A Perfect Death (2 page)

Wesley didn’t answer. He caught a whiff of cigarette smoke and stepped back. Somehow he didn’t want to prolong this conversation.
It had brought a stain of reality to their Gallic fantasy.

But Rowe wasn’t going to let him escape that easily. ‘Ever hear from that Neil you used to hang round with?’

‘Yes, I see him quite often. He’s working for the Devon County Archaeological Unit.’

A bitter sneer twisted Rowe’s mouth. ‘What about you?’

Wesley hesitated for a second. ‘I joined the police. I’m a detective inspector in Tradmouth.’ He
harboured the uncharitable hope that the revelation might discourage further conversation. Some instinct told him that Rowe’s
life since university might not always have been lived on the right side of the law.

He was rather surprised when the man’s lips curled upwards into a knowing smile. ‘I did know about your surprising choice
of career, as a matter of fact.’

‘How?’

‘Someone told me when I was back in England a while ago.’

‘Who?’

Rowe shrugged. ‘Can’t remember. I spotted you earlier in the Place Marcou. Almost like fate, I suppose.’

The way he said the words made Wesley feel a little uneasy. ‘You followed us?’

‘Well, I couldn’t let the opportunity pass, could I? Tradmouth. That’s near Morbay, isn’t it?’

‘Morbay’s on our patch, yes.’ He glanced in Pam’s direction; she was coming down the steps, heading towards them.

Rowe suddenly grasped Wesley’s arm. ‘Look, I need a bit of advice. Someone I know could be in a bit of bother. I’m worried
about her and when I saw you I thought …’

‘Wes, are you going to be long?’ he heard Pam say pointedly.

But Rowe seemed to take her words as encouragement. ‘Why don’t you introduce us?’

Wesley turned to Pam. ‘Pam, this is Ian Rowe. He was on my course.’

‘Failed his exams and dropped out. Nice to see you, Pam.’

Pam blustered, as though she feared she’d misread the situation. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise you were … Are you on holiday or …?’

‘Sadly not. Got a job washing up in the Auberge de la Cité. Just temporary while I look for something better.’

‘Do you get back to England much?’ she said. Wesley guessed that the question was motivated by a mixture of politeness and
curiosity.

Rowe’s expression clouded. ‘Not much. In fact I haven’t been back since my mum died six months back.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Pam rapidly rearranged her features into a mask of sympathy.

‘Don’t worry, Pam. One of those things.’ Rowe looked at his watch. ‘Shit,’ he said under his breath. ‘If I don’t get a move
on, I’ll be late for my shift.’ He turned to Wesley. ‘Look, Wes, can we meet up tomorrow?’

Wesley glanced at Pam. His instincts told him that he might be treading on dangerous ground if he agreed to any disruption
to their holiday plans. But her expression was neutral.

‘We’re going to the tournament but we’ve nothing else planned,’ he heard himself saying. He was becoming rather intrigued
by Ian Rowe. He wanted to know what had brought him there … and why he was so anxious to obtain his advice.

‘The tournament finishes at three thirty sharp so I’ll
meet you afterwards in the Place Saint Nazaire. In front of the cathedral. OK?’ Rowe said quickly, leaving no room for objections.
‘Look, I’ve really got to go.’

He turned and ran up the steps, disappearing beneath the arch of the Porte de Rodez. Wesley and Pam stood there for a few
moments in silence.

‘Well, he certainly seems worried about something,’ Pam said softly as they began to walk back towards the hotel.

‘Apparently someone told him I’d joined the police and now he wants my advice – don’t ask me what about.’ He decided not to
mention that Rowe had followed them from the Place Marcou, waiting for an opportunity to get him alone.

‘Are you going to meet him?’

‘Not if you don’t want me to,’ Wesley said quickly.

Pam gave the matter some thought. ‘I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to find out what’s bothering him.’ She smiled and took
his hand. ‘Now how about that early night you mentioned?’

DCI Gerry Heffernan glanced at the calendar on his office wall. Three more days and Wesley would return. The sun would shine
in the heavens, all crime in South Devon would cease and muggers would start helping old ladies across the road without pinching
their pensions. Or, failing that, he would have an extra pair of hands to rely on. DS Rachel Tracey was doing a fair job of
filling in during Wesley’s absence but Gerry was a creature of habit and, to him, things just weren’t the same without his
DI.

