The Cadaver Game (14 page)

‘We can live in hope,’ said Neil with a sigh. He shook his water bottle and found it was empty. ‘I need some water. There’s
a drinking fountain just past the chalets in the holiday village and with any luck it’ll still be working. I’ll get you a
refill while I’m there, if you like.’

Dave leaned over and picked his bottle up from the side of the trench, drained it, and handed it over as Neil climbed out
onto the grass, aware of the watchful, earnest eyes of Orford and his fellow artists. He half expected Orford to say something,
but no comment was made. Perhaps even a man like Orford understood about the dangers of dehydration. The Japanese woman with
the angular hair rose to her dainty feet every few minutes and used the video camera, which, Neil assumed, was recording everything
for posterity. Or perhaps it was just a pose. He couldn’t be sure with these people. The PR man had gone and Neil couldn’t
help wondering why an artist would be in need of his services. But what did he know about the art world?

He climbed through the broken fence and walked between the chalets, thinking of that summer when he and his sister had used
this site as a playground, enjoying a week of uninterrupted freedom from adult control. For endless hours he had dug for imagined
buried treasure in the huge sandpit – perhaps a portent of his future career – and his sister had spent her days in the swimming
pool with newly made friends. Perhaps the site had been shabby and past its best in those days too, but children never notice
things like that. Only jaded adult eyes see decay and deterioration.

The once pristine concrete paths between the chalets were now cracked and bursting with weeds, and although a few of the chalet
windows were boarded up with chipboard, most still retained their glass, dusty now from years of neglect. The drinking fountain
stood in the little square in front of the dilapidated reception office, and as Neil approached it he was suddenly filled
with nostalgia, so sharp and unexpected that it almost hurt. But when he spotted Richard Catton, the spell of childhood was
broken.

‘Hi,’ he said.

Richard was emerging from one of the chalets carrying a bucket of water, leaning slightly to counterbalance its weight. In
his other hand he held a plastic bag, bulging with what looked like clothes.

‘Doing a bit of clearing out?’

Richard’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘What?’

‘Didn’t think you had to get your hands dirty if you were the son of the lord of the manor.’

‘Some backpackers used a couple of the chalets last week and I was just checking everything was OK. No rest for the wicked,
eh,’ he said with forced bonhomie. ‘Even the lord of the manor has to put his hand down toilets occasionally.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Neil. ‘Is the drinking fountain still working?’

‘Yes … yes it is. We’re still using the place, so all the services are connected.’

‘Are you planning to knock these chalets down and rebuild?’

‘If everything goes to plan.’ There was something nervous about his manner, as though he didn’t want to be having this particular
conversation, innocent though it
seemed to Neil. ‘Look, I’d better get on,’ he said, glancing around as though he was seeking an escape route.

As Richard began to hurry away, Neil called after him. ‘The dig’s going OK.’

Richard stopped suddenly and turned round. ‘Good. Orford’s paying well for the use of the land. Every little bit helps.’

‘Have you called my mate yet?’

‘I’m just about to do it. See you.’

Neil waited until he’d disappeared round the corner then he carried on, making for the drinking fountain. However, he couldn’t
resist stopping at the chalet Richard had come out of. For a cleaner, he had looked very furtive. But maybe he was embarrassed
by his poverty – the lord of the manor’s son and heir cleaning up after a bunch of backpackers.

He stood on tiptoe to peer through the dusty glass. The interior of the chalets hadn’t changed much since the days of his
childhood. But in those distant days, everything had been kept spotlessly clean and the curtains at the windows hadn’t hung
in tattered rags.

The sun was streaming directly through the window, and from his vantage point he could make out most of the interior. He could
see that the kitchen and bedroom doors were shut and he suddenly had an irresistible urge to go inside, just for old times’
sake. He put his hand on the door and pushed gently but it was locked. However, when he pushed harder the weak lock yielded
to his touch and the door swung open with a creak.

