The Cadaver Game (4 page)

‘I did tell you that we’d fund all the work involved, didn’t I? And my backers have agreed to make a substantial donation
to your unit.’ He leaned forward confidentially and Neil could smell peppermint on his breath. ‘Since I won the Turner Prize
last year, money hasn’t been a problem.’

Neil was part of a team excavating an unexplored section of a Napoleonic fort which stood guarding the headland a couple of
miles away to the south, but he was sure the others could manage without him for a few days. And money was money.

‘So let me get this straight. Sixteen years ago a group of artists had a picnic—’

‘A Feast of Life to be exact. A large trench had been dug and when a hunting horn was sounded exactly ten minutes after we’d
begun to eat, we deposited everything that was left of the banquet into the ground, tables, plates and all, representing our
reliance on the earth for our sustenance.’ Orford had a distant look in his eyes as though he was reminiscing about some great
past triumph. ‘It was an awesome moment, conducted in complete silence. A lot of my work deals with our relationship with
food. It’s a subject I find particularly pertinent to the condition of the human race.’

Neil nodded trying to hide his scepticism. This man saw nothing ridiculous or pretentious in the fact that he and his mates
had chucked perfectly good food and furniture into a big trench.

‘It was my first piece of serious conceptual art since I’d left art college.’

‘You didn’t do it on your own?’

‘Three other artists took part. I have a photographic record if you want to see it.’

‘That might be useful.’ Neil tried to sound enthusiastic.

‘I intended to gather the same artists together again but two were busy with their own work and I’ve been unable to contact
the third. However, I’ve enlisted the help of three other artists in the hope that their input will bring a new creativity
to the project. It’s always been my intention to disinter the artwork one day and once you’ve uncovered it, I’ll take a cast
which I shall entitle “The Decay of Mankind”.’

Neil studied the man. If he’d left art college over sixteen years ago that meant he must be in his late thirties. Sometimes
he gave the impression of being younger but Neil could see the hardness of experience in his eyes and he suspected that he
was nobody’s fool. He also sensed an underlying tension as the artist spoke, as though something was preying on his mind and
kept intruding. But whatever it was, it was no concern of his.

All of a sudden he knew how to turn the situation to his advantage – or at least to the advantage of the archaeological community.
He gave Orford a disarming smile. ‘I think this might be an interesting exercise for some post-grad students I know from the
university who specialise in the scientific side of archaeology. It’ll be useful for them to see the effect of burial on different
materials. I take it you’ve no objection to …’

Orford considered the proposition for a while before replying. ‘As long as they’re willing to abide by my rules I have no
objection. A few lads who worked at the holiday park next door helped to dig the original trench.’ Orford
paused, his eyes fixed on the crumbling buildings beyond the fence. ‘It was still going strong when I was last here but it
looks pretty derelict now.’

‘Yes. I presume you’ve got the necessary permission from the landowner. You can’t just go digging up land without getting
the go ahead.’

‘I’ve had written permission from his son. His name’s Richard Catton and he seems to make all the decisions. He’s quite keen
on the project. I remember he helped out sixteen years ago but he was just a kid then.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘Up at Catton Hall: an old, rambling place about a quarter of a mile away. This is all his land, including the holiday park.’

‘How old is the hall?’ Neil’s appetite was suddenly whetted by the mention of an historic pile.

‘How should I know?’ Orford said as though the conversation was starting to bore him. ‘Look, Dr Watson – or can I call you
Neil?’

‘Neil’s fine.’

‘Before we begin, I want you and your colleagues to sign a confidentiality agreement. Anything you find or see while you’re
engaged in this artistic project is to be strictly controlled by myself and my PR people. I take it you agree?’

‘Why?’ The man was starting to annoy Neil. What could possibly be confidential about digging up some old picnic?

‘I don’t have to give reasons. I just expect you to agree.’

The artist’s eyes had hardened. Neil had seen this look on the faces of property developers trying to pull one over on his
archaeological team for a swift profit. But he hadn’t expected it from a well-known conceptual artist.

