The Cadaver Game (25 page)

Paul saw fat tears rolling down Carole’s cheeks. ‘Are you sure you want to go on with this?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Leave it,’ she said in a hoarse whisper.

Paul had no choice; he sat back and watched the moving images on the screen. Now Barney was deep in conversation with Dunstan.
They seemed to be sharing some sort of secret. They were too far away from the camera for Paul to make out what they were
saying but it all seemed so normal; just two lads sharing information. A new nightclub perhaps or a cheap drinks offer. Oh,
to be young again.

Then the camera focused on Marcus Dexter again. He was making a bee line for Sophie who was talking to a couple of female
friends, and when he reached her he grabbed her by the arm, tight enough to cause bruising in Paul’s opinion.

This time he could hear what was being said. Marcus’s face was close to Sophie’s and she was backing away. ‘I’ll fucking kill
you,’ he was saying. ‘If you don’t ditch that loser, I’ll fucking kill you.’

He looked at Carole. She was sitting upright on the edge of the sofa, her eyes wide with shock.

‘I didn’t like that boy,’ she said, staring at the screen.

*

In a small house on the Winterham, estate Jackie Yates had finally summoned the strength to go through her late son’s earthly
possessions. Jimmy Yates hadn’t had much. Just the usual things. iPod, mobile phone and a selection of posters Blu-tacked
to the wall: Morbay United and a bevy of well-endowed women in various states of undress.

Every few days Jackie had ventured into her son’s room to harvest dirty clothes and food-encrusted crockery from the floor.
But since his death the door had remained shut and each time she’d passed it she’d tried to imagine that Jimmy was still in
there, doing whatever it was he did. She’d been tempted to call out to him. ‘Your tea’s ready,’ or ‘have you got any washing?’
Instead she’d stared at the wooden barrier between her and the domain of the dead, unable to cross that boundary.

But now, she placed her hand on the doorknob and twisted it until the door swung open with a creak – she’d been on at Jimmy
to oil it for weeks because every time he’d go to the bathroom in the middle of the night it had woken her up. Recently, as
she lay in bed she’d found herself listening for that creak and hating the silence.

The room was revealed in all its squalor. The grubby unmade bed; the clothes and underwear hanging like ripe fruit on the
chairs and chests of drawers; the mugs containing something furry and pale green; the pornographic magazines strewn across
a carpet dotted with crumbs. Stinging tears sprung into her eyes, blurring the scene, and it was some time before she gathered
the courage to cross the threshold. The room still smelled of him and she found some comfort in that as she began to strip
the bed. Some people would have left the room just as it was, as a shrine to the dead. But her house was too small for such
an
indulgence. Besides, her new partner wanted to move in and he had two kids in tow so the room would be needed. Life went on.

She threw the duvet to one side and when she stripped the flattened pillow, something fell out of it. The envelope lay on
top of the rumpled pillowcase, standing out bright white against the dove-grey cloth, which, once upon a time, had been the
same colour. The envelope looked well-stuffed and she stared at it for a while before picking it up.

It wasn’t sealed and when she lifted the flap she was surprised to see a wad of ten pound notes inside. She took them out
and counted them. A hundred pounds exactly and no explanatory note. She counted it again, relishing the feel of the notes
between her fingers. A hundred quid. Where did Jimmy get that sort of cash from when he was on benefits and claimed he couldn’t
give her anything towards the housekeeping?

Finders keepers. Jimmy wouldn’t be needing it now, so it was hers. She stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans and hauled
the sheet off the stained mattress.

The Steward’s Journal

24 July 1815

She took both my hands. ‘The pretence is ended,’ she said, her dark eyes looking into mine. ‘I am no foreign lady, but my
father is a stonemason in Exeter and there was one in that city I feared. So I fled and rode on a carrier’s cart all the way
down to these parts. I amused myself by dressing in scraps of the brightly coloured cloth he carried and fell upon the notion
that I should pretend to be some great lady from the East.’

‘You were most convincing,’ I said to her. I could not help but admire her spirit and resourcefulness.

She smiled and I saw that the smile was merry, creasing the tender flesh around her eyes.

