospect of Trish’s company that had brought a smile to Paul’s face rather than an encounter
with Jem Burrows.

He strolled back to his office. He needed to think. And he wished Wesley was there to help him do it.

Wesley Peterson sat in the passenger seat looking out of the window at the passing scenery as Rachel drove to Nadia’s address.
Uniform had had no luck but, as Neston was on the way back, Wesley thought it would do no harm to try again.

After a while Rachel broke the amicable silence. ‘Aren’t you still supposed to be on leave?’

‘I’m supposed to be.’

‘Is Pam happy with that?’

Wesley didn’t answer for a few seconds. ‘It’s the school holidays. Pam tends to be happy in the school holidays and stressed
in term time. It’s an occupational hazard of being a teacher.’

‘But surely she’d like you at home.’

‘I’ll take some more leave when this is all cleared up. She understands. And she did know Ian Rowe … sort of.’

‘Did she like him?’

‘Not much.’

‘So we’re sure the man in the cottage is Rowe?’

‘Everything points that way. His passport was in the holdall upstairs. The owner of Owl Cottage has been contacted and he
said that Rowe phoned him to ask if he could use the cottage while he sorted out some business in Devon. There seems to be
little doubt that it’s him. Nobody else it could be, really. Maybe we’ll know more once we’ve talked to Nadia Lucas. She obviously
lent Rowe her car so it’s odds-on she saw him when he arrived here.’

‘They must be close. I’d be choosy about who I lent my car to. When’s the post mortem?’

‘First thing tomorrow. Colin couldn’t fit it in any sooner. There’s a lot of death about, apparently.’

‘So what’s new?’ Rachel muttered under her breath.

Rachel brought the car to a halt outside a small Victorian terraced house on the edge of Neston. ‘This is it,’ she said. ‘This
is the address we have for Nadia Lucas. What did you think of Professor Demancour, by the way?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Wesley honestly. He hadn’t quite known what to make of the professor. It had been hard to tell whether
he was lying or not.

‘Neither am I. I’m not sure what was going on behind all that show of co-operation and all that Gallic charm.’ She grinned.
‘Not that I approve of racial stereotypes, of course.’

‘I reckon he knows more than he told us so he might be worth another visit. Let’s hope we have more luck than
uniform and find Nadia at home this time. It’ll be interesting to see how she reacts to the news of Ian’s death.’

‘Mmm. Do you want to tell her or shall I?’

‘I’ll do it,’ he said quickly. He wanted to choose his own words when the time came.

He locked the car and walked slowly to the front door. The house was neat and freshly painted and there were red geraniums
tumbling from a window box. The Roman blinds at the windows looked expensive. It seemed that Nadia Lucas was considerably
better off than Ian Rowe, who had scratched a living busking and washing up in restaurants. Not for the first time, Wesley
found himself wondering about their exact relationship.