A Perfect Death (13 page)

Wesley knocked on the door, impatient now to see the woman who’d sent those tantalising e-mails to Rowe. After a few moments
the door opened to reveal a striking woman, probably around his own age, with short dark hair. She wore a striped top and
long peasant skirt – a fashion
de rigueur
in the self-consciously New Age town of Neston.

As soon as Wesley held up his warrant card and identified himself, the woman’s expression hardened. He wondered why.

‘I presume you’ve come about the break-in. About time too. I was fobbed off last time – they just gave me a crime number so
I could claim on the insurance and a card with the number of Victim Support but—’

Wesley stopped her in full flow. ‘I’m sorry. We haven’t come about a break-in. Are you Nadia Lucas?’

‘No. She’s not here. I haven’t seen her for a while.
I’ve been away for a couple of days and I’ve only just got back.’

‘But she does live here? We were given this address.’

‘Yes, she lives here. We share. But, like I said, I’ve not seen her.’

‘And you are?’

‘Caroline Tay,’ she answered, a hint of suspicion in her voice.

‘Do you mind if we come in – just for a chat?’ Rachel asked, giving the woman an unthreatening smile.

Wesley saw her hesitate for a few moments before standing aside to let them in, as though afraid that letting the police into
the house would be inviting bad luck.

When they were in the front room, with its stripped wood floor and its richly coloured Indian throws, Caroline Tay invited
them to sit.

‘We’re looking for Nadia because a friend of hers has been killed,’ Wesley began. He thought he’d better make it clear from
the start that Nadia wasn’t in any sort of trouble – at least not trouble of the legal kind.

Caroline’s eye’s widened in alarm. ‘Killed. Was it an accident or …?’

‘We’re still not sure of the circumstances.’

‘Who is this friend?’

‘A man called Ian Rowe. Have you heard of him?’ Wesley watched the woman’s face carefully.

‘No. I don’t think she ever mentioned an Ian. But then we’ve only been sharing for a few months. There’s still a lot I don’t
know about Nadia.’

‘He was driving her car.’

Caroline shrugged. ‘Perhaps she lent it to him. I don’t know.’

‘Do you work with her?’

‘Sort of. I work at the university and she answered an advert I put on the noticeboard for someone to share and help with
the mortgage. Couldn’t manage it on my own. Nadia and I get on OK but we’re not bosom buddies. She’s quiet and fairly tidy
and she’s out a lot of the time— ’

Wesley interrupted before Caroline could continue her eulogy. ‘We found some e-mails Nadia sent to the dead man and we think
she might be able to help us.’ He didn’t feel inclined to tell her about his own involvement. Keep things simple.

Caroline Tay took a deep breath. ‘The truth is I am a bit concerned. Nadia hasn’t been home for a few days and her mobile’s
switched off.’

‘Can we have her number?’ Wesley asked quickly.

‘Of course. I’ll write it down for you.’ She hesitated. ‘Like I said, I’ve been away for a couple of days and I thought she’d
be here when I got back but there’s no sign of her.’

Wesley’s eyes met Rachel’s.

‘She usually lets me know if she’s going to be away but … Nothing.’

‘And you’re worried?’ Rachel said gently.

The answer was a nod.

We can’t get a clear picture of what kind of man Stephen de Grendalle was from contemporary documents. All such sources tell
us are the bare facts and, as an aca-demic, I am well aware that I should stick to dry realities. Imagination is for novelists.
But imagination is something I cannot control. Perhaps I should write this story in novel form. Perhaps that is the only way
I’ll be able to express the truth as I see it … and bring the people behind the sterile words to life.

We don’t know how Stephen came to meet Jeanne. Records indicate that she was amongst those sentenced to be burned alive at
Minerve but there is no explanation of how Stephen rescued her from such a fate. Did he see her and fall in love at once,
I wonder? And what ruse did he devise to secure her release?

Of course we cannot know after all these centuries but I see it in my dreams: the parade of prisoners; the young man struck
by beauty; the subterfuge as he spirits her away from mortal danger. No romantic novel could do it justice.

So why did it end as it did?

(From papers found in the possession of Professor
Yves Demancour)

The excavation of the Grandal Field site was due to start that day and Neil Watson found it hard to sleep.

