A Perfect Death (30 page)

When there was no answer, he put the phone down. He’d try again later. But then he remembered the threatening letters she’d
been receiving and he suddenly felt worried for her. Perhaps he’d send a
patrol car round. Just to make sure she was all right.

He heard Gerry Heffernan’s voice booming across the office. ‘Hey, Wes, I’ve just spoken to Jack Plesance – he says that, as
far as he knows, Ian Rowe was the only one in that cottage. Of course he was miles away in Birmingham at the time so he couldn’t
know who Rowe might have met up with which is a fat lot of use. Let’s hope this lead of Rachel’s about the missing security
guard comes to something.’

‘If it does, I reckon our Saint Martin could be in this up to his neck,’ said Wesley quietly as he picked up the phone and
tried Sheryl Bright’s number again.

But there was still no reply.

Neil hesitated before sinking his trowel into the area the police had cordoned off – the strange round shape which had given
such a strong signal on the geophys. He was trying hard to ignore the fact that a woman had burned to death a few yards from
this particular spot, telling himself that they’d been kept waiting long enough for access and he needed to find out what
was causing that geophys anomaly. But when he looked round at his colleagues, he noticed that they too were holding back,
almost as though they shared his misgivings.

The digger had stripped off the top layer of soil with the delicacy of a chef slicing the skin off a fillet of fish and Neil
stood for a moment looking at the result before taking a deep breath and squatting down to make a few exploratory scrapes
with his trowel.

But a commotion at the other end of the field
interrupted his efforts. Voices chanting, people shouting slogans.

‘Save our countryside. Save our Devon. Save our countryside. Save our Devon.’

He straightened up to see what was happening and his heart began to race. They were all over his trenches. They could destroy
the archaeology if they carried on like that. He began to march towards them, fists clenched, face set in anger. Neil didn’t
get angry very often but the sight of people who knew nothing about his work trampling all over the site like a herd of undiscip-lined
elephants did the trick.

‘Oi. Get off there,’ he heard himself shouting, surprised at the strength and violence of his own voice. ‘Get off this site …
now.’

He stood there, knees slightly bent like a Wild West gunfighter waiting for a shootout. A long-haired young man in combat
gear was swaggering towards him and the rest of the invaders had fallen silent.

Neil could see his team out of the corner of his eye. They were watching, breath held. This was High Noon. Neil’s opponent
faced him, a determined look on his face.

The invader spoke first. ‘Jem Burrows – spokesperson for the Pure Sons of the West. We’re here to protest peacefully about
the rape of our Devon countryside. You’ll know this is an important site as well as a place of outstanding natural beauty
so I’m inviting you and your team to join us in our objections to this development which is motivated purely by greed and
the bottom line.’ The speech had obviously been
prepared and rehearsed. When it was over, he looked at Neil, awaiting a response.

Burrows’s words had the desired effect. Neil’s anger had subsided, leaving only a small niggle of irritation.

‘I can’t say I disagree with you, mate. Only thing is, can you tell your comrades not to go near our trenches? They might
destroy valuable archaeology. Why don’t they stick to the edge of the field?’

Jem Burrows leaned forward, offering his hand. Neil took it and they shook hands to the cheers of the Pure Sons of the West
and the puzzlement of the archaeological team before Burrows turned and issued orders to his protesters who scurried to their
positions and stood awkwardly, as though, with this sudden lack of opposition, they felt rather lost.

Burrows sidled up to Neil. ‘Er, have you any idea when Bright’s due to turn up?’

Neil shook his head, trying to hide a smile. It looked as though Jem Burrows had miscalculated his protest badly. ‘Sorry,
mate. He doesn’t show up every day. Only when he wants to hassle us for digging too slowly. Look, I’m on your side but I really
don’t think there’s much point hanging round.’

Burrows gave Neil a conspiratorial smile. ‘It’s a nice day and there’s a lovely view of the river so we might stay around
for a bit … just in case. Promise we won’t get in your way.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Neil.

If Jem Burrows wanted to waste his time, that was up to him.