‘What is your name?’ I asked.

‘Peggy.’ The smile vanished in an instant as though a
sudden disturbing thought had crossed her mind. ‘Will you inform Squire Catton of my deception?’

‘It cannot go on. And if it does, I cannot be a party to it.’ I saw a look of distress pass across her face and I knew I had
to give her some assurance of my friendship. ‘However, I will not betray your secret.’

‘I think Silly John suspects that I am not what I seem, and I am sure he wishes me ill.’

‘That man wishes many ill,’ I said. ‘But the Squire will hear no word against him. John Tandy and Henry Catton have brought
much evil into this house.’

‘I know of the hunts. I know it is innocent souls they hunt, not wild beasts. After that last time, I saw them digging in
the woods. I have seen and heard much, but they think I speak no English so I do not understand. If they knew …’

‘What will you do?’ At that moment I was reluctant to say farewell to her and yet I knew, for her own safety, it would be
better for her to leave this place.

She shook her head, her eyes filled with sadness. ‘I would return to Exeter but I am afraid.’

‘Of your father?’

She shook her head vigorously and a lock of dark hair escaped the confines of her bright headdress. ‘No, he is a good man
and I regret that I have caused him much worry.’ She fell silent, watching my face, as though she was wondering how far she
could trust me. After a while she stepped closer to me so that when she spoke, almost in a whisper, I could feel her breath
on my cheek. ‘It is another I fear and I have seen him hereabouts. He has come here to find me.’

I took her hand. I would be her protector, her defender
from all enemies. ‘Tell me his name and I will ensure your safety.’

‘It is no matter. I must leave this place, for I fear Silly John and Henry Catton will use me ill should they discover that
I am no lady. I have heard them speak of their hunts and how they yearn for female quarry. My lowly standing and the untruths
I have told the Squire will leave me at their mercy. I must go.’

‘Stay for a while longer. I will guard your secret well.’

She stared at me. Her eyes were large and beautiful and I felt that she was no stonemason’s daughter. Perhaps her mother had
betrayed him with some Indian prince for the woman was indeed a rare and exotic jewel.

‘Why should you do such a thing for me?’

I was tempted to confess my feelings but I stayed silent.

The Jester’s Journal

24 July 1815

Oh, what joy! What entertainment we shall have – even better than Boney’s antics aboard the
Bellerophon.

I always find that listening at doors brings great rewards, and today I have reaped the greatest one of all. I was unsure
whether to trust the word of the man I encountered in the gardens, but now I have heard the truth from her own lips and I
know also of our pious steward’s complicity in her secret. I shall stay silent and await the opportunity to use my knowledge.
How I shall enjoy plotting her destruction. That sly little deceiver with the dark, fiery eyes.

Richard Catton had just received a call to say that full approval had been granted by the Council planning authorities, so
the builders could begin work on the holiday park next week.

It should have been a time of celebration, but he didn’t feel much like rejoicing as he stood in the entrance hall, preparing
for a meeting with the surveyor down at the chalets. The business of the dead kids hung over him like a curse, it was only
a matter of time before the police came asking questions again. And now he had a nagging fear that the name of Catton Hall
would forever be associated with the double murder. What if parents wouldn’t wish to bring their precious offspring to the
newly rebuilt holiday park because of its link in the public imagination with violent death? Perhaps it would be wise to change
the name of the place – if only he could come up with something appropriate.

Then there was that skeleton buried with the picnic. Nobody had yet explained how it came to be there, but it
was male and it belonged to someone who’d been around Daniel’s age and height.

He had vivid memories of that original picnic because it had been a turning point in his life – one of those times when something
happens to change all your assumptions of how the world works. He had been home from boarding school that summer and the artists
taking part had seemed so exciting with their confident voices and colourful clothes. Daniel had been one of them, but somehow
he had been different from the rest. Daniel had charisma. He’d charmed Richard’s mother but it had been the son who’d received
most of his attention. He’d been with Daniel at every opportunity, spending time with him in the library at Catton Hall, amongst
the old family records – those same records that now claimed his father’s every waking thought. Daniel had spoken to him of
jesters and hunts and how he longed to recreate the past. His ideas had seemed magical, like chasing unicorns through golden
glades.

