The Cadaver Game (5 page)

‘She might be self-employed?’ Rachel suggested. ‘Or …’

‘Or what?’

‘Well, in view of those condoms in the bedside drawer, she might be a member of the oldest profession.’

‘All that means is that there was a man in her life – maybe the man who reported the body,’ said Wesley. ‘But you might as
well check to see if she’s come to the Vice Squad’s attention. You never know.’

‘No problem,’ Rachel said as she picked up what looked like a postcard and waved it in Wesley’s direction. ‘One piece of good
news. This was on the mantelpiece. We’ve found her dentist and she’s got a routine appointment for next week. Her dental records
should confirm her identity once and for all.’

‘Good,’ said Gerry. He looked round, frowning slightly as though he’d mislaid something. ‘There’s no computer, and no address
book or diary.’

‘And where’s her mobile phone?’ said Rachel. ‘There’s no landline here so she must rely on it.’

‘Whoever killed her probably took it,’ said Wesley. ‘He knew his number would be in it and all her calls could be traced,
so he’s taken it with him. Same goes for her photographs and address book. I reckon he’s taken everything that could lead
to us identifying him.’

Gerry nodded slowly. ‘The body was here a week so he’s had plenty of time to do a thorough job. All the indications are that
she was killed by someone she knew. And she knew him well enough to invite him into her bedroom because there were no signs
of a struggle.’

‘Fingerprints?’ Rachel asked.

‘Lots. But none of them have a match on our database.’

‘Maybe her dentist will be able to throw some light on the matter. It’s hard to talk with your mouth full of drill but
she might have passed the time of day with him – told him what she did for a living.’

‘Maybe the dentist’s our man,’ said Rachel hopefully.

But Wesley didn’t think it would be that easy. Murderers don’t usually send appointment cards.

Paul kept telling himself what he’d told his aunt, that there was nothing to worry about because Sophie and her boyfriend,
Barney Pickard, had taken spare clothes with them, which suggested a degree of planning. In spite of this he still felt uneasy
and wondered whether he should pay Carole another visit and maybe contact Barney’s mother too. But the DCI’s briefing was
in half an hour. He’d hoped to take Trish for a meal at the Tradmouth Castle Hotel but the discovery of the woman’s body in
Morbay meant that an evening out was off the menu.

He dialled Carole’s number, hoping she wouldn’t rush to the phone, heart pounding, thinking it was good news.

When she answered she sounded breathless. And disappointed. Maybe he shouldn’t have called and raised her hopes.

‘Have you heard anything?’

‘No. Have you?’

‘Sorry.’ He said the word as though he meant it. It was six o’clock. Even the most inconsiderate teenager would surely have
put her parents out of their misery by now. ‘There’s something I’d like to ask you.’

‘What?’

‘I had a look at Sophie’s computer when I was round there and I noticed she’s been playing an Internet game called Blood Hunt.
There were some comments posted and she’d said she was going to reach a new level last night. I wondered
whether she and Barney might have met up with someone – other gamers. Did she mention anything about it?’

‘All that stuff’s a mystery to me.’

‘Do you think Barney’s mother will mind if I contact her to see if she knows anything?’

Carole hesitated for a moment. ‘I don’t know Barney’s mum very well. I have talked to her but she seems … I think she was
an actress or a model or something and she’s a bit distant.’ She hesitated. ‘When I called her she didn’t seem very worried.
She said that Barney’s his own person and she doesn’t interfere in his private life.’

‘She’s probably right not to worry. I’m sure they’ve just gone off somewhere and they’ll be back soon. But if I can have her
number I might just give her a call.’

There was the sound of rustling, as though Carole was searching through her address book. Then she recited a number and Paul
wrote it down.

When he dialled the number it was a while before he heard a female voice on the other end of the line, bored and slightly
drawling as if she’d had one too many gin and tonics. Unlike Carole, this woman didn’t sound particularly concerned, more
annoyed at being disturbed. When Paul explained the reason for his call, she gave a deep and theatrical sigh.

