A Perfect Death (5 page)

Wesley looked up. The sky was brilliant blue but the sun’s rays didn’t reach the Rue de Montfort. Here life was always dark.

It was Pam who rang the yellowing plastic doorbell. Wesley, careful to avoid the dog mess, stepped back and looked at the
upstairs windows. The shutters were open but there was no twitching of the grubby lace curtains that hid the rooms within.
It looked as though the house was empty. They’d come at the wrong time.

But, just as they were about to abandon their quest, the door opened a crack. ‘
Qu’est-ce que c’est?
’

Pam said in her best schoolgirl French that they were old friends of Ian Rowe and asked where they could find him. Wesley
knew she’d been rehearsing this ever since they made the decision to look for him but he was still impressed.

There was a rapid and incomprehensible reply, then the door opened to reveal a young man in a dazzling white T-shirt. He was
dark haired, unshaven and handsome as a male model in a Sunday supplement and he looked at Pam appreciatively, undressing
her
slim figure with his eyes. When he noticed Wesley standing behind her he scowled and muttered something under his breath that
Wesley guessed was either racist or insulting or both.

Pam gave the man a charming smile before asking if they could come in. The man’s English was good and her agonising over French
tenses and vocabulary had probably been unnecessary. But the fact that she had made the effort, Wesley told himself, might
well have made some difference to their reception.

The man shrugged and stood to one side, glancing at his reflection in a dusty mirror hanging in the hallway. ‘You can come
in but you will not find him and I do not know where he is. This morning he receive a letter. Then he packs a bag and he goes.’

‘He was supposed to be meeting me this morning,’ said Wesley. ‘My name’s Wesley Peterson. I don’t suppose he mentioned it?’
It was a long shot but it was worth a try.

The guarded expression on the man’s face suddenly changed. ‘You are Wesley?’

‘Yes. Did he leave a message for me?’

‘You wait.’ The man hurried away down the hallway and disappeared into a back room, returning a minute or so later clutching
a brown envelope. ‘He leave this. He ask me to post it but …’

Wesley took it from him and saw that it was addressed to Wesley Peterson, The Police Station, Tradmouth, Devon, Angleterre.
He resisted the temptation to tear it open there and then and stuffed it in his pocket. ‘May we see his room?’ he asked.

The man looked him up and down. ‘Why?’

‘He told us he was worried about someone and he asked us to contact her for him when we got back to England. We need to see
if he’s left us her address.’

The man considered this for a few moments and Wesley wondered what their next move should be if the answer proved to be no.
But he had no need to worry.

‘Up the stairs, first on the right.’ He addressed Pam, ignoring Wesley.

‘What’s in the envelope?’ Pam whispered as they made their way up the steep staircase with its threadbare carpet.

‘Give us a chance,’ he said with a grin. He had the impression she was starting to enjoy herself.

Pam pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold. Ian Rowe’s room was shabby and what furniture there was looked as
though it belonged in a junk shop. The bare floorboards were unvarnished and the lace curtains at the window were filthy.
However, the bed was made and the place was neat. When Pam opened the massive armoire in the corner of the room, she found
that it was almost empty apart from some items of clothing that had seen better days hanging forlornly from wire hangers.

‘Looks like pretty boy was telling the truth. He’s gone,’ Pam said, disappointed.

Wesley frowned. ‘But why the sudden departure?’

‘Perhaps he’s heard from this woman, Nadia. Perhaps he’s gone to look for her himself. Come on, what’s in that envelope?’

Pam watched impatiently as Wesley slit the envelope
open and drew out three sheets of paper. He laid them on the bed, side by side, and began to read.

They were print-outs of e-mails and they were all from one person … Nadia. Rowe had kept his promise.

There were no e-mail addresses on the print-outs, just names – from Nadia to Ian. He read through the first. ‘Ian, you should
be careful. I know M seems all sweetness and light but he has powerful friends and a lot to lose. Don’t antagonise him. If
I were you, I’d just drop the whole thing. And how do you intend to prove it anyway?’

Pam read over his shoulder. ‘M? Could that be Sir Martin Crace? He told that waitress he used to work for him. And he fits
the bill – powerful friends and all sweetness and light on the surface.’

