A Perfect Death (3 page)

‘So?’

‘I keep in touch with Nadia by phone and e-mail and recently she’s been going on about her mum’s death – really heavy stuff.
She says she’s getting close to the truth, whatever that is. I’ve been trying to contact her for the past few days but she
hasn’t replied. It’s not like her and I’m worried.’

‘She might have gone away. Her computer might be down; phone out of order.’

‘She would have said if she was going away and she works at Morbay University – plenty of computers there and they can’t all
be down. Like I said, it’s not like her.’

Wesley sighed. This had all the hallmarks of a wild goose chase. The woman was probably busy – or just sick of corresponding
with Ian Rowe.

‘I’m due to go back there myself soon – bit of personal business – but I thought you’d have ways of
checking people out and … Off the record, like. Just to make sure she’s OK.’

Wesley took a deep breath. So far everything Rowe had said was irritatingly vague. Pam had wandered off and he could see that
she was making for the cathedral. She’d had enough. And Wesley knew how she felt. He had a creeping suspicion that this man
was wasting his time, disturbing his precious holiday when he didn’t even have any evidence to hand.

‘Tell you what, Ian, why don’t you get any relevant e-mails printed off and once I’m home I’ll make a few discreet enquiries
if I have time. Unless you have evidence that a crime’s been committed, that’s the best I can offer, I’m afraid. How well
do you know this Nadia?’ he asked, trying to keep the impatience he felt out of his voice. He scanned the square but there
was no sign of Pam. She was probably inside the cathedral now, he thought, and suddenly he wanted to be in there with her.

Rowe strummed a chord on his guitar, as though he needed time to consider his answer. ‘Pretty well. She was good to me when
I needed a bit of care and attention, so I reckon I owe her.’

‘And is she the sort to over-dramatise … to make things up?’

‘She has what they call “issues”. Her mum vanished when she was little and it was assumed she’d killed herself. She was brought
up by her dad but he died a couple of years ago – cancer. A while ago she told me she’d just found some letter hidden amongst
her dad’s belongings and she’s been going on about trying to
find out what really happened to her mum ever since. Look, all I’m asking is that you make sure she’s OK.’

Wesley said nothing for a few seconds. Rowe sounded sincere. But perhaps he always sounded like that. Some of the best con
men he’d come across in the course of his career had been remarkably convincing.

‘So how come you’re here in France, Ian?’

‘I like it here. And the weather’s a whole lot better than in dear old England. Plenty of tourists. Plenty of work.’

‘What exactly have you been up to since you dropped out of uni?’ He’d noted Rowe’s evasion when he’d spoken of how he’d met
Nadia. There was something he was holding back.

An enigmatic smile appeared on Ian’s lips. ‘This and that. Bit of driving. Bit of waiting on and washing up. Bit of singing.
Anything that brings in a few euros.’ He paused and the smile widened. ‘But I might not have to worry about money for long.
Ever heard of Saissac?’

‘We went there the day after we arrived. What about it?’

‘Interesting place. Lovely views of the Pyrenees.’

‘Yes.’ Wesley remembered the dramatic ruins towering above the small village. The wind had been strong and Pam hadn’t wanted
to hang around there for long.

‘Some workmen discovered treasure there during restoration work in 1979 … it’s on display in the local museum.’

‘We saw it.’

‘You know all about the Cathars, I take it?’

‘You can’t avoid them round here. Or all the
conspiracy theories … mostly rubbish, I imagine.’

Rowe tapped the side of his nose and picked up his guitar case, emptying the coins into a canvas bag which he slung across
his shoulder. ‘Not bad,’ he muttered to himself as he placed the guitar lovingly in its battered case. He looked Wesley in
the eye. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tomorrow – ten thirty here. I’ll get copies of those e-mails printed out for you. Don’t
be late … I’m on the lunchtime shift at the restaurant and the chef there’s a bastard.’

Wesley watched him disappear into the crowd of tourists, resentful of Rowe’s presumption. Why should he disrupt his holiday
at the behest of a casual acquaintance? But, on the other hand, something about Rowe intrigued him. He stood up and walked
to the cathedral to join Pam.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the great church, he spotted her. She was studying a stained-glass window depicting the
Tree of Life, lost in her own thoughts. It was time to make it up to her. Time to forget about Ian Rowe, frightened women
and the world outside.