The pattern on the carpet was hard to make out through the layer of grime and the place smelled musty as he crunched his way
across the room, making for the
bedrooms – two of them in this size of chalet: one for the parents, one for the children. He opened the door to the first
bedroom and when he looked round he saw that something pink had become caught under the door. On closer inspection, he realised
that it was a small, lacy bra, frothy and expensive looking. Maybe it had fallen from the bag of clothes Catton had been carrying,
he thought, and he stared at it for a few moments before closing the door. It was really none of his business.

‘Have you contacted all the numbers in his address book?’ Wesley stared down at Keith Marsh’s phone, now lying on Rachel’s
desk.

She picked it up and started to turn it over in her fingers. ‘Mmm. Some of them knew about the accident already because Mrs
Marsh had been in touch, but a lot of them are business contacts. Unfortunately none of them could throw any light on what
he was doing down in Devon but there was one who sounded …’ She searched for the word. ‘Cagey. As if he was hiding something.
He was OK at first, then he seemed to clam up. Couldn’t wait to get rid of me. He said he was a work contact, lives in Bristol
– name of Barry.’

Wesley smiled. ‘He might have been in a hurry or … Well, we have to face the fact that some people just don’t like the police,
Rach.’

‘He was fine at first, but when he asked me where I was based and where Keith had been found his manner changed.’

‘Got his details?’

With her customary efficiency, Rachel had written it all down neatly on a sheet of paper. She handed it to Wesley.
‘I’ve been through all Marsh’s calls. Just over a week ago he made quite a few calls to a pay as you go mobile that we haven’t
identified. And now we know the dead woman’s not Tessa Trencham, I’ve had one of the DCs checking through all our missing
persons for anyone who matches the description.’

‘Any possibilities?’

‘Not really.’

‘Our best bet is talking to Tessa, but if Sylvia’s right and she keeps her phone switched off …’

‘Why would anyone do that?’

‘Some people don’t like the intrusion, especially if they’re in a beautiful place seeking artistic inspiration. It’s anyone’s
guess when she’ll get back to us.’

‘My money’s still on her allowing a friend or relative to use the house for an adulterous affair and the irate husband walking
in on a cosy little love nest. Are we taking bets on the lover being Keith Marsh?’

‘All we’ve got to do is prove it.’

Rachel suddenly looked solemn. They could theorise all they liked but unless they had the culprit in custody and some solid
evidence to hand over to the Crown Prosecution Service, all their mental efforts were as futile as a game of Cluedo.

‘How are we getting on with Sophie and Barney’s friends?’

‘They’re all being interviewed.’ She pulled a face. ‘Poor little rich kids from Corley Grange all off on their gap years before
uni.’

The privately educated Wesley knew that Rachel had attended the local comprehensive and had a low opinion of what she considered
to be the privileged classes. Less
charitable men than him would have called it a chip on the shoulder. He said nothing and waited for her to continue.

‘Someone’s bound to know something relevant but it’s a matter of getting them to admit it.’ She let out a sigh. ‘I can’t get
over the way they were both shot like that. Accurately too. It almost reminds me of a gangland killing.’

‘Two kids who’ve just left the sixth form of exclusive school – hardly the sort who’d get on the wrong side of the criminal
underworld.’

Rachel raised her eyebrows. ‘You reckon?’

Perhaps, Wesley thought, she had a lower opinion of the average teenager than he had.

When Wesley arrived home at eight o’clock that evening he found Pam alone, sprawled out on the sofa with a book in her hand.
It was a murder mystery, something he felt no temptation to borrow after she’d finished with it – he had more than enough
of that sort of thing at work. The evening was warm and she wore denim shorts, a T-shirt and no make-up. And she looked completely
relaxed. In the busy stress of term time things were so different. The scent of something appetising wafted from the kitchen
and he suddenly realised he hadn’t eaten since midday – and then he and Gerry had made do with a couple of sandwiches.

‘The kids have gone to your sister’s for tea,’ she said, putting her book down. ‘You hungry?’

He nodded and sat down. A taste of domestic bliss was more than welcome after the frustrating day he’d just had. He looked
at his mobile and was almost tempted to switch it off and leave the landline off the hook, but he knew that would be irresponsible.
What if there was some new development in the case and he was needed?