‘They’ll be somewhere getting pissed or fucking each other stupid. They’re eighteen, for God’s sake. She thinks they’re still
toddlers. I told her not to call the police but she wouldn’t listen.’

‘Mrs Walter says it’s out of character. And when it’s out of character, we take it seriously.’

‘Weren’t you ever young, Detective Constable whatever your name is?’

‘Paul Johnson.’ He felt himself blushing. His teenage years weren’t that far behind him and now this woman was talking to
him as if he were some crusty old man. ‘Has Barney ever mentioned a computer game called Blood Hunt to you?’

‘He spends a lot of time in his room playing games on his laptop but I haven’t a clue what they’re called.’ There was a pause.
‘I did hear him mention a hunt the other day when he was talking on his mobile and I wondered if he’d started hanging out
with those hunt saboteurs. You know how kids are about animal rights. If it’s got fur it can do no wrong.’

‘I take it you’ve tried calling him?’

‘A couple of times but there was no answer.’ For the first time Paul sensed an undercurrent of unease in her voice.

‘Have you called any of his friends to see if they know where he is?’

‘No. He wouldn’t thank me for making him look stupid, would he?’ The nonchalance had returned.

‘Did he mention anything about where he was going? Anything at all?’ This was the last throw of the dice and he wasn’t getting
his hopes up.

There was a long silence before the woman spoke again. ‘Come to think of it, he did mention a name … some hall, I think. Sorry.’

‘Please think.’

‘Sorry. I really can’t remember. Do you think it might be important?’

‘I don’t know. But if it comes back to you—’

At that moment Gerry Heffernan burst into the incident room, calling for attention. He thanked Mrs Pickard and
put the phone down, hoping that when the drink wore off, her memory would improve.

It was almost nine o’clock and the light was fading when the black Ford Focus collided with a tractor on the A385 a couple
of miles west of Tradington. When the ambulance arrived, the paramedics realised the driver would need to be cut from the
vehicle.

Half an hour later, when the fire-fighters had done their work, the victim was lifted carefully from his seat and placed on
a stretcher with his head and limbs immobilised to prevent further injury. Then the ambulance set off, lights and sirens blazing,
to Morbay Hospital’s Accident and Emergency Unit with the patient in the back being checked constantly. His blood pressure
was falling, the paramedic had told Constable Jim Bold from Traffic Division who had rushed to attend the scene. The man was
unconscious and it didn’t look good.

Jim watched the ambulance disappear into the distance. Sad, he thought, as he took out his notebook, but these things happen
when people drive too fast and don’t pay attention to the road. His colleague was having a word with the tractor driver who
was unhurt but shaken. It had definitely been the car driver’s fault. He had overtaken a slow moving Nissan Micra on a blind
bend and the tractor had been coming the other way. The Micra driver, an elderly woman, was also shocked but she had made
a statement to the effect that she had seen it coming, the way he’d been driving.

When Jim called in the vehicle registration number to get an ID on the owner, he was told it was registered to a Keith Marsh
who lived at a Manchester address. Once he’d made
certain that it was indeed Mr Marsh who’d been driving, he’d give his Manchester colleagues a call and ask them to break the
news to the victim’s nearest and dearest. But he didn’t want to set all that in motion until he was sure of the driver’s identity.
The car might have been borrowed or stolen … anything.

He walked slowly over to the wrecked vehicle. The top had been removed by the fire service’s cutting equipment and the thought
that the car looked like a sardine can with its lid folded back passed through his mind.

He leaned over and opened the glove compartment. There was a folder in there containing the car’s complete service history
along with a map of the South Devon area and a torch.

He shone his own torch down at the floor and the broken glass glinted like diamonds in the beam and there he spotted a mobile
phone, lying in the midst of the debris. He picked it up carefully and scrolled down the names in the address book, thinking
how strange it was that a man’s life could be encapsulated in a small sliver of metal and circuit boards. Then he suddenly
felt a desire to know more about Keith Marsh – if that was indeed his name – so he flicked through the last calls made from
the phone, sighing when he saw that he’d been using the instrument just before the time of the crash, trying to call someone
called Barry but the call hadn’t been connected. Some people would never learn.