*

Jon Bright parked his wife’s Mini Cooper in front of the garage and watched the automatic door open slowly, almost lazily.
He’d told Sheryl that he intended to work from home that afternoon but his own car wasn’t in its usual spot on the gravel
drive, which meant she must have gone out already without waiting to say hello. No doubt she’d borrowed the Range Rover because
she’d needed to transport her easel and the rest of her art paraphernalia. Anyway, he enjoyed driving the Mini from time to
time. But, looking at the empty drive, he felt a little uneasy, knowing that Sheryl would be driving around the countryside
alone in search of some picturesque spot to capture on canvas without a thought for her personal safety. After everything
that had happened she still wasn’t taking adequate precautions against the lunatics who called themselves the Pure Sons of
the West. She’d even refused police protection after they’d firebombed the summerhouse. Sometimes she was too laid back for
her own good.

Sheryl was an artist so she tended to see things differently from other people. Until quite recently he’d found her mildly
bohemian ways attractive, a refreshing contrast to his own world of business. But in the last few months this aspect of her
nature had begun to get on his nerves – especially now that she seemed to have retreated into a world of her own and was taking
the threats of those lunatics so lightly. They were dangerous and now they’d proved it. He’d really hoped that after the destruction
of the summerhouse she’d start to take things more seriously.

He pressed the accelerator gently and the car moved forward into the shadows of the double garage that stood some twenty yards
from the house. Once he was inside, the door closed slowly behind him with a low-pitched electronic hum and he was left in
silent darkness. As he climbed out of the car and locked it with the remote control, he smiled to himself. Tomorrow he’d go
and put the fear of God into those archaeologists but in the meantime he had work to catch up with, away from the constant
interruptions of the office.

He walked over to the side door with his briefcase in his hand and was about to let himself out of the garage when he heard
a sound somewhere behind him. A scrabbling in the dark, an animal maybe.

But before he could turn round the blow came and he slumped to the ground. Then the stench of petrol began to fill the air.

If someone rescues you from certain death, you owe them your loyalty at the very least, so Jeanne committing adultery with
another man must have seemed to Stephen de Grendalle like the ultimate betrayal.

We know little about de Grendalle as a man, except that he was a devout son of the church, as so many were in those far-off
days. I wonder whether Jeanne was also devout in her own way. The Cathars believed that our ‘tunics of flesh’, as they described
our bodies, were bound to fall prey to impurity and sin. It was only the soul that was pure.

Walter Fitzallen, founder of Tradmouth’s fortunes, must have been a dynamic and powerful man and such men are attractive to
women as I know from experience. So when Urien de Norton saw Fitzallen and Jeanne together, he jumped to the worst conclusion,
a conclusion that was to lead to Jeanne’s agonising death.

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

Wesley put the phone down. ‘There’s been a fire at Jon Bright’s place. His garage has been burned to the ground.’

Gerry scratched his head. ‘Anyone hurt?’

‘Don’t know yet. The fire investigators are still combing through the wreckage. Sheryl Bright’s car was inside, apparently,
and a note was pushed through the letterbox. Looks like it’s our friends the Pure Sons of the West again.’

‘Is Mrs Bright at home?’

‘Yes. Apparently she’s OK.’ He paused. ‘Cherry Bakewell.’

‘You what?’

‘I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet but when Trish and I went to see Charles and Hannah Whitling, those archaeologists
who worked with Nadia’s mother, they told us that Sheryl took part in the 1983 dig at Grandal Field. She was a sixth-former
at the time and before she was married her name was Bakewell – usually known as Cher but the Whitlings called her Cherry.
I’ve been intending to speak to her. I want to find out what she remembers about Maggie March and Wendy Haskel. The Whitlings
told Nadia about her so she might even have got round to paying her a visit.’

Gerry looked interested. ‘You still think Nadia Lucas’s death is connected with what happened to her mother?’

Wesley nodded. ‘I’m sure it is. Don’t know why or how but …’

‘A hunch. I’ve had a few of those in my time,’ said the older copper.