He sat at his desk playing with his pen, wondering why he’d been landed with this problem first thing on a Wednesday morning,
just when CID was short handed. But he tried to convince himself that he was being unduly pessimistic. Someone setting themselves
alight in a field might well be a particularly unpleasant case of suicide – not something that need occupy CID’s resources
for too long.

He began to read the report on his desk. Just outside Queenswear a farmer, unable to sleep for worrying about falling milk
prices, had looked out of an upstairs window and spotted the blaze shortly after midnight. But the firemen who’d answered
his call had been in for a shock. The fire was in a field that had recently been sold off by the farmer to be used for new
housing and, when the flames were extinguished, the firemen made a grim discovery – the burned remains of a human body.

The first police officer on the scene had been sick. And then he had the presence of mind to call in the scene of crime team.
With a deep sigh, Gerry stood up and strolled out into the CID office. His eyes were drawn to the window. The first floor
of the police station afforded a good view of the river and, as it was a fine summer’s day, the yachts were out there already,
enjoying the sunshine and the excellent sailing conditions. Gerry felt a twinge of envy. He’d much rather be sailing round
the headland on the
Rosie May
on a morning like this than standing in a field looking at some poor bugger’s charred remains.

He saw that Rachel Tracey was waiting for him, her
blonde hair tied back in a businesslike ponytail and her handbag slung over her shoulder, ready for the off. She had a keen
expression on her face, like a border collie who’d just spotted a straggling herd of sheep badly in need of rounding up. She
looked as if she was eager to examine the burned corpse in the field even if her boss wasn’t.

‘You all right there, Rach?’ The question was rhetorical. He could see for himself that Rachel was all right. She was taking
to the role of acting detective inspector like a seagull to a chimney pot. When Wesley returned from holiday, she would be
a detective sergeant again. But Gerry was reluctant to press too hard for her promotion as he didn’t want to lose Rachel to
uniform … or, worse still, traffic. She was a valuable asset – a jewel to be prized and kept away from the avaricious eyes
of others. Besides, Gerry was used to her and he liked what he knew.

Rachel drove as usual – Gerry Heffernan saved his navigational skills for the water and, besides, Rachel, having been brought
up on a local farm, knew the area as only a native can. Gerry, originally from Liverpool, had married a local girl but he
still considered himself an outsider, even after twenty-six years in Tradmouth. Rachel’s family, however, had farmed the Devon
land for centuries and she steered the car down single-track lanes with a confidence that made her boss turn pale. He sat
in the passenger seat, enjoying the trip over the river on the clanking car ferry, but when they reached dry land he closed
his eyes tight. Wesley’s driving, he thought to himself, was far more cautious.

When they came to a sudden halt Gerry’s eyes flicked open. The fields here rolled into one another, the green landscape undulating
like a swelling sea, punctuated by copses, ancient hedgerows and the occasional mellow house or agricultural building. It
was rich land with lush grass and red, fertile soil. A herd of Jersey cows grazed studiously in the field beyond the gate.

‘Grandal Farm. This is the place,’ Rachel said.

‘Where is everyone?’

Rachel didn’t answer for a few seconds. Then she started the engine and drove further up the lane. Around the bend a patrol
car and Dr Colin Bowman’s Volvo squatted in a wide passing place. Rachel said nothing. Never, in all the time Gerry had known
her, had she ever admitted she was wrong.

‘Here goes,’ Gerry Heffernan mumbled as he extricated his bulky body from his seat belt and climbed out of the car.

He could see a group of people in the distance, mostly clad in white overalls. They were crowded near a small copse of trees
at the far end of the field. There was a bright flash from the photographer’s camera as they approached and Gerry could make
out the pathologist, Colin Bowman, at the centre of the group, stooping over something on the ground. Gerry had an ominous
feeling that he was about to see something frightful. He bit his lip and carried on, fixing a smile of greeting to his lips.
But he noticed that Rachel’s expression was serious, as though she knew exactly what was coming.

He walked over the uneven surface of the newly mown field ahead of Rachel and, as he approached, Colin Bowman moved forward
to greet him, his body shielding the thing on the ground from view.

‘Gerry, good to see you,’ he said.

‘What’s the story then?’ Gerry had just caught a fleeting glimpse of something blackened and twisted lying there on the ground
and suddenly he didn’t feel in the mood for Colin’s usual social chit-chat.