He accessed the phone book and found a number with ‘home’ beside it so at least he’d have something to give to Greater Manchester
Police when he contacted them. He wasn’t tempted to call it himself: he’d stick to procedure and leave the breaking of bad
news to others.

He accessed the list of recent calls again and, to his surprise, he saw that earlier that day Marsh had made an emergency
call. 999.

And half an hour later, after he’d done some checking, he knew that the man who’d just been lifted from the wreckage was wanted
in connection with a murder.

The Steward’s Journal

24 May 1815

One of the maidservants sought me out while I was alone in the Squire’s library. When she asked if she could speak with me
she looked as nervous as a harvest mouse with a cat’s paw hovering over it to deliver a death blow, but I assured her that
she had nothing to fear and anything she shared with me would remain a secret. I am not one, I told her, for betraying confidences.

I asked her what was amiss and she said she had been frightened by strange sounds from the tack room by the stables. She had
heard a ghost, she said, moaning and crying. When I enquired whether she had entered the building to discover the origin of
the strange sounds, she shook her head. She had heard Silly John talk of ghosts and demons and she had no wish to come face
to face with such a being.

I had little doubt that it was her imagination but when I instructed her to return to her duties, I warned her to take care
and asked if she attended church on Sundays. She said she did and I told her to speak to myself or the parson if she was concerned
about anything she saw or experienced. She stared at me for a few moments, as though she was about to confide some new worry,
but then she fled the room like a frightened young deer. She is a pretty girl with fair curls and the sweetest of faces. How
Henry Catton would relish the corruption of such sweet and tender flesh if the opportunity were to present itself.

I felt I had no choice but to visit the stables and confront this phantom for myself.

A lad was busy sweeping the yard, doubling his efforts when he spotted me, and when I asked him if all was well he would not
look me in the eye. However, I let the matter rest as I suspected that the maid had heard the horses whinnying in their stalls,
and in her fevered imagination, had mistaken it for some spectre that one of the lads had spoken of to frighten her and make
her cling to him for safety. In the folly of my tender years even I have played such tricks on maids.

As I turned to leave I heard a sound from the direction of the tack room. The door was locked and when I demanded the key
the lad’s eyes grew wide with terror, but I am the steward here and he knew he could not refuse me. I took the key from his
trembling hand and placed it in the lock.

As the door opened the stench of blood and excrement assaulted my senses and when my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light,
I saw a human figure sprawled upon a pile of hay. William was barely recognisable as the strong young man of my acquaintance
and I rushed to the lad and felt
his brow. He was hot with fever and sorely wounded with bites and cuts all over his naked flesh. Too ill to move, he lay in
his own filth and I was torn between disgust and pity as I considered what course of action to take.

If William stayed there, he would surely die.

25 May 1815

With the acquiescence – I shall not say aid for fear made him an unwilling helper – of the lad, I set William upon a cart
and returned him to his mother. She will nurse him now but whether he will live, I know not. I vowed there and then to put
a stop to Tandy’s evil entertainments … if it lay within my power.

I shall say prayers for William’s recovery, and hope that I shall find a way to put an end to the wickedness in this place.

26 May 1815

This morning while the Squire was out with his hounds at the Home Farm, I heard the bell ring at the front door. It is my
duty to open the door to visitors so I made my way to the hall and discovered that the caller was a young woman. She stood
before me with a bold look, and her bright clothes were as none I have set eyes upon before this day.

And she did not speak one word of English.

The next morning Wesley turned over in bed and looked at the glowing red numbers on the alarm clock. Ten to seven. Normally
he’d have stayed there at least another hour on a Saturday morning, but the woman lying in a refrigerated drawer in Morbay
Hospital mortuary dictated that he should rise early and investigate her death.

When Pam stirred by his side he leaned over and kissed the top of her head. She half-opened her eyes and put a hand out to
touch his shoulder.