The Cadaver Game (30 page)

‘I think he’s downstairs in the interview room at the moment. Can I help?’

‘I’m from scientific support. These have finally come through from the phone company,’ she said, laying a folder on top of
Trish’s computer keyboard. ‘DI Peterson requested a breakdown of all the calls made and received from the murder victim’s
mobile number – Evie Smith, is it?’

‘Thanks. We’ve been waiting for these.’

‘Sorry they’ve taken so long,’ she said as Trish began to open the folder, suddenly impatient to get down to some serious
work.

As soon as the woman had gone, she began to go through the list of numbers. Evie had received a call shortly before the estimated
time of her death and she made a frantic search of her desk for the list of numbers they had for some of the lead characters
in their real-life drama.

Eventually she found it and, for the first time since Sophie’s death, she felt as if she was on the verge of a breakthrough.
She stood up and hurried over to Wesley’s desk. When he returned to the office the news that Evie had received a call from
Barney Pickard shortly before she died would cheer him up no end.

The Steward’s Journal

30 July 1815

There was much pomp at Pegassa’s funeral, and it was pleasing to see that she received a good Christian burial in the churchyard
at Queenswear. The Squire is to erect a memorial to her bearing the words ‘The Lady Pegassa, princess of her tribe who died
far from her home and people. Cruelly done to death. God grant her rest.’

I know that any lies and falsehoods should meet with my disapproval, but the knowledge that her deception had been perpetuated
in death made me smile. For she was a remarkable woman, such as I had never encountered before.

Today at the funeral I observed the man who claims to be Pegassa’s stepbrother. He wept but, recalling her account of how
he used her, his tears left me unmoved. The Lord
forgive my bitter hatred of that man. For love makes us mad and the only fruit of madness is pain.

The Jester’s Journal

30 July 1815

Our hunt is fixed for tonight and I have made the stranger who is said to be Pegassa’s stepbrother an offer of money that
he, in his need and poverty, cannot refuse. Desperation leads us to many a foolish risk. He has been told to report to the
stables just before midnight when he will be given his instructions.

The Squire will join the hunt tonight and I rejoice that his spirits are restored. Henry told me that he desires a hunt to
the death.

Alfred Catton had arrived at the police station of his own volition, saying he wished to make a statement. And now he sat
on the hard, wooden chair in the interview room, looking so frail that Wesley was concerned for him. But there was a fierce
determination in his rheumy eyes. His body was weak but there was strength in his soul.

‘Are you sure you’re up to this?’ Wesley said gently.

Alfred nodded. ‘Of course. I want to get it all off my chest. But if you’re going to arrest me, I’ll need my papers from my
library. I’d like to continue my work.’

‘What work is that?’

‘I’m writing a book about an incident in my family’s history.’

‘You said you wanted to make a statement,’ Wesley said.

The duty solicitor had been summoned, Richard having declined to arrange for the family lawyer to be called, and
he was sitting beside Alfred, looking as though he’d rather be somewhere else.

Gerry too had decided to sit in on the interview, saying he needed a break from his other enquiries.

Alfred sat up, ramrod straight. ‘I wish to make a full confession,’ he said in a strong voice that didn’t match his bird-like
frame.

‘Very well. We’re listening,’ he said, shooting a glance at Gerry who was listening intently.

Alfred cleared his throat, as if he was preparing to make a long speech. ‘Daniel Parsland was a so-called artist taking part
in that ridiculous picnic up by the holiday park. When he came up to the hall and made himself known to me, I confess I found
him charming and urbane. I must have longed for sophisticated company back then because I ended up inviting him into my home,
not suspecting for one moment that he would abuse my trust by seducing my only son. Richard was just seventeen and Parsland
was at least ten years older, and experienced in the ways of the world. I hope you’re not going to accuse me of prejudice:
if Richard had been my daughter I would still have felt the same.’

‘So what happened,’ Gerry asked.