Wesley didn’t answer. He read the next one.

‘You have a right to know the truth but please be careful. I’ve been talking to Yves about my research. He’s being very secretive
and I think he’s hiding something – just a hunch. Maybe it’s something to do with that thing I told you about – his dirty
little secret. I still don’t know what this “treasure” is – he won’t tell me but he seems very excited about it. He says he’ll
tell me soon and I’ll just have to be patient. My research has gone crazy and it’s like Jeanne de Minerve has taken over my
life. I try to keep it scholarly and stick to the facts but when I write the emotions take over. Yves said it won’t do at
all but the dry academic approach doesn’t seem to do the subject justice somehow. Perhaps I should be writing it as a novel.
What do you
think? I’m not getting far with the other matter. The man says it might take time.’

Wesley picked up the third e-mail, dated a few days ago.

‘Ian. I don’t know what to do. The man contacted me after I’d spoken to you on the phone. He thought he’d found a witness
but it didn’t turn out to be much help and I really can’t afford him any more so I’m going to go it alone. I’m following a
few leads of my own and I’ve been speaking to some people who knew her. Maybe I’m getting obsessed with what happened to mum
like you said but I’ve got to know the truth. I know something’s not right. Don’t say I’m paranoid but I’m sure there’s no
way she killed herself and I’ll prove it. I know you’re waiting to hear from M but why don’t you come back anyway? I need
you. If I’m right, there might be someone who doesn’t want the truth to come out. I’m following another lead tomorrow. I feel
I’m close now but I’m not getting my hopes up. It might come to nothing. I’ll tell you all about it when you call me. Nadia.’

‘Looks as if he was telling the truth about Nadia’s mother,’ Wesley said quietly. ‘But where has he gone?’

‘I’ll ask our friend downstairs if he knows any more,’ Pam volunteered before hurrying from the room.

After a quick search of the wardrobe and drawers, Wesley spotted a small cork notice board hanging on the wall in the corner
of the room with various scraps of paper pinned to it: brief shopping lists and work rotas. There was a sheet of paper with
a name and address scribbled on it. Professor Yves Demancour, Department
of History, Morbay University. Wesley unpinned it from the board, folded it carefully and placed it in his pocket. Nobody
in this house was likely to miss it.

He met up with Pam downstairs in the hall and, as soon as he appeared, the man she had been talking to disappeared into a
back room.

Once they were outside in the street, she touched his arm. ‘That creep’s called Thierry.’ From the look on her face Wesley
guessed that Thierry had tried it on and that she had responded by bristling with feminist indignation. He felt rather relieved
that she had found the handsome Thierry’s advances so offensive.

‘Has he any idea where Rowe could have gone?’

‘No, and I reckon Thierry’s too interested in Thierry to notice what’s going on around him. That man really loves himself.’

‘Anything else?’ Wesley asked before Pam began to warm to the subject of Thierry.

‘He said Rowe went to an internet café last night – must be where he got the e-mails printed off. And the letter he received
this morning had a typewritten address and a British stamp. As soon as he read it he said he had to go and he left the envelope
with Thierry to post on to you. What do you think we should do next?’

Wesley took hold of her hand. Recently he’d sensed that the demands of work and family had been putting a strain on their
relationship. But perhaps their stay in Carcassonne, intended to give them some time to relax together, was succeeding in
some unexpected ways.

*

Gerry Heffernan scratched his head before pushing open the glass door. Tradford Developments must be doing well, he thought,
if they could afford offices like this. But then property prices in this part of Devon were high. And some people were always
keen to poke their snouts into an overflowing trough.

He knew he might be getting this all wrong. Donna Grogen had probably gone off somewhere with some flighty friend or unsuitable
man. His theory about the burning girl being some prostitute punished by her pimp for some imagined misdemeanour was far more
likely: you read it in the papers and saw it on TV all the time. And such things weren’t confined to the rougher areas of
big cities. They flourished like a poisonous fungus in respectable suburbs, in small towns and pretty rural areas. And the
innocents, often girls who were promised a better life in a faraway land that never materialised, were always the victims.

