The Flesh Tailor (2 page)

Maritia glanced at her husband as he stood up.

‘Would you like me to go with you, Evonne? It’s a filthy night and I don’t like to think of you …’

That was Mark all over, Maritia thought with a sigh. Wesley was allowed time off, as was she. But a vicar is never off duty.

Evonne looked relieved, as though a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. She was a nervous driver and most of the people
at the table knew it. ‘Oh thank you, Mark. That’s so good of you. Are you sure you don’t mind?’

Maritia saw Mark take a deep breath and force out a smile. ‘Hopefully we won’t be long.’

‘At least finish your dinner first,’ she said pointedly.

Mark looked at Evonne who gave a little nod. As soon as he sat down again and began to tackle the food on his plate, shovelling
it into his mouth as though he sensed Evonne’s anxiety and wanted to be off, Wesley’s mobile phone began to ring. He rose
from his seat and made for Belsham Vicarage’s spacious hallway, pressing the phone to his ear.

When he re-entered the dining room all eyes were on him.

‘I’m really sorry, I have to go.’

Maritia saw a flash of annoyance pass over Pam’s face, there for a second then hidden carefully. She leaned forward and put
her hand on her sister-in-law’s arm and Pam gave her a martyred look.

‘What is it?’ Maritia asked.

There was a pause as Wesley weighed up how much to reveal. ‘There’s been an incident. I’m needed, I’m afraid. The dinner was
great, honestly. Just sorry I’ve got to go.’

‘I’ll see Pam home then,’ said Mark, surveying his empty plate and earning himself a grateful look from his brother-in-law.

Maritia followed Wesley out and after he’d gone, pulling up the hood of his coat against the November drizzle, she stood for
a while, quite still in the hall before fixing a smile to her face and returning to her guests.

Wesley would never have admitted it to his sister but he was rather relieved to escape from her dinner party. He’d never liked
having to make polite conversation with people he hardly knew and probably wouldn’t choose to mix with if he did.

He’d thought it best not to tell Maritia that, according to DCI Gerry Heffernan, the victim was a middle-aged doctor – he’d
learned that much from the neighbours who’d found the body: with her colleague’s unexplained absence, he hadn’t wanted to
worry her. Then he suddenly remembered that Mark had agreed to drive the worried Evonne to Dr Dalcott’s address. The last
thing he wanted was for them to turn up at a crime scene.

He found the house on the northern fringes of the village of Tradington and parked next to a high bare hedgerow that shielded
the wide lane from the rolling fields
beyond. On the other side of the lane stood a row of three neat, cob-walled cottages fronted by deep gardens and, as he emerged
from the car, he saw Gerry walking towards him down the path of the middle cottage. Gerry, a large middle-aged Liverpudlian,
was usually ready with a quip but there was a solemn expression on his chubby face.

‘Hi, Gerry,’ he called out. ‘Have we got a name for the victim?’

‘Yeah. It’s a Dr James Dalcott, local GP. The neighbours in that cottage identified him.’ He pointed at the small cottage
to the left of the victim’s, the one with the lights blazing in the windows.

‘What about the neighbours on the other side?’

‘No answer and no lights on. Must be out. We’ll have a word when they get back.’

‘Cause of death?’

‘Shot through the head, poor bugger. Didn’t stand a chance.’ He stood there for a moment, shifting from foot to foot on the
muddy ground in an effort to keep warm.

‘Look, Gerry, I’ll have to make a phone call. I’ve just been at my sister’s. James Dalcott’s one of the partners in her practice
– he was supposed to be there for dinner but he never turned up.’

‘Well, now we know why,’ said Gerry as he turned to face the house. The floodlights had arrived, lighting the area of the
crime scene through a fine veil of drizzle while the white-clad Forensic team darted to and fro in their well-rehearsed choreography
like figures on a stage.

The victim’s house was fairly large for a cottage and double fronted, unlike its smaller neighbours. All the lights were on
and the front door stood open, giving the place a welcoming look.

Wesley pulled out his phone and called his sister’s number. It wasn’t easy to break the news over the phone and he didn’t
have time to go into explanations. That could come later. Maritia sounded shocked and she kept asking him if he was sure it
was James, as though she found the whole horrifying scenario hard to believe.

