The Cadaver Game (10 page)

Trish said nothing and hurried out of the office.

‘Bad business,’ were Colin Bowman’s first words when he greeted Wesley and Gerry at the mortuary entrance.

Normally Colin distanced himself from the body lying on his table and maintained a cheerful and professional
detachment from the horror of death. But today Wesley sensed that things were different.

‘Please tell us it’s suicide,’ said Gerry. ‘Please tell us they left a note saying “Goodbye cruel world”.’

‘Sorry, Gerry. Unless they developed telescopic arms and managed to shoot themselves from six feet away, suicide’s out.’

‘Could they have been dumped from a boat and washed ashore?’ Somehow he wanted the answer to be ‘yes’.

Colin considered the possibility for a few moments. ‘I’m told that the tide doesn’t normally reach as far as the spot where
they were found, and there’s no indication that they’d been in the water. In fact if I was a betting man I’d wager that the
boat theory’s a non-starter.’

‘So what have we got?’ Wesley asked quietly as they made their way to Colin’s office.

‘Two young people, mid to late teens. One male, one female. He was five foot ten inches tall with longish dark hair and she
was five foot five inches tall with long naturally fair hair. She had two tattoos – a small butterfly on her left shoulder
and a flower in the small of her back. They were found naked at the foot of the cliff halfway between Queenswear and Fortress
Point. I believe the area round the coastal path has been searched but their clothes haven’t been found. As far as I can see
they both died of shotgun wounds. There’s damage to their necks and upper chests and some of the shot spread out to their
faces but they should still be identifiable.’

Wesley had obtained the photograph given to Uniform when Sophie Walter had been reported missing. The last thing he wanted
was to get Paul in to identify the body unnecessarily so he handed it to Colin. ‘Is this the girl?’

Colin handed the picture back. ‘Yes, it’s her. You know who she is then?’

‘She’s Paul Johnson’s cousin. She’s been missing since Thursday night.’

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ said Colin with heartfelt sincerity. ‘Do pass on my condolences to Paul and his family. I don’t know him
well, of course but … Have you a name for the boy?’

It was Gerry who spoke. ‘It could be a lad called Barney Pickard who was with Sophie when she disappeared. But we’ll have
to confirm that.’

Gerry gave Wesley a nod. There was no point in postponing the inevitable. He took his phone from his pocket and called Paul’s
extension in the incident room, breaking the news as gently as he could and asking if he’d mind coming to the hospital to
identify the body. It would save his aunt and uncle having to do it, he said. Paul agreed. They were going to have to endure
enough without that.

An hour later the body of the dead girl had been identified as that of Sophie Walter and Barney Pickard’s mother was on her
way.

Trish watched Paul as he left the office and saw that the colour had drained from his face, leaving the freckles standing
out against his pale flesh. She stood up as he passed and caught his arm gently. She could feel the warmth of his skin though
the thin cotton of his shirt.

‘Is it … ?’

‘Yeah. I’ve got to go.’

She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, unaware of watching eyes. The thought that there had been times recently when she
experienced a restlessness, a vague dissatisfaction, about their relationship, brought on a wave of
guilt. He needed her now and whatever the future held, Paul was a hard man to dislike. And an easy one to hurt.

‘Do you want me to contact your aunt?’

‘It’ll be better coming from me,’ he said before hurrying out.

She slumped back into her seat and sat for a few moments, staring into space until she heard Rachel asking if everything was
OK. When she broke the news, Rachel shook her head sadly and returned to her computer. No doubt they’d talk about it tonight
at the house they shared together. She needed someone to reassure her that she wasn’t being a bitch.

The phone on her desk began to ring, shattering the tension. When she answered it, she heard a female voice announcing that
she was from the Munich hotel where Keith Marsh had told his wife he was staying. In mildly accented but perfect English the
unseen German woman informed Trish that Mr Marsh had indeed been a guest at the hotel. He had stayed six nights, arriving
a week last Saturday in the evening and leaving very early the following Friday morning. Trish also confirmed with the airline
that he had flown out from Heathrow on Saturday afternoon and returned on the 5 a.m. flight on Friday. Keith Marsh had a day
unaccounted for – around the time it was estimated the woman they still thought of as Tessa Trencham had met her death. Marsh
could have stayed in Morbay on the Friday night and killed the woman before driving along the M4 to Heathrow the following
day. Then, perhaps a fit of conscience had made him return to the scene of his crime a week later.