‘Any idea who she was?’ Colin Bowman looked at Gerry Heffernan enquiringly across the charred corpse on the mortuary table.
His glasses had slipped down his nose, giving him a studious appearance. He pushed them back up with his forearm, avoiding
touching his face with his gloved hand.

‘Your guess is as good as mine, Colin. I reckon our best bet is dental records.’

‘Sorry, Gerry. As far as I can see she’s had no fillings. Obviously looked after her teeth, which is very inconsiderate of
her.’

‘It is a she, is it?’ The thing on the stainless-steel table bore little resemblance to a human being apart from the vague
shape. It was blackened and twisted and the charred flesh had almost peeled away from the skull, displaying a row of smoke-stained,
grinning teeth.

Colin paused and looked at the body like an artist assessing his handiwork. ‘Oh, yes, I think we can be sure it’s a she.’

‘Age?’

‘The wisdom teeth are through but there’s not that much wear on the molars. If I had to hazard a guess I’d say she was in
her twenties. But that is just a guess. The PM and X-rays might give us more information but …’

‘Height?’

‘Five five, five six.’

‘Shoe size?’

Colin studied the feet. The fire had fused what looked like peep-toed sandals to the blackened flesh. ‘Average, I should think.
Size five or six.’

‘That gives us something to go on, I suppose.’

‘I’ve had a look at the lungs,’ Colin said with a sigh. ‘She was almost certainly alive when she was set alight. The fire
officers reckon some sort of accelerant was used.’

‘So some bastard doused her in petrol and set her alight?’

Colin didn’t reply. The very thought was unpalatable.

‘It’s definitely murder then? It can’t have been suicide?’

Colin nodded earnestly. ‘As I’m sure that her arms were secured behind her back and no petrol container was found by the body,
accident or suicide seem rather unlikely. Somebody burned this poor woman alive. And I’m sure you’ll agree, Gerry, that someone
capable of that is highly dangerous.’

Gerry looked round. Rachel Tracey was standing against the wall, her eyes focused on Colin’s trolley of instruments rather
than the thing on the table.

‘Rach.’

She jumped. ‘What, sir?’

‘There’s no need for you to hang around here. You get off and see if Missing Persons have come up with anyone who fits the
bill.’

Colin saw the relief on her face and knew that she wanted to be out of that room with its lingering stench of burning flesh.

‘Fancy a cup of Earl Grey when we’ve finished here, Gerry?’ he asked as soon as Rachel had gone.

But the answer was a shake of the head.

Rachel lost no time in leaving Tradmouth Hospital mortuary and hurrying down the narrow streets back to the police station
near by.

And half an hour after she started sifting through the missing persons reports on her desk, she came up with a name. Missing
woman aged twenty-five. Five
feet five and a half inches tall and size six shoes.

She only hoped she’d got it right. This was her moment. Her chance to shine.

Only two days of the holiday left. Wesley wished it was longer as he and Pam walked arm in arm down the Rue Saint Sernin,
satisfied after a long lie-in, a spot of morning passion and a rather good breakfast.

Wesley was starting to wonder whether he’d been wise to agree to another meeting with Ian Rowe. He had a nasty suspicion that
Rowe might use the opportunity to extract money from him; that all the stuff about Nadia might be a juicy bit of bait guaranteed
to hook a former archaeology student turned detective and reel him in.

He hadn’t trusted Ian Rowe back at university. In fact he and Neil had tended to avoid him whenever possible. He’d felt uncomfortable
in Rowe’s company all those years ago … maybe even out of his depth. Rowe had possessed that aura of danger that often attracts
the opposite sex. He had partied hard and indulged in illegal substances while Wesley and Neil had spent most of their time
with like-minded friends in the quieter pubs, immersing themselves in history and muddy excavations. Wesley wasn’t particularly
looking forward to his appointment with Rowe. But he had promised and Wesley had always been one to keep his word.

Besides, Pam wanted to do some shopping in his absence – presents for home.