‘I caught them together and there was a scene. I told Parsland to leave my house immediately. He laughed at me. That was the
worst thing, that mocking laughter. He said he would do whatever he pleased and there was nothing I could do about it. I tell
you his arrogance was breathtaking. To him I was a narrow-minded little man who had no comprehension of the modern world.
As it happens, I’m not at all narrow-minded and I would have accepted any decision Richard made in that direction. It was
the age
difference and the exploitative nature of the man I objected to. He said he intended to ask Richard to go to London with him,
to throw up his place at Cambridge and live in some sort of artistic commune. I’m afraid I lost my temper and hit him on the
nose, causing it to bleed. After that, he left rather abruptly, and neither I, nor Richard, ever heard from him again. When
the artists returned I thought he might be with them, and when he didn’t appear I was rather relieved.’

‘So you deny having anything to do with his disappearance?’

‘Of course I do but …’

‘But what?’

‘I do have a confession to make – something that’s been on my conscience.’

Wesley sat forward, suddenly curious. ‘Go on.’

‘Ursula, Richard’s dog, died around the time all this happened and when I dug her grave in our pets’ cemetery, I encountered
an unexpected problem.’

‘What was that?’ asked Gerry who appeared to be fascinated by the tale.

‘I came across a skeleton. A human skeleton. It was a shock and, in the circumstances, I didn’t know what to do. After the
nasty incident with Daniel, I couldn’t face calling in the police and having to answer God knows how many intrusive questions,
so I did something rather foolish.’ He paused for a while, studying his fingernails. ‘Somehow it seemed the right thing to
do to take the bones out of there – to clear the ground for Ursula’s grave. But now I had the problem of what to do with the
skeleton. Then the solution presented itself quite nicely, as it happens. The so-called artists had dug a large trench and
had buried their ridiculous
picnic. They’d left by then, but the soil was still soft so it took very little effort for me to put the bones in a bin bag
from the kitchen, dig a fresh hole and throw them in.’

‘I expect you had a hell of a shock when Orford came back and wanted to reopen the trench,’ said Gerry.

Alfred gave him a rueful smile. ‘The worry and the stress of it all has made me quite ill. And my heart …’

‘You’ve seen our doctor?’ asked Gerry. He sounded concerned. The last thing he wanted was for the man to die on him.

Alfred bowed his head. ‘Thank you. I’ve been very well-treated here.’ He hesitated. ‘Now I’ve told you everything, are you
going to arrest me?’

‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t go home after you’ve signed a formal statement,’ said Gerry. ‘The results of the dating tests
on the bones should be back soon to confirm your story.’

The old man looked relieved. ‘Oh, that is good news. I need to get back to work.’

‘What period are you researching?’ Wesley asked.

‘I’m particularly interested in the events of 1815. The year of Waterloo when HMS
Bellerophon
, with Napoleon Bonaparte himself on board, anchored off Morbay. Bonaparte was an amiable man, by all accounts, and he spoke
quite openly with Captain Maitland of the
Bellerophon
about the activities of the seafarers hereabouts. He suggested that many local fishermen were smugglers, which may have been
true. But he set the cat amongst the pigeons by claiming that many were in his pay and acted as French spies, although I suspect
this was brave talk.’

Wesley listened politely. He could see the passion blazing in the man’s eyes and he hardly liked to interrupt.

‘On a more personal note, I have recently discovered
some fascinating documents in the muniment room of the hall – a journal written by my ancestor, Sir Edward’s steward, a man
called Christopher Wells, and also his jester’s account of events.’

‘Jester?’ Gerry sounded surprised.

‘Sir Edward was the last squire in the county to keep one. I’ve also managed to acquire a diary kept at that time by the Vicar
of Queenswear.’

Wesley smiled. Alfred Catton, it seemed, lived in another time. And, interesting though it was, unless the bones turned out
to be recent, they had to allow him to return to his own private world.

They had no more time for distractions.

Barney Pickard had rung Evie shortly before her estimated time of death and the call had lasted two minutes. It was just a
pity, Wesley thought, that there was no way of knowing what had been said.

News of another development was waiting for him in the office as well. A woman had called in at Reception and had left a brown
envelope addressed to DI Peterson. Now it was lying there in the middle of his desk and he stared at it for a few seconds
before opening it.