But it was the news that Mark and Evonne had already set out for Tradington that made his heart sink. He tried Mark’s number
but he was put straight through to voice mail. He called Maritia again to get Evonne’s number but again he had no luck, which
meant he would have to hang about on the fringes of the scene and turn them away tactfully when they arrived. And that wouldn’t
be the end of the matter for Evonne. As she’d obviously known James Dalcott well, they’d need to talk to her. Just as they’d
need to talk to Maritia and all his other colleagues. Murder sends ripples out into the lives of everyone connected with the
victim – Wesley had learned that very early on in his police career.

‘Come on, Wes. Let’s go and have a look.’ Gerry handed him a crime scene suit to put on over his clothes. Gerry had already
struggled into his and was standing there looking like a thawing snowman.

Just as Wesley was about to explain about Evonne’s anticipated arrival, Mark’s car appeared, slowing down before gliding to
a halt. As soon as it stopped, Evonne leaped from the passenger seat.

Wesley wasn’t quick enough to stop her and even the officer acting as crime scene manager, stationed at the gate with his
clip board logging the comings and goings, was helpless in the face of her determined dash for the front door. Wesley heard
shouts of ‘Oi, you can’t go in
there,’ but Evonne ignored them as she headed for her target.

She was screaming now. ‘James. James.’ And Wesley could only watch as she burst into the crime scene, depositing fingerprints
and DNA everywhere before being held back by a well-built constable, the only one who’d managed to halt her progress towards
the body on the ground.

He was suddenly aware of his brother-in-law, Mark, standing beside him, muttering an expletive that would have shocked some
of his older parishioners. ‘Well, I knew she was worried about him but … Want me to take her back?’

‘Got it in one.’

‘Might be best if she stayed the night with us, after a few stiff brandies.’

‘Thanks. We’ll speak to her tomorrow when she’s had a chance to calm down.’

‘Maritia’ll look after her. Give her something to help her sleep if necessary.’

The well-built constable was leading her towards them. She was sobbing and he was muttering clichés of comfort into her ears.
The officer looked relieved when Mark took charge with professional efficiency.

Once Mark’s car had disappeared from sight, Gerry sidled up. ‘Who was that screaming bird your brother-in-law had in tow?’
he asked.

Wesley told him as he donned his crime scene suit. ‘She’s staying with my sister tonight – we’ll go and have a word first
thing. Now let’s see what we’ve got here.’

As they began to walk towards the lights Wesley’s eyes were fixed on the open front door. The body of Dr James
Dalcott was lying in the middle of the hallway and as Wesley drew nearer he could see the neat, blackened bullet wound in
the centre of the dead man’s forehead. A halo of red liquid spread across the parquet floor around the body as blood from
the exit wound blended with red wine seeping from the plastic carrier bag the victim must have dropped when he died. Wine
for the dinner party – wine Wesley himself had been intended to drink. James Dalcott’s eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.
He looked startled. But then if he was accosted unexpectedly on his way out of the house, death must have come as a considerable
surprise.

‘Wesley, Gerry, come in.’ Dr Colin Bowman, the Home Office pathologist, had been leaning over the body but he straightened
himself up when he saw them. ‘Bad business,’ he said with a solemn shake of the head. ‘I only saw him last week at one of
our medical dinners. Nice chap.’

Wesley felt the DCI give him a nudge in the ribs. ‘Wes was due to have dinner with him tonight, weren’t you, Wes? Only he
never showed up.’

Colin looked Wesley in the eye. ‘I didn’t realise you knew him, Wesley.’

‘My sister works – worked – with him. I’d never actually met him but she invited us all round for a meal. Did you know him
well?’ He asked the question in the hope that Colin might have picked up on a bit of medical gossip on his travels.

But Colin shook his head. ‘To be honest I didn’t. I know he’s separated from his wife but apart from that …’ Colin stared
down at the body for a few seconds. ‘Mind you, I can’t imagine what he could have done to deserve this. The gun was fired
at close range – two feet away at the
most. Whoever did this must have looked him in the eye when he pointed the gun and pulled the trigger. Killed in cold blood
– that’s my guess, gentlemen.’

‘Thanks, Colin,’ Gerry said. ‘So we’re looking for a professional? A hit man?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. But I don’t think we’re looking for someone who acted in the heat of the moment.’