But the matter was hardly likely to affect his involvement so he shrugged and gave the man the answer he wanted to hear.

The Jester’s Journal

22 May 1815

Tonight we shall hunt again.

I have already visited the stables where my hares are to stay until they are needed. They are two goodly hares – farm lads,
strong and fast. The Squire’s cousin, Master Henry, expressed a preference for a female hare but I found it hard to persuade
any local maid to take on the role … especially as Henry likes to hunt a naked quarry. I must be more persuasive.

One of the hares, a well-set lad called William, raised some objection to removing his clothing, but when I told him no fee
would be paid to a disobedient servant he saw the error of his ways.

23 May 1815

The hunt proceeded well last night and, oh, what pleasure and entertainment was had! I myself presented a cup of best claret
to the noble riders before their departure and I hope I do not boast when I say that I provided much wit and ceremony to the
event. The Squire and Master Henry riding after the hares with the hounds in full cry was a magnificent sight to see, and
yet I fear that one day such entertainment will pall and Master Henry will crave ever more violent delights. I shall set my
mind to their devising.

The lad, William, suffered some injury but all the signs are that he will live and he has been paid well for his pains. I
have given orders that he is to be locked in the chamber beside the stables until he is recovered and I sent word to his mother
that he has been called away on my master’s business. He will keep his mouth shut or I shall have to take measures to ensure
his silence.

Our steward Christopher Wells asked what business the two lads he saw around the stables yesterday had at the Hall. From the
way in which he purses his lips at me like a frosty old dowager, I could take him for one of advanced years rather than a
handsome man in his prime. But so it is with those of the Puritan persuasion. I told him nothing but he knows of the hunt,
for I saw him watching from the window when our noble huntsmen set off. I trust he will not visit the parson to set him upon
the Squire again. The Squire was most vexed last time and sent the man on his way with a kicked backside. How I laughed to
see that pompous man of the cloth brought down. It was as good as a play by the mummers who visit at Yuletide.

A more thorough search of Tessa Trencham’s house was on Wesley’s list of things to organise. It was a long list, as it always
was when a murder had been committed on his patch. On Gerry’s orders the place had been sealed off until a detailed examination
of all the dead woman’s possessions could be made. And he and Wesley wanted to supervise that search themselves so that nothing
was missed.

It was coming up to six when they arrived at Lister Cottage and Rachel Tracey met them there. Wesley noticed that her face
was flushed and she was looking rather pleased with herself.

‘Anything interesting come up from the house to house inquiries?’ he asked.

She shook her head and her blonde pony tail bobbed to and fro. Wesley suspected that she tied her hair back to look more businesslike
and efficient. But it suited her.

‘Nobody knows much about Tessa Trencham. As you can see, the house is on the main road and it’s shielded from the neighbours
by high hedges. She didn’t pass the time of day with any of them, but a couple did say that during the past couple of weeks
there have been several cars parked outside so she must have had visitors.’

‘Does she own a car?’

‘A blue Toyota Yaris. But there’s no sign of it.’

Wesley glanced at Gerry who was hovering impatiently by the front door.

‘Right, then. Forensic have finished whatever it is they do, so it’s all ours.’ Gerry pushed the crime scene tape aside and
the door swung open. ‘Come on. Me and Rach’ll take downstairs and you do upstairs, Wes. We’ve got a licence to be nosy – official.’

Wesley caught Rachel’s eye and they both smiled. Gerry’s brand of Liverpudlian humour had helped them face some dire situations
in the past, as long as there were no grieving relatives around to hear.

The scent of death still hung in the air but Wesley tried to ignore it as he climbed the stairs.

He started in the second bedroom, which seemed to be serving as a store room. Here the wardrobes were crammed with clothes,
and boxes of paperwork lay on the bare mattress of a single divan bed: bills, bank statements and correspondence all addressed
to Tessa Trencham. Someone would have to go through them all in the hope that a clue to her death would be concealed in there.
He searched through the bank statements for any indication as to how she earned her living but, although the account was fairly
healthy, there was nothing to suggest where that money came from. In an old shoebox at the bottom of a wardrobe
he found some photographs of an elderly couple and several of a fair-haired boy from babyhood to the brink of adulthood. But
there didn’t appear to be any pictures of the dead woman, old or recent.