Such matters had been on his mind a lot since his daughter, Rosie, recently graduated from music college, had volunteered
to help out at a women’s refuge in Neston, killing time before she began her teacher training. At first she’d come home with
some heartbreaking stories. But after a while the stories had stopped and now she kept her knowledge locked up inside, which
wasn’t like Rosie, who was usually so open about her feelings. Gerry almost wished she’d give up the refuge but she was a
grown woman now, he acknowledged sadly. Things had been a lot easier when she was a little girl.

When he stepped into Tradford Developments’
reception area there was nobody there at the desk to greet him. He’d harboured a fleeting hope that he might arrive there
to find that Donna had turned up at work, but it seemed that he’d hoped in vain. They had DNA from the burned body and Rachel
had just obtained a sample from Donna’s mother so, if there was a match, they’d soon know for sure. But in the meantime the
case was still open.

Jon Bright was expecting him and he emerged from an office beside the pale wood reception desk with a smile fixed firmly to
his face.

‘Chief Inspector. Do come into the office and take a seat. Coffee?’

Gerry Heffernan answered in the affirmative. He needed something to kick-start his brain cells. As he made himself comfortable,
a middle-aged secretary brought in the drinks. Gerry thanked her, making a mental note to ask her about Donna. She looked
the type who’d know all the office gossip.

‘I understand you want to speak to me about Donna. It’s very worrying that there’s been no word of her. Of course I’ll help
in any way I can.’ Jon Bright’s features formed into the concerned frown Gerry had seen on many a politician anxious to assure
the public that they really cared.

‘You know about the incident up near Queenswear … on land you’ve recently acquired?’

‘Yes. I was informed by one of your uniformed colleagues earlier. Tragic. But I don’t see what it has to do with me if someone
chooses to set fire to themselves on my land.’ He hesitated. ‘You’ve been enquiring
about Donna … you surely don’t think …’

‘According to Donna’s mother, she’s been mixed up with a young man who has – how can I put it? – strong opinions about local
developments. His name’s Chas Ventisard. Ever met him?’

Jon Bright shook his head.

‘Did Donna ever mention him to you?’

‘No. But then she wouldn’t, would she? We’re hardly on those sort of terms, Chief Inspector.’

‘Ever heard of an organisation called the Pure Sons of the West? I say organisation, and their web site claims they’ve got
lots of support, but for all I know it could be a couple of blokes in a pub sounding off when they’ve had a few lagers too
many.’

Gerry Heffernan saw that the colour had drained from Jon Bright’s face. He’d heard of the Pure Sons of the West all right.

‘Yes,’ he said almost in a whisper. ‘I’ve heard of them.’ He sat back in his leather swivel chair and arched his fingers.
Gerry watched him. Whatever was on his mind was something important.

‘Did you know that Donna’s boyfriend Chas was one of them?’

Bright shook his head vigorously. ‘No, I didn’t. If I’d known I would have had a word with her. Not that I ever took what
they said too seriously. I’ve come across that sort of thing before. It’s an occupational hazard for a developer … especially
when the site’s regarded as sensitive. It was just an idle threat.’

‘What was?’

Bright didn’t answer.

Gerry leaned forward. ‘So these Pure Sons of the West have been threatening you?’

Bright looked a little embarrassed. ‘Not me directly. My wife’s received a couple of stupid letters from them but we didn’t
take it seriously. And we certainly didn’t think it was worth bothering the police about.’

‘So they’ve actually threatened your wife?’

‘She didn’t take it seriously. She didn’t want the police involved.’

Gerry was losing patience. ‘Well, we are involved now. Your receptionist’s missing and the burned corpse of a young woman
was found on a plot of land you intend to develop. And by the way, our pathologist says it wasn’t suicide.’ He paused for
dramatic effect before dropping his bombshell. ‘He says the victim was alive when she was set alight so it’s a particularly
nasty case of murder, Mr Bright. And I want to catch the bastard responsible. I need to know all about these threats your
wife’s been getting.’

Jon Bright’s mouth had fallen open, displaying a row of even white teeth of the sort only available from an expensive cosmetic
dentist. After a few seconds of silence he spoke, his voice unsteady.