‘I’m afraid it’s a nasty one, Gerry,’ said Colin. ‘But I’ll be able to tell you more when I’ve had a proper look back at the
mortuary.’

‘Could it be suicide?’

Colin shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

Gerry hesitated. ‘I assume the poor bugger was dead when he was set alight?’

‘I rather suspect it’s a she actually but it’s not easy to

tell.’ Colin sighed, deep in thought. ‘I’ll have to check the lungs to see whether any smoke was inhaled but …’

Gerry sensed there was something Colin was keeping back. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

Colin was silent for a few moments. ‘The arms aren’t in the classic pugilistic position so there’s a possibility that she
was tied up before being burned alive. The SOCOs have found the charred remains of a buckle so it’s possible that her arms
were secured by a belt or … However, I won’t be able to say for sure until …’

‘So it looks like we’ve got a murder on our hands?’

Colin Bowman looked at him, suddenly solemn. ‘Yes. And it’s a particularly nasty one.’

*

Pam was smiling as the tournament came to a close. Recently smiles had been rare, Wesley thought as he put his arm around
her shoulders. The mounted knights rode past acknowledging the cheers of the crowd, but as the horses’ hoofs clattered on
the hard ground a mobile phone in the row began to ring, returning them rudely to the twenty-first century.

They walked out of the arena hand in hand, following the other chattering spectators. They had five minutes before their appointment
with Ian Rowe and the Place Saint Nazaire was only round the corner so they strolled slowly, enjoying the warmth of the sun.

‘Perhaps he’ll be able to recommend somewhere for dinner tonight,’ Pam said hopefully. Wesley didn’t reply. He guessed the
last thing on Ian Rowe’s mind would be small talk and restaurant recommendations. And, from what he remembered of Rowe during
his time at university, he wasn’t the sort he’d choose to pass the time of day with on a precious holiday either. He’d listen
to whatever Rowe had to say then he’d make his excuses.

The Place Saint Nazaire was busy but they spotted Rowe right away. He was waiting for them, sitting on the stone bench Wesley
and Pam had occupied briefly the night before, strumming a guitar, the instrument case open on the ground in front of him.
Wesley could see some coins in the guitar case.

They fought their way past camera-wielding tourists and a party of pubescent French schoolchildren, alternately chattering
and making a massive effort to appear cool in front of their peers. As Wesley drew
closer to Rowe, he could hear him singing – something by the Beatles. “Yesterday”
.
Somehow the song seemed appropriate. Rowe’s voice was pleasant – not good enough for a professional performance, perhaps,
but easy to listen to and in tune. Wesley felt in his pocket and pulled out a euro coin, then he stood for a while listening,
just out of Rowe’s line of vision.

When the song was finished, the small audience of tourists started to drift away, some throwing coins which landed in the
guitar case with a succession of dull thuds. Wesley noticed that Rowe’s face looked gaunt in the bright sunlight, as though
he could do with a good meal.

‘Very good,’ he said with a smile as he threw the coin into the case. He sat down on the bench beside Rowe but Pam remained
standing, as though preparing to make a quick getaway. Wesley sensed she didn’t want to waste time and neither did he, so
he came straight to the point.

‘Last night you said you wanted some advice.’

Rowe looked round nervously, as though afraid of eavesdroppers. ‘Never had you down as a cop, Wesley Peterson. Do they give
you a hard time … being black?’

‘It’s been known … but that’s their problem, not mine. You said you were worried about a friend of yours.’ He could sense Pam
behind him, prickling with impatience.

Ian lowered his voice. ‘Yeah. She lives in Neston and works in Morbay so when I found out you were working near there …’

The sudden look of anxiety in Rowe’s eyes told Wesley that his worry was genuine.

‘Let’s just start at the beginning. Who is she and why are you worried about her?’

‘Her name’s Nadia Lucas. I met her when I dropped out of uni. I worked with her at Sir—’ He stopped in mid sentence. ‘But
that’s another story – I’m still sorting that one out,’ he added, slightly mysteriously. ‘Anyway, Nadia turned up over here
about eighteen months ago working for this professor at Toulouse University. Then about nine months ago he moved on to Morbay
Uni and Nadia went with him. Weird little bloke,’ Rowe added with an unpleasant grin.