The meal was good – chicken in wine sauce with new potatoes and asparagus – and Wesley felt a warm glow of wellbeing as he
finished off his final mouthful. He looked across at Pam and saw that she was staring at her empty plate, deep in thought.
‘Something the matter?’

She gave a deep sigh. ‘My mum rang earlier. She wants to see the kids.’

‘But you still don’t trust her?’

She looked him in the eye. ‘Do you?’

‘Well …’ He knew he should tell her to let bygones be bygones but somehow he couldn’t. Della’s thoughtlessness had almost
cost Pam her life and both of them knew they’d never entirely trust her with their children again. ‘Maybe she’ll have learned
her lesson,’ he said, trying to sound hopeful. But he knew his words were unconvincing.

Pam didn’t answer and when he reached across the table and took her hand she smiled – but he could see sadness in her eyes.

When the doorbell rang several times, he jumped up, his heart racing. He hadn’t realised he was so on edge.

‘That’ll be Maritia with the kids,’ said Pam.

He rushed to answer the door and as his sister ushered the children inside he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.
‘Hope they haven’t been any trouble.’

‘Of course they haven’t.’ There was a secretive smile playing on her lips and he sensed she was bursting with untold news.
But she carried on chattering. ‘They had a good time at Sunday School, you know.’

‘They told me.’

‘We’re having a holiday club for the kids in the parish in a couple of weeks’ time and I’ve put their names down.’ She lowered
her voice. ‘I did consider asking Pam to help
out but then I realised it might be the last thing she needed after teaching a class full of kids all term. I don’t want to
put her in the position of feeling embarrassed about saying no.’

Wesley nodded, glad that his sister was sensitive enough to realise that the last thing Pam needed was undertaking something
akin to teaching during her precious summer break. ‘You look well,’ he said. Even with her dual roles as GP and vicar’s wife,
Maritia always seemed to be full of energy. Sometimes Wesley wondered how she did it.

Maritia’s smile broadened. ‘I suppose you might as well know. You’re going to be an uncle. I’m expecting a baby next March.’

Wesley took his sister in his arms, surprised at how emotional he felt as he hugged her. ‘Do mum and dad know yet?’

‘I rang them just before I came out. They’re coming up in a couple of weeks. They’re looking forward to seeing you.’

‘Great,’ said Wesley. He saw precious little of his parents: his mother was a busy GP like her daughter and his father an
eminent cardiac surgeon, so a visit to their children and grandchildren was a rare and precious treat. But he knew that if
he was still involved in the investigation when they arrived, he might have to disappoint them.

The children were tired and when Amelia began to whinge, Wesley got them to go upstairs to change into their pyjamas by counting
to ten and frowning like a stern paterfamilias; it wasn’t a role he liked but there were times when it was necessary, and
this was one of them. Maritia made for the living room to share her news with Pam and while they indulged in excited talk
about the coming baby,
Wesley, feeling rather excluded, took refuge in the kitchen and put the kettle on: with Maritia pregnant and driving, a celebratory
wine was probably out of the question.

When he returned to the living room he found that the conversation had moved on to murder and he wondered if he might not
have preferred the baby talk.

‘How’s your investigation going?’ Maritia asked, leaning forward as though she had some special interest in the case.

‘Which one? I’ve got two on the go.’

‘Those kids near Queenswear. Mark mentioned it last night. One of his parishioners gave him a book on local history – you
know how he’s interested in that sort of thing.’

‘What’s the connection?’ His instincts told him that what Maritia was about to say might be important.

‘There was a chapter about Catton Hall. One of the old squires who lived there in the early nineteenth century used to hunt
naked youths on horseback, sometimes to the death. And according to legend, a ghostly pack of hounds can still be heard baying
for blood around Catton Hall whenever there’s a full moon. His tomb in Queenswear churchyard has an iron cage around it, allegedly
to stop his spirit escaping.’

‘You’re not saying my murder victims were done to death by a pack of spectral hounds?’ said Wesley with a smile. ‘Unless the
pooches were armed with shotguns, it’s highly unlikely.’

Maritia tilted her head to one side. ‘Your victims were found naked, weren’t they?’