He found a note inside, written on pale-blue notepaper in a small neat hand. ‘I found this and thought you might be interested.
It’s of me and Evie and it was taken recently.’ It was signed Penny and there was a kiss by the name.

It struck him that he had never actually seen Evie’s living face before. All he’d seen was a rotting head with bloated features,
and the electronic image of how an artist had imagined she had looked in life. But now he had the real woman in front of him,
and he felt rather excited.

Evie was slim with full breasts, shoulder-length, dark hair and a pretty smile. She was wearing a low-cut red dress with narrow
straps and one hand was resting on Penny’s shoulder. Wesley recognised the jewellery she was wearing at once as Tessa Trencham’s
work – a necklace, two rings and a bracelet. She’d been wearing the same rings when they’d found her dead, but the necklace
and bracelet had been shut securely in the dressing table drawer. He recalled Penny’s words: don’t wear a necklace because
it might be used to strangle you; and don’t wear anything personal that might reveal who you really are. Apart from the rings,
Evie had stuck to those rules on the day she died. But somebody had still killed her.

Clutching the precious photograph, he made his way to Gerry’s office where the DCI was sitting, staring into space. As soon
as Wesley entered the room, he looked up.

‘I take it Alfred Catton got home OK?’ he said.

‘I organised a car to take him back. Are we going to charge him with concealing a burial?’

Gerry shrugged. ‘I’m reluctant to press charges, but I suppose we’ll have to do things by the book.’

‘It bothers me a bit that this Daniel still appears to be missing.’

‘He could be anywhere in the world, Wes. People go off all the time for one reason or another. What have you got there?’

‘Evie.’ He placed the photograph on Gerry’s desk.

He picked it up and stared at it for a few moments. ‘Pretty woman. We still don’t really know her story, do we? All we know
is that Evie Smith probably wasn’t her real name.’

‘Now we’ve got this, we can put out an appeal.’

‘It didn’t work with the E-fit.’

Wesley laughed. ‘That’s not surprising. It hardly did her justice. I’ll get this photo enhanced. I want it shown on the local
news bulletin as soon as possible.’ Wesley checked his watch. ‘Although it might have to be tomorrow. There’s something else
too.’

‘What’s that? Give me some good news, Wes. I need it.’

‘The details of Evie’s mobile calls have come through and the last call she received was from Barney Pickard.’

Gerry gaped at him. ‘Barney Pickard? The kid who was shot?’

‘Bit of a turn up, eh.’

‘What was Barney doing ringing a lady of the night?’

‘Maybe his friends will know.’

‘Marcus Dexter is still top of our suspect list. We can bring him in again and ask him.’

‘There’s something I want to check first, Gerry. Come to the AV room with me. I want your opinion.’

‘That’s an offer I can’t refuse.’ Gerry stood up and followed Wesley out.

Five minutes later they were watching a re-run of Sophie’s party but there was one incident Wesley kept winding back and watching
again and again.

‘That white thing in Barney’s hand – does that look like a business card to you?’

‘You could be right, Wes.’

‘Perhaps we should have another word with George Pickard before we talk to Marcus again. Remember he couldn’t find Evie’s
card. What if his son took it?’

‘Sophie was gorgeous. Why would he need to?’

‘A bet? A dare? A way to get back at his dad? Let’s go and find out.’

*

It was almost seven o’clock in the evening by the time they reached George Pickard’s penthouse. He had just returned from
his office and he looked worn out. The loose flesh of his face had a grey tinge and there were dark semi-circles beneath his
bloodshot eyes. Wesley wondered whether he had been spending much time with his ex-wife. It certainly didn’t look that way.
The split, he thought, must have been pretty acrimonious for such bad feeling to trump their united grief at the murder of
a child.

‘What do you want now?’ he asked as he opened the door. Wesley detected a slight slurring of speech. The man had been drinking,
but that was hardly surprising. His week must have been unusually tough.

‘Just a quick word, Mr Pickard,’ said Wesley. ‘We won’t keep you long.’

Pickard stood aside to let them in. ‘Have you found out who shot my boy yet?’ There was aggression in his voice and a whiff
of whisky on his breath.