Wesley stepped away from the group huddled around the body and began to wander round the hallway, taking in his surroundings.
There was no sign of forced entry, which either meant Dalcott let his killer in or the killer had been waiting there when
he opened the door to leave the house, laden with the carrier bag containing the wine. He looked at the body again and saw
a bunch of keys lying in the pool of wine and blood, dropped when the victim fell. He’d been on his way out all right, looking
forward to – or maybe dreading – a congenial social evening with colleagues, when he met his brutal end.

He caught Gerry’s eye. ‘I’d like a word with the neighbours who found him. Coming?’

Gerry nodded. ‘Nothing much we can do here. We’ll leave Colin to it. When can you do the PM?’

‘Tomorrow afternoon suit you?’ Colin replied.

The crime scene team bustled around performing their mysterious tasks, taking little notice of the two detectives as they
made their way outside, shedding their protective suits at the gate. It would hardly do to conduct serious interviews, Gerry
observed, in oversized Babygros.

The neighbours who’d found the body lived in the house to the right of Dalcott’s. A wooden gate led to a well-kept garden,
neatened, pruned and swept for the
winter. An old but immaculate Morris Minor sat in the driveway and a welcoming light glowed behind russet curtains. Wesley
led the way and rang the doorbell.

The front door opened almost immediately, as though the householders had been waiting in the hall for their arrival. Standing
there was a couple, probably in their mid-seventies. He was average height with an unusually smooth face, snow-white hair
and a hand-knitted sweater; she was more than a foot shorter with a round face topped by steel-grey curls and a sweater identical
to her husband’s. It didn’t take several years of experience in CID to tell Wesley that this pair included knitting and gardening
in their list of hobbies and pastimes.

They looked at him expectantly and his instincts told him he’d struck gold. This was a retired couple with time on their hands:
if anyone knew about the day-to-day life of James Dalcott, it would be them.

The detectives were invited in and provided with tea. Wesley guessed that the couple – who introduced themselves and Len and
Ruby Wetherall – were rather enjoying themselves in their own way. Things had probably never been so exciting in that small
South Devon village since the War.

Wesley saw Gerry give him a small nod. It was up to him to start the questions. ‘Can you tell us what happened?’ he began.

It was Ruby who answered, leaning forward as if she was about to share a confidence. ‘Gave us the shock of our lives, it did.
I’m still shaking … feel.’ She extended a hand to Wesley who dutifully touched the sleeve of her sweater. He couldn’t detect
any shaking of the limb but he nodded in agreement.

‘So how did you know something was wrong?’ he prompted, trying to steer the interview towards the hard facts.

‘We arrived home in the car, didn’t we, Len?’

Len hesitated for a moment before nodding his head.

‘Then Len said he’d seen James’s door was wide open so he wandered over to have a look. You hear about all these burglars
nowadays, don’t you? We thought … Well, he thought he’d better just make sure everything was all right, didn’t you, dear?’

‘So you went up to the front door?’ Gerry asked.

‘That’s right,’ said Len. ‘He was just lying there. He had a bag of shopping or something and some liquid was spilled all
over the floor. I thought he’d had a heart attack at first. Then I noticed the … his head.’

Wesley saw Ruby shudder with vicarious horror.

‘Then we called the ambulance and we asked for the police too,’ she said. ‘It didn’t look right, did it, Len?’

‘No, it didn’t look right,’ Len Wetherall echoed quietly.

‘Did you notice the door was open, Mrs Wetherall?’ Wesley asked innocently.

She shook her head. ‘Can’t say I did. When we pulled up I was too busy searching for my key, wasn’t I, Len? I thought I’d
lost it.’

‘And had you?’

‘No. I found it at the bottom of my handbag.’

‘When you arrived home did either of you see anybody hanging around? Or anything unusual, apart from Dr Dalcott’s door being
open?’ Wesley looked from one to the other but Ruby and Len shook their heads in unison.

‘Can’t say we did,’ said Len.

‘No, can’t say we did,’ Ruby echoed.

Wesley took a sip of tea. It was hot, strong and welcome. He gave Ruby an encouraging smile. ‘What can you tell us about James?’

‘Oh, he was a very nice neighbour, wasn’t he, Len? Quiet. Friendly.’ She glanced at Gerry. ‘He was separated, of course. Roz,
his wife’s name is. And she’s a flighty piece.’