As soon as Keith Marsh regained consciousness – if he ever did – he had some questions to answer.

*

Neil decided it would be best to treat this excavation like any other. He had already briefed the post-grad students who were
taking part and impressed upon them that it was a serious scientific exercise – and that it was worth a lot financially to
the unit. He only hoped they’d manage to suppress their sniggers when they saw Kevin Orford and his precious artwork.

Just as Neil was directing the small mechanical digger to make the first delicate incision into the earth, the artist leapt
in front of the machine shouting ‘This won’t do. The archaeologists should be on their hands and knees digging with tiny trowels.’

Neil turned to face him in disbelief. ‘You want us to open a trench using leaf trowels? We use those for delicate work.’

‘This is delicate work. It’s art.’

Neil looked round his group and saw that they were seething with dissent. If he didn’t handle this carefully he’d have a rebellion
on his hands.

‘I don’t think you quite understand,’ he said, keeping his voice calm and reasonable. ‘We’re trying to get down to the level
of the, er … artwork at the moment. Once we reach that level we’ll start to dig more carefully. I promise you we’ll use the
same technique to excavate something old and delicate like a Roman mosaic.’ Neil paused and he saw that the artist’s eyes
had glazed over and his mouth was set in a stubborn line. ‘Let me offer you a compromise. We’ll dig out the first layer by
hand with spades and then we’ll start using our trowels. If we use leaf trowels we won’t have gone down a foot before Christmas.’

‘But the use of trowels is an artistic statement. I can’t compromise my integrity—’

‘And I’m telling you it won’t make any difference to the
end result and it’ll stop my colleagues walking out. We can use new spades if you like,’ he offered as if he was coaxing a
reluctant child with a promised treat. ‘Nice shiny ones.’

Orford looked peeved and as he scanned the diggers’ rebellious faces he appeared to consider the matter for a token few moments,
obviously realising he was onto a loser. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But they must be new and polished.’

Neil heard the unexpected sound of an engine and when he turned he saw a glossy, black Range Rover with darkened windows making
its bumpy way slowly across the field towards them. When it stopped a few yards away, the doors opened and four people – three
men and a woman – emerged from the vehicle. One of the men wore a parody of a business suit created in yellow and pink stripes
and the other sported a kilt in khaki camouflage topped by a waistcoat and frilly white shirt. Next was a small, slender Japanese
woman whose jet-black hair was cut at jagged angles. Then a young man with gelled hair emerged from the driver’s seat. He
wore an expensive dark suit with a white, open-necked shirt and he wouldn’t have looked out of place in the head office of
a financial institution.

The assembled archaeologists stared at the newcomers as Orford gave a triumphant sweep of his arms. ‘My fellow artists have
arrived so we can make a start.’

‘What about the shiny spades?’

Orford ignored the question and dashed towards the newcomers, lost in a frenzy of air-kissing and mutual admiration. Neil
turned to his colleagues. ‘Right, let’s get on with it. Spades, I’m afraid. Our digger’s not artistic enough.’

Some rolled their eyes but without another word they helped themselves to the well-worn spades that were piled in the back
of the minibus. As they got down to work Neil
looked up occasionally and saw that the artists were watching intently. It was probably best to ignore them, he decided. Orford
had left them and was in deep and serious discussion with the slick-haired young man, so perhaps their disobedience wouldn’t
be noticed.

After a while Neil took a break and leaned on his spade. He could see the chalets at the edge of the holiday park, separated
from their field by a tall wire fence, now holed, rusty and collapsed in places after years of neglect. It was a shame the
park had been allowed to get into that state, he thought. The setting couldn’t be bettered: it stood in wooded countryside
between Bloxham and Queenswear, a short hop over the river to Tradmouth, surrounded by rolling hills and handy for the coastal
path with its dramatic cliffs and spectacular views out to sea.