Nothing Daniel said or did ever seemed mundane or ridiculous. He was from a sophisticated world and Richard had been seventeen,
emerging into adulthood. With Daniel, he had enjoyed the first rapture of love. Until he had abandoned him and vanished from
his life for ever.

That summer he had been just a year younger than the kids who’d died in the woods; the kids whose bodies he and Heckerty had
desecrated by throwing them over the cliff. The thought of the charges he would have to face because of this thoughtless,
panicked act meant that he didn’t feel inclined to celebrate the planning approval. There was too much that was wrong in his
world. And those bones found in that trench didn’t make things any easier.

*

They weren’t having much luck with CCTV footage from the Lister Cottage area. There was a convenience shop with a camera outside
further down St Marks Road, but going through all the footage was taking time, and it wouldn’t be much help if the murderer
had approached from the other direction.

‘At least we have some idea of the time frame now,’ said Wesley, trying to sound optimistic.

‘If Keith Marsh is telling the truth – we only have his word for it that he left Evie alive and well first thing that Saturday
morning.’

Wesley knew Gerry was right. They still couldn’t pinpoint the exact time of the woman’s death.

Gerry sat down heavily on his swivel chair. ‘If only we’d been able to talk to that Marcus without his dad and his brief breathing
down our necks. I’m sure he’s hiding something.’

‘We’ve got to do things by the book, Gerry.’ He handed a sheet of paper to the DCI. ‘This has just arrived from ballistics.
Barney and Sophie were killed by exactly the same kind of shot as Jimmy Yates. It’s a very common make, mind you.’

Gerry read the verdict and handed the paper back.

‘Are we missing something, Gerry? Could there be a link between Sophie and Barney and Jimmy Yates?’

‘I can’t see it myself. They moved in different worlds.’

‘Perhaps Jimmy took part in the hunts. Perhaps he got to know Heckerty somehow – at the paintball centre, maybe?’

‘We can ask his mother, and his mate, Craig Walker. They might know.’

‘We need to find the weapon.’

‘There are lots of shotguns around here – licensed and
otherwise. Let’s face it, Wes, the countryside’s bristling with firearms. It’s like the ruddy Wild West round here. The wild
south-west.’ He chuckled at his own joke.

Wesley was about to leave the office when Paul Johnson appeared at the door. He was holding a DVD and he looked as though
he was bursting with important news.

‘I think you should see this. It’s a video of Sophie’s eighteenth birthday party.’

They followed Paul into the small room where the AV equipment was kept. Some screens were occupied by officers given the mind-numbing
task of watching CCTV footage. They looked up as they walked in as though they were glad of a distraction. Paul sat down,
slid the disc into the machine while Wesley and Gerry stood behind him, fixed their eyes on the screen and waited.

There was nothing sadder than watching somebody who’d met a violent death on film, full of joy and blissfully unaware of the
fate that would shortly overtake them. If you looked for signs and omens of doom they weren’t there. It reminded Wesley that
life was fragile and precious: you never know when it’s going to come to an abrupt end.

Paul turned the sound up. ‘This is the bit I want you to see. Just listen.’

They sat staring at the screen and they saw Marcus grab Sophie’s arms roughly and put his face close to hers. Then they heard
his words, spat out as if this was no idle threat. ‘I’ll fucking kill you.’

Wesley sat back and looked at Gerry. ‘Do we get him in again? Confront him with this?’

‘I don’t think we’ve got much choice, Wes. And we’ll get his premises searched too. We can’t ignore a death threat.’

‘What about Jimmy Yates?’

‘We need someone to visit Carl Heckerty to find out if he knew him.’

Paul stood up. ‘I’ll go, should I, sir?’

‘Thanks. How’s your aunty?’

‘As you’d expect,’ Paul said before hurrying from the room, leaving Wesley and Gerry staring at the footage of the party.

‘Let’s see how our Marcus explains this one away,’ Gerry said as he removed the disc from the machine.