The light was filtering through his bedroom curtains. He looked at the alarm clock and saw that it was six thirty. It was
time to get up and drive all the way down to Queenswear, even though he would have sold his soul for another couple of hours
in bed.

He turned over, wrapping the duvet closely around his body. Five more minutes. And as he lay there in the morning silence
memories of Ian Rowe began to play like a video in his head. Ian Rowe sitting at the back of the lecture room doodling and
gazing out of the window. Ian Rowe in their hall of residence gathering a group of idle cronies around him while Neil, Wesley
and their like-minded friends tended to keep their distance. Ian Rowe out of his head on some illegal substance in the Students’
Union bar while Neil and Wesley sat in the corner downing pints of beer discussing the rights and wrongs of Heinrich Schliemann’s
excavation of Troy. After the first year Neil and Wesley had moved out of hall to share a rented house with three other students
and, from that time onwards, they’d had little to do with Rowe and his entourage of wasters. They hadn’t been particularly
surprised when Rowe had been chucked out of university and after that he’d just become a distant memory.

The thing that surprised Neil most was the way Rowe had sought Wesley’s help in Carcassonne. Their acquaintance had been sketchy
to say the least. Wesley had said that he’d been keen to ask his advice because somehow he’d discovered that he was a policeman,
which meant Rowe must have had serious worries about something. Then, before Wesley could learn the whole story, Rowe had
left France and returned to Devon where he had died in a house blaze. The whole affair was rather baffling.

Neil threw off the duvet. If he didn’t set off soon he’d hit the worst of the morning traffic. As he pulled on his clothes,
he made a mental list of all the people he knew who might have had some contact with Rowe since he left university. It was
an extremely short list. Most of Neil’s friends and acquaintances were unlikely to have kept in touch. However, there was
something hidden in the recesses of his memory. And the more he tried to retrieve it, the more it drove him mad.

It wasn’t until he was half way to Queenswear that it finally came to him. He had been having a drink with Una Gibson – now
Dr Gibson – a few months ago and she had mentioned Ian Rowe. She had seen him somewhere: they had met and had a brief conversation.
He tried to remember what she’d told him but he probably hadn’t been paying much attention at the time.

But Una might remember. When he reached Queenswear, he’d give her a ring.

Gerry Heffernan had told Wesley to meet him at the hospital. He could have a bit of a lie-in, the DCI had said benevolently
with a Santa Claus smile. As the affair of Ian Rowe had disrupted his leave, he was owed some free time.

But as the post mortem on the man in the cottage
was booked for ten, Wesley’s lie-in wasn’t a long one, especially with a couple of lively children leaping on the bed, intent
on disturbing his precious peace.

Pam gave him a sympathetic smile. Since the holiday she’d seemed far more relaxed. Perhaps the small taste of detection they’d
shared in Carcassonne had given her a new understanding of his work, he thought. Whatever the reason, he found it rather gratifying.

He gave her a lingering goodbye kiss and set off for Tradmouth Hospital. As he walked down the steep, narrow street towards
the centre of the town, his stomach began to churn. He would never get used to seeing human bodies cut open. His parents were
doctors, as was his sister, but Wesley had concluded long ago that he must be a throwback to some squeamish ancestor.

Gerry Heffernan was waiting for him outside the plastic swing doors leading to the mortuary and, considering his workload,
he looked remarkably cheerful.

‘How did you get on with Professor Demancour yesterday?’

‘He said that both Rowe and Nadia used to work for Sir Martin Crace but other than that he didn’t tell us much we didn’t know
already. We called at Nadia’s address on the way back. She wasn’t there but we spoke to her housemate who seems a bit worried
about her. She hasn’t seen her for a few days and her mobile’s switched off.’

‘So she’s done a runner?’

‘It’s possible. Rachel’s giving the housemate another
call this morning to see if Nadia’s turned up.’

‘Good.’

‘How’s Joyce?’ Wesley asked as they walked down the corridor to Colin Bowman’s office, sensing that the DCI needed a break
from discussing the case.

‘Fine. We went out for an Italian last night. New place near the boat float. Very good. And not expensive. You should try
it.’