After they’d parted, Wesley made his way to the
Place Saint Nazaire. He waited half an hour … then a little longer, just in case.

Then, at eleven thirty, he abandoned his wait. Ian Rowe hadn’t turned up. And Wesley wondered why.

The royal visit to Tradmouth began on Saturday the eighteenth of June 1205 and King John stayed at Townton Hall as the guest
of Walter Fitzallen until the following Wednesday.

In contemporary records Walter Fitzallen’s pride concerning his royal visitor is almost palpable, although King John can’t
have been an easy guest for the lord of a Devon manor, however prosperous and enterprising, to entertain.

One can imagine the adjustment of finery as the local gentry assembled on the quayside to watch the royal ship’s stately progress
up the River Trad and the excitement in the Fitzallen household as the servants rushed to and fro with fine linen and food
to impress their royal visitor and his retinue. There would be lavish feasts in the smoky great hall with its central hearth
as Walter attempted to prove that the gentry of Devon, so distant from the centre of government, were more than a match for
their counterparts at court.

It is recorded that Stephen de Grendalle was present when the King stepped ashore and I am curious about the relationship
between Walter Fitzallen and de Grendalle with his extensive
estates over the River Trad at Queenswear. Was there rivalry between the men, I wonder? And did the roots of the coming tragedy
lie in this royal visit? Such events, after all, can bring out the worst in men.

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

Rachel Tracey placed the photograph and its accompanying missing persons form on Gerry Heffernan’s cluttered desk.

The young woman on the photograph was bottle blonde with sharp features and her thin lips were drawn together in a sneering
smile.

The chief inspector studied the image for a while before looking up at Rachel. ‘She fits the bill, I suppose. How long has
she been missing?’

‘Her mother hasn’t seen her for a week but she reported her missing three days ago.’

‘She lives at home?’

Rachel nodded. ‘On the Tradmouth estate.’

‘Family?’

‘Two younger sisters. No father to speak of. Mother thought she was with her boyfriend at first but there’s been no reply
from her mobile and she’s usually good about keeping in touch.’

He studied the form again. ‘She’s twenty-five, according to this. She might think it’s time to cut the apron strings. Has
the mother spoken to the boyfriend?’

‘Yes, but he says he hasn’t seen her.’

‘Does she believe him?’

‘Not sure. I got the impression she doesn’t approve of him but she didn’t say why.’

‘Might be worth having another word.’ He looked Rachel in the eye. ‘Did you tell her about the body?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘I didn’t want to alarm her.’

‘Yeah, you did right.’ He stared at the photograph, wondering whether this could really be the face he had seen charred and
peeling from the bone like a piece of overcooked meat. It was an uncomfortable thought. And the thought that this girl had
a mother and family who’d have to be informed of the manner of her death was even worse. But the woman in the field was somebody’s
daughter, somebody’s sister, wife or friend. Someone was going to have to suffer eventually. ‘Any other possibilities?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘No local ones. But if she was brought here from somewhere else …’

He knew Rachel had a point. If the young woman had been brought by car to that field on the outskirts of Queenswear, she could
have come from anywhere in the country. Someone might have chosen South Devon as a handy place to dispose of a body and confuse
the police. How Gerry Heffernan hated it when criminals used their brains.

‘I don’t suppose some farm worker trudging up the lane saw a car parked there and happened to note down the registration number?’
he said hopefully.

Rachel smiled apologetically at his optimism and shook her head again.

‘I suppose DNA is our best hope.’ Heffernan sighed. ‘It has the smell of a punishment killing to me. What’s
the betting she’s offended some bastard of a pimp or made waves for some drug dealer.’ He felt a wave of anger surge inside
him. And he knew that if they ever got their hands on the killer, he’d have to exercise iron self-control during the interviewing
process.

‘If you’re right, sir, we might never be able to give her a name,’ Rachel said almost in a whisper.

They both sat in silence for a while. They knew only too well that Devon wasn’t immune to the horrors of the outside world.
Gerry wondered whether it ever had been.

Rachel stood up. ‘I’ll go and have a word with this …’ She picked up the form on the boss’s desk. ‘Donna Grogen’s mother.’

Gerry looked up and gave her a sad smile. ‘Rather you than me.’