‘And fire. It’s all connected with fire.’ He saw Gerry raise his eyebrows. ‘Nadia was burned to death. So was the man we thought
was Ian Rowe – it’ll be interesting to see whether that really was Denis Wade. Dr Maggie March was killed in a burning car
back in 1983 and now we’ve got another fire at the Brights’ place.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You know, Gerry, I can’t get
this story of the Burning Bride out of my head. It’s like some sort of motif, always there in the background. Nadia was killed
in Grandal Field. According to legend, the bride in question was married to the lord who owned that land.’

‘Coincidence?’

Wesley shrugged his shoulders. He could see the scepticism in Gerry’s eyes. Maybe the boss was right to be sceptical. Maybe
he was getting too imaginative. ‘Right, we’d better get out to the Brights’ place and see what’s going on, and while we’re
at it we can ask Sheryl Bright about March, Haskel and Nadia.’

‘The Nutter’s always banging on about efficiency,’ Gerry said with a grin that verged on the wicked.

Half an hour later they were sitting in the Brights’ living room. Through the window they could see the fire fighters outside,
sifting their way through the wreckage of the garage. Sheryl chose to sit with her back to the French windows so she couldn’t
see what was going on and Wesley couldn’t blame her. He could sense her anxiety as she fidgeted with the fringes of the cushion
she was hugging to her body, as if for comfort. Her husband had borrowed her car that day because she needed the Range Rover.
Her car had been in that
garage so he must have come home. But, as yet, the fire investigators had found no trace of him.

‘Can you tell me what happened, Mrs Bright?’ Wesley began.

She nodded. ‘I was out painting. Not far away really – just four hundred yards or so up the lane. I took the Range Rover because
it’s easier to transport my easel in the bigger car and there’s a handy lay-by to park in. I grabbed a quick sandwich before
I went out and I set up my easel in the field around one o’clock. Then I found that I hadn’t brought any water for my brushes
so I called at a cottage nearby – I know the woman who lives there from an evening class I taught a couple of years ago and
I see her from time to time. We chatted for a while on the doorstep then I turned round and saw smoke coming from the direction
of our house so I ran all the way up the lane to investigate and I saw … I knocked on my neighbour’s door and she called the
fire brigade. It was terrible.’ She tore a tissue from the box on the coffee table and blew her nose. She was on the verge
of tears.

‘I believe you found another note.’

‘It was lying in the hall so they must have pushed it through the letterbox like before. It’s in the kitchen.’

Wesley looked at the DCI who gave a small nod of approval. He walked through into the kitchen where he found the note lying
on the worktop. Someone, probably the constable who first attended the scene, had had the presence of mind to place it in
a protective plastic bag. Not, Wesley thought, that this would do any good. If it was like the other he’d seen, the
writer would have left no trace of his or her identity.

He picked it up and read the words through the veil of plastic. ‘You wouldn’t listen, would you? You’ve been tried in your
absence and the death of your wife is your just punishment for the rape of our land. There is only one way of dealing with
those who murder communities. If it continues, you’ll be next.’ It was signed ‘The Pure Sons of the West’. Wesley reread it,
thinking that the author of the note had a good command of English. Just like Jem Burrows.

He carried the note back into the living room and gave it to Gerry. Then he looked Sheryl Bright in the eye. She looked frightened
and his next words weren’t going to make her feel any better.

‘The note implies that you were the intended victim, Mrs Bright.’

She looked up at Wesley, her eyes desperate. ‘They must have thought I was driving the Mini and that I’d be in the garage.
Do you think I’m in danger? Do you think they’ll try again?’

‘Don’t worry, love,’ Gerry said comfortingly. ‘I reckon we’ll be able to make an arrest pretty soon. Now all we have to do
is find out where your husband’s got to. Any ideas where he might be?’

Sheryl shook her head. ‘If the car was in the garage, that means he must have come home. Maybe he went out for a walk or …’

Wesley looked at her sharply. ‘Is he in the habit of going for country walks?’ Somehow Jon Bright hadn’t struck him as the
type to appreciate the beauties of the countryside.

‘Sometimes. I don’t know.’ She didn’t sound very convincing.

Wesley leaned forward. ‘Leaving that for the moment, I’d like to ask you about an archaeological dig you took part in back
in the nineteen eighties.’