A Perfect Death (32 page)

‘You think she was the intended victim?’

Wesley shrugged. ‘He was driving her car so it certainly looks that way.’

‘Well, I can tell you they’ve been here all day. None of them have budged. And before you ask, this is all of them. The lot.
They made a great point of saying that. Important protest – full turn-out.’

Wesley smiled. ‘Thanks. That’s just what I expected. I don’t reckon this is a protest as much as an elaborate alibi.’

‘You mean I’m being used?’ he said with mock horror.

‘Something like that. They all had to be seen to be miles away from the action.’

‘How’s Bright’s wife taking it? I met her yesterday, you know.’

‘Really? Where?’

‘She came to have a look at the site.’

‘Yes. She mentioned that she’d paid a quick visit.’

‘Nice woman,’ Neil continued. ‘She’s done some digging.’

‘We know all about that. She actually helped Maggie March on this site when she was a teenager.’

‘She never mentioned that.’ Neil looked a little disappointed. ‘Where was she when her husband …?’

‘Painting in a nearby field. But she was chatting to a neighbour when the place actually went up.’

Neil thought for a few moments. ‘When I met her here I don’t think she was expecting to see me.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I think she was expecting to see someone else.’

‘Any idea who?’

Neil shook his head. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ He thought for a moment. ‘If she was having an affair, might her husband
have been sending her the threatening letters? Perhaps he intended to kill her but he ended up setting himself on fire.’

As a theory it was as good as any – but his conversation with Neil was due to be interrupted. Gerry Heffernan was marching
across the field towards them, avoiding the trenches with the sure-footed elegance of a hippopotamus in a maze. Wesley saw
him wave. He looked as if he had some news.

‘Hi, Neil,’ he said as reached them. ‘How are you doing?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Wes, I’ve just had Colin Bowman on
the phone. He’s had a quick look at the body in the garage and he reckons it’s suspicious. Victim’s got a ruddy great head
wound. He was bashed before the garage was torched. Proverbial blunt instrument.’

‘Like the victim in Owl Cottage?’

Gerry shrugged. ‘Possibly.’

Wesley looked at Neil apologetically. ‘That’s put paid to your theory.’

‘I reckon it’s the coroner after overtime payments,’ mumbled Gerry as he turned to go back to the car.

Wesley examined his note book before taking his mobile phone from his pocket and punching out Rachel Tracey’s number. He needed
a few names checked out and Rachel was the person to do it swiftly and efficiently.

When he’d finished the call he turned back to Neil
and gave his old friend an apologetic smile. ‘See you soon then,’ he said before raising a hand in farewell.

‘So what’s going on?’ Neil asked, curious.

‘The Pure Sons of the West have some explaining to do,’ Wesley replied before making for the car.

‘I thought you were dead,’ Demancour said softly.

Ian Rowe didn’t answer. He looked dishevelled and scared. Not the cocksure man Demancour had once met back in France.

‘How did you get in?’

Ian Rowe held up an old credit card, scratched and undoubtedly out of date. His pass key. ‘Sorry. Didn’t have much choice.
I need help.’

There was a desperation in the man’s eyes that made the professor nervous. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Lying low. Hostel in Morbay that doesn’t ask too many questions. Thought I’d stay there till the fuss died down.’

‘You’ve heard about Nadia?’

Rowe hesitated before he replied. ‘I heard it on the news. Fucking shock it was. But Nadia was a worried lady. She was scared
of something and I reckon you know what it was.’

There was a pause and Demancour looked into his visitor’s eyes. Nadia had introduced Rowe to him when they’d worked in Toulouse.
He hadn’t trusted him then and he certainly didn’t trust him now.

‘Yes, she seemed to have something on her mind.’

‘I thought she might have been frightened of you.’

Demancour shook his head vigorously. ‘Whatever
was worrying her, it was nothing to do with me. I told that to the police. Why should I harm Nadia?’ He eyed Rowe suspiciously.
‘What about you? You had her car. Maybe you know who killed her.’

‘She said I could borrow her car. Told me the garage lock was broken and she kept a set of spare keys taped to the wheel arch.
Not very hot on security, our Nadia. But I had to abandon it because I’d left the bloody keys inside the cottage when it was
torched.’

‘You saw who started the fire?’