He was about to resume work when he spotted Richard Catton flitting between the chalets furtively, as though he didn’t want
to be noticed.

Neil watched as Catton vanished into one of the chalets. When he didn’t appear again Neil carried on digging.

Rachel had often wondered what it would be like to have a session at a paintball centre. War without the bloodshed, she’d
heard it called, but the whole thing conjured visions of groups of young men getting over-excited, competing with each other
to prove their manhood and making a terrible mess into the bargain. Pathetic really.

The centre stood on the outskirts of Dukesbridge between a petrol station and a garden centre, and the place reminded her
of a toy Wild West fort her brothers had owned when they were small, all palisades and lookout towers topped with stars and
stripes flags. The palings
were dotted with paint splashes in bright primary colours, further emphasising the playful status of the premises. After parking
the car, she made her way to the entrance. The main door stood open and as she walked in she could hear explosions and whoops
of aggression – or was it pleasure?

She made straight for a door marked MANAGER PRIVATE and knocked loudly. After a few moments, it was opened by a well-built
man in his early forties with closely cropped hair. He wore a checked shirt and resembled a cowboy who’d moved on into ranch
management. When she produced her warrant card he took it from her hand and made a great show of examining it closely, as
though he suspected she was some sort of impostor.

Once inside the office he invited her to sit down and her eyes were drawn to a large cupboard in the corner of the cluttered
office, open to reveal several rows of what looked like firearms. Even though she knew they were paintball weapons, their
presence still made her uncomfortable.

‘So what can I do for you, Detective Sergeant Tracey?’ In spite of his casual manner, he seemed a little on edge and she wondered
why.

‘You provided a reference for a Tessa Trencham.’

He took a deep breath and as he exhaled slowly, she was surprised to see that he looked rather relieved.

‘That’s not a crime, is it?’

She ignored the remark. ‘You know Ms Trencham well?’

‘She used to work for me.’

‘Have you heard that a woman was found dead at her address last weekend?’

‘I read about some woman being murdered in Morbay, but I didn’t realise it was at Tessa’s address.’ He showed no
apparent shock or curiosity, which Rachel thought was a little strange.

‘We think the dead woman might be Ms Trencham.’

‘Then you think wrong. Tessa’s abroad. She’s in France.’

‘Did she tell you she was going?’

‘No. Sylvia told me. Sylvia Cartland.’

‘And you think she was telling you the truth?’

Suddenly Heckerty seemed a little unsure of himself. Rachel repeated the question.

‘Well, Sylvia has been known to take liberties with the truth if it suits her purposes but … surely someone’s identified the
dead woman.’

Normally Rachel would tread carefully at this stage but Carl Heckerty didn’t look the type to upset easily. ‘She’d been there
a week, so the body isn’t in a condition to be easily identifiable by a friend or relative. We’re pinning our hopes on dental
records but … Who else would have been staying at Tessa’s house?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Ask Sylvia. She worked with Tessa. She saw her every day.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘Must be about three or four months ago. I called into the Craft Centre. She’d asked if she could give my name as a reference
for the house in St Marks Road, so I thought I’d pop over and see her.’

‘When did she leave your employment?’

‘In February. She went into business with Sylvia. She’d made jewellery as a hobby for ages but she decided to give it a go
full-time.’

‘And what did she do here?’

‘Admin. Accounts. That sort of thing. She moved down to Devon about eighteen months ago. She’d had some
high-powered job in London and she felt she was burning out. She liked it down here. Good for my soul, she used to say. Not
that admin and accounts is exactly spiritually enriching, but at least it wasn’t as pressured as what she’d been used to in
London. She was good at her job and I hoped she’d stay longer but she was always the creative type, I suppose. She felt she
had to give the artistic stuff a try.’

‘Do you know why she was going to France?’

‘Sylvia said it was to get inspiration for more jewellery designs but, between you and me, I thought she might have met a
bloke. Not that she’d have told Sylvia. She’s got a temper, has Sylvia, and she takes things personally, and you can’t do
that when you’re in business.’