The bathroom contained nothing out of the ordinary; just an array of expensive beauty products and some common proprietary
medicines in the mirrored cabinet. When he stepped out on to the landing he knew he had to face the bedroom where the woman
had died. He pushed the door open and stood for a few moments staring down at the place where her body had lain undiscovered
and unmissed for all that time. The pale bedspread was discoloured with a large stain and scattered with insect pupa cases,
while the tiny corpses of flies lay scattered around the room. Someone, the Forensic people probably, had been at work with
insect spray and, as the place stank of mingled death and chemicals, Wesley decided to open a window to let some fresh air
in before beginning his search.

There were no books beside the bed. But some people, he supposed, just didn’t like reading. The double bed was still made
up, immaculate with a satin throw folded across the bottom and matching scatter cushions propped up on the ornate velvet headboard,
but his eyes were drawn to the dark, dinted area where the body had lain. This was a woman’s room all right – his wife Pam
had observed more than once that no man she’d ever known could see the purpose of the scatter cushion.

He began by turning back the bedclothes. The sheets looked freshly laundered and there was no sign of a nightdress or pyjamas
beneath the pillows. He made a quick search of the bedside drawers and found a box full of
tissues and several packs of condoms. There must have been a man – or men – in Tessa Trencham’s life. It was just a case now
of finding him … or them. He looked in the waste-bin, but there was no sign of any used condoms that would provide them with
useful DNA; the lover – or lovers – had probably flushed them down the lavatory. A pity, he thought.

Rooting through the ottoman at the end of the bed, he found several changes of bedding, all newish and smelling sweetly of
fabric conditioner. The wardrobes contained more clothes and the chest of drawers was filled with lacy, luxurious underwear,
mostly in red and black. The top two dressing-table drawers were given over to jewellery and make-up and he could tell that
she had very expensive tastes in perfume and cosmetics. Tessa Trencham was a woman who indulged herself. The jewellery was
mostly solid silver and looked as though it had been individually designed. Some of it was in a similar style to the rings
she was wearing and Wesley wondered why she hadn’t been wearing the matching earrings and necklace which lay in a velvet box
inside the drawer.

In contrast to the second bedroom, this room was show-home neat and Wesley had the nagging feeling that it was staged somehow,
rather like a film set. And the clothes here seemed different to those in the spare-room wardrobe, which had been more bohemian
and far less expensive. However, many women had separate wardrobes for work and leisure.

Once his search was finished, he made his way downstairs to join Gerry and found him standing in the middle of the living
room watching Rachel complete her search of a cupboard by the fireplace.

‘Well?’ Gerry asked when he appeared in the doorway. ‘Found anything?’

‘Only what you’d expect – clothes, shoes, make-up. There’s some paperwork in the spare room which will have to be gone through.’

‘I found a load of bedding and a couple of towels in the washing machine,’ said Rachel, looking round. ‘The light was still
flashing so it looks as if she was killed before she had a chance to unload it.’

‘The bed’s neatly made up, so perhaps she changed the sheets,’ said Wesley. ‘Or the killer did it and filled the washer with
the dirty washing with his DNA all over it.’

‘A domesticated murderer,’ said Gerry. ‘That’s a rarity. But unfortunately most people know all about DNA these days.’

‘Any sign of her passport or driving licence down here?’ Wesley asked.

Rachel shook her head. ‘No. But I’ve found the registration documents for a five-year-old Toyota Yaris. There’s no sign of
it but she might rent a garage somewhere nearby. Or maybe the killer took it; I’ve alerted all patrols to be on the lookout
for it, just in case.’

‘Thanks. There were utility bills upstairs, all paid and in the name of Tessa Trencham; a few photos, probably old and probably
family. No recent ones of her but I’ll get someone to go through them all the same. She kept all her paperwork filed and up
to date but there’s no clue to where she worked. Her bank statements are quite healthy but there are no regular incoming payments
from an employer.’