Rowe shook his head. ‘Whoever it was made sure they weren’t seen and I didn’t hang round to say hello. Look, I need to get
away before they come looking for me again. I need money.’

Demancour gave a high-pitched laugh, almost a giggle. ‘You think I have money? I have no money.’

‘But you’ve got the treasure. Nadia said you’d found something fantastic. Where is it, Yves? Have you got it here? Or have
you sold it to some collector already and pocketed the cash?’

Yves Demancour began to laugh. He couldn’t stop himself and soon his whole body was shaking. ‘You want to see the treasure?’
he spluttered after a few seconds. ‘You really want to see my treasure of the Cathars?’

Rowe stepped forward, threatening, towering over Demancour like a bird of prey over some hapless rodent. ‘I haven’t time to
play fucking games. I need money. I need to get away.’

‘I will show you the treasure. Wait.’ Chuckling to himself and ignoring the urgency in Rowe’s voice, the
professor shuffled across the room and reached up to the top shelf of his bookcase. He took down a plain oak box and opened
it carefully, almost reverently. Then he slipped on a pair of white cotton gloves and took out a small oblong object wrapped
in white tissue paper which he carried over to his desk and laid down with exaggerated gentleness.

‘Let me see.’ Rowe made to push the professor out of the way but Demancour stood firm.

‘Patience.’ He folded the tissue paper aside carefully to reveal a small leather-bound book, ancient and mottled with the
centuries.

Rowe reached for the thing but Demancour brushed his hand away. ‘One touch could do immense damage. It is eight hundred years
old and extremely fragile. When I have collated all my research I shall present it to a suitable museum or library. But until
then I am the guardian of this treasure and I must ensure that no harm comes to it while it is in my care.’

He could sense Rowe’s impatience as he opened the book gently at a random page. The language was familiar to the professor,
who had made a study of it. But he knew Rowe had no idea what it meant. Occitan, the ancient language of the Languedoc, was
a mystery to him.

‘Is this it? Is this the fucking treasure?’ Rowe almost spat the bitter words.

Demancour knew only too well that he had expected coins or jewels, something that could be converted into ready cash. Not
a treasure of scholarship. He leaned over the delicate book protectively,
half afraid that Rowe, in his fury, would seize the thing and fling it across the room.

‘Did Nadia lead you to believe it would be of some monetary value? Is that what she said? Did you think it would be something
like that gold found at Saissac? Or did you expect the Holy Grail?’ Demancour smiled as he shook his head. ‘No. This is the
Cathar litany, their beliefs and their way of worship. A thing so precious that it is beyond price. Nadia did not lie to you.
She merely overestimated you.’

Demancour rewrapped the book carefully and replaced it in its box. ‘I think you’d better go. I will give you what money I
have in my wallet but you will find it isn’t much.’

He saw Rowe’s hand form into a fist but he did his best to maintain his cool exterior. If you showed fear, that was when predators
were at their most dangerous.

The fist tightened. ‘Nadia used to say how she was scared you’d say her research was yours. She didn’t trust you, Demancour.’
Rowe stepped forward and stood so close that Demancour could feel his hot breath on his face. ‘I think you killed her. She
told me your little secret, you know.’ His lips formed into an unpleasant grin. ‘You like the idea of burning flesh, don’t
you?’

Demancour opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out.

‘Nadia told me all about it. It was a student back in Toulouse, wasn’t it? Took her out and plied her with drink and got her
to pretend she was on fire. Then you got a cigarette lighter out and she screamed the place
down. Caused a bit of a scandal, didn’t it? That’s why you came over here. Did you ever try it on with Nadia? Maybe you did.
Maybe your nasty little fantasies went a step too far. Maybe you took her to that field and ended up killing her. Maybe you
wanted to keep your precious treasure all to yourself and pass her research off as your own. She told me she was on to something.
Something about a woman who came to Devon from France. Jeanne de Minerve, isn’t it? She was getting obsessed and she said
she was going to write a book about her. Where are all her notes and her papers? That’s what I want to know.’

Demancour shook his head. ‘I know nothing of this matter. Now leave me alone.’

‘You’re lying. I know you are.’

He took a step towards him but Demancour picked up the phone on his desk. ‘I’m calling the police,’ he said.

‘You wouldn’t dare. And if you do, I might just tell them you’re a murderer,’ Rowe hissed as he backed away.