Before Wesley could reply, Colin Bowman emerged from his office and greeted them like old friends as usual. Wesley had rarely
encountered such a sociable and hospitable man. It was just a pity that his patients were in no position to appreciate his
cheerful nature.

The corpse discovered in the burned cottage was waiting for them in the post mortem room. There was a lingering smell of burned
flesh in the air, blending rather unpleasantly with the floral scent of air freshener, and Wesley put his hand to his nose.

‘I take it we still haven’t got a name for the woman from Grandal Field?’ Colin asked as he gently folded the sheet back to
reveal the corpse in its full horror.

‘Not yet. We’ve been through all our missing persons but none seem to fit. I’m working on the theory that she’s probably some
poor lass from Eastern Europe – victim of sex traffickers punished by some bastard of a pimp.’

Colin sighed. ‘It’s a wicked world, Gerry. And I’m afraid my findings don’t help very much. She’d had no dental treatment.
Unlike our friend here. He’d had a couple of fillings so at least that gives us somewhere to start.’

Wesley looked down at the body of the man from Owl Cottage. The features were burned beyond recognition. Had he noticed fillings
in Ian Rowe’s mouth? The answer was no, but then he hadn’t been looking.

‘We’ll try and trace Ian Rowe’s dental records. Shouldn’t be difficult,’ said Gerry with what sounded like confidence.

‘I understand the fire was started deliberately,’ said Colin.

‘According to the fire investigators. But luckily it was put out before it spread to the whole building. The upstairs was
smoke and water damaged but the firemen found a holdall in the bedroom. There was a passport in it, amongst other things.
Name of Ian Rowe. And we know the owner of the cottage told Rowe he could use it for a few days. Told him to let himself in
with the key under the doormat apparently – some people don’t give a toss about security. Also, the body’s the right sort
of height and build so everything points to this being Ian Rowe.’ Gerry paused for effect. ‘You knew him, didn’t you Wes?’

Wesley’s eyes had been focused on a steel trolley at the other end of the room but he glanced at the body in front of him.
‘Yes. I was at uni with him.’

Colin Bowman arranged his features into an expression of sympathy, the one he used for grieving relatives. ‘Oh, Wesley, I
didn’t realise. I’m so sorry. You sure you’re all right with this?’

‘Quite sure.’ There was determination in Wesley’s words. He was going to see this through.

Colin didn’t talk much as he carried out the post
mortem. From time to time he looked up at Wesley to see his reaction. But Wesley’s gaze was focused elsewhere.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said as he took off his green surgical gown. ‘I can tell you for certain that he probably died from
smoke inhalation.’ He raised a finger as though he was about to impart some important news. ‘But there’s a slight fracture
to the skull, probably caused by our old friend the proverbial blunt instrument. He could well have been unconscious before
the fire started.’ Colin smiled. ‘You look as if you need a cup of tea, Wesley. Sorry I’ve nothing stronger. Earl Grey and
biscuits?’

‘That’ll do nicely,’ said Gerry Heffernan, making for the door.

The excavation had begun and the chugging JCB was scraping the surface soil off the first of Neil’s planned trenches. The
sun was out and so far it was going well, Neil thought, as he watched the machine back up slowly to shave the earth of another
section.

But there was always something to spoil the day, and this time it was the arrival of a brand new Range Rover at the gateway
to the site. The thing had tinted windows and, as it rolled its stately way across the rough terrain, Neil couldn’t make out
who was driving. But he knew who it was all right. He had seen Jon Bright getting in and out of his gas-guzzling vehicle on
a number of occasions.

Neil watched as the car came to a halt uncomfortably close to the edge of his trench. For a split second
he wished the trench was deeper and that Bright would accidentally apply the accelerator instead of the brake, making the
great beast hurtle forward into the abyss. It would have made his day to see Bright stuck and embarrassed. But the trench
was only a foot or so deep as yet so it wasn’t going to happen.

The car door opened and Bright climbed out. The suit he was wearing looked expensive – it would have taken a humble archaeologist
months to earn enough to pay for it. But Neil felt no envy. How could you envy someone like Bright?

‘Dr Watson. How’s it going?’

Neil stood in front of his trench with his arms folded, as though preparing to defend it from attackers. ‘We’re just putting
the first trench in.’