Jem Burrows sat in the interview room with a beatific smile on his face and all the confidence of someone who knows they’re
completely in the clear. He had witnesses – dozens of them, so he couldn’t possibly have killed Jon Bright. The Sons hadn’t
sent any anonymous notes to his missus, and they had absolutely nothing to do with the fire in the summer house. Someone had
set them up. A man like Bright was bound to have a lot of enemies and the Sons were
useful scapegoats. Maybe he’d even set the summer house on fire himself and blamed them to get them off his back. And as for
murder … even a greedy bastard like Bright whose main aim in life was to ruin the natural environment, didn’t deserve that.

‘Ever met Mrs Bright?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Burrows said quickly.

At that moment, as if on cue, the door opened and Trish Walton scurried in, trying to look unobtrusive. She bent and whispered
something in Wesley’s ear but all the time he kept his eyes fixed on Jem Burrows’ face.

When she had finished Wesley looked up. ‘We’ve been making a few enquiries, Mr Burrows.’ He paused to let the idea sink in
and saw a flash of wariness in Jem’s eyes, there for a second then swiftly concealed. ‘You worked for a gardening company
for a while. Tradmouth Landscapes.’ Wesley knew the company – Gerry Heffernan’s son, Sam, had once worked for them during
his university vacation. ‘One of our officers has spoken to Tradmouth Landscapes and they told us where you worked.’

‘How very thorough,’ Burrows said with a hint of sarcasm.

‘You worked at the Brights’ place. Regular maintenance contract. Until you quit your job three months ago, you went there
every week.’ Wesley looked expectantly at the man on the other side of the desk. In the silence he could hear the faint sound
of the tapes whirring in the recording machine. He imagined he could hear Jem’s brain working at the same time, thinking up
some excuse, some story.

After a few moments he seemed to come to a decision. ‘OK, I admit I worked in the garden but I never saw the Brights because
they paid the firm direct. Our paths never crossed.’

‘We can ask Mrs Bright.’

‘She’ll back me up.’

Wesley looked into his eyes. ‘You seem very sure of that.’

‘I am ’cause it’s the truth. There’s no way I, or any of my comrades, set that garage alight. We were all in Queenswear in
full view of the police and a dozen archaeologists. We’re all innocent and I’d like to go now.’ He folded his arms and stared
at Wesley defiantly. The outraged law-abiding citizen wrongly accused.

But somehow Wesley Peterson didn’t believe a word of it.

It was Rachel who suggested that they pay a visit to Jon Bright’s place of work. Wesley had intended leaving it until the
following morning and using what remained of the afternoon to catch up on the mountain of paperwork that the murders of Nadia
Lucas, Denis Wade and now Jon Bright had generated. But he knew Rachel was right. It was best to speak to Bright’s colleagues
while the shock was still fresh and they were off their guard. The paperwork could wait.

Jem Burrows was still in custody and Gerry had said that he wanted to interview him again before they went home for the night.
He had guilt written all over him, Gerry had observed, but as for how he – or one
of his followers – had managed to do the dirty deed while they were all under observation in Grandal Field, that was anybody’s
guess.

When Wesley and Rachel reached the offices of Tradford Developments, they were greeted by Donna Grogen, who was sobbing inconsolably
into a tissue while Bright’s secretary, a well-built, motherly woman in early middle age, rested a comforting arm around her
shoulders.

‘It’s a terrible business. Terrible,’ the secretary said when they’d introduced themselves. ‘Was it an accident or …?’

‘I’m afraid we’re treating Mr Bright’s death as suspicious,’ said Rachel, her words causing a further outpouring of grief
from Donna.

‘He was so nice. He was so good to me,’ Donna sobbed.

Wesley watched her, wondering whether this could be the same girl who didn’t bother coming into work when her mother’s ex-boyfriend
made her a better offer. Her grief for Bright, he thought, could hardly be that deep. Unlike her colleague’s: the motherly
secretary, Liz Ruben, looked genuinely shocked.

‘I wonder if you could tell us about Mr Bright’s movements yesterday.’ Wesley addressed Liz as she looked the more reliable
of the pair.

‘He was here all morning then he said he had some paperwork to do so he went home for the afternoon. He said he’d have more
peace and quiet there.’