The Flesh Tailor (30 page)

Also the fact that Dr Welman had been caught destroying records rang alarm bells in Gerry’s head and he’d instructed Paul
to bring the shredder and its contents back to the incident room. If he was feeling particularly cruel, he might give one
of the underlings the job of reassembling each sheet. He’d wait to see who wasn’t pulling their weight that day, he thought
mischievously, before allocating the job.

He looked up and saw Wesley approaching, a faraway look in his eyes, as though he had something on his mind.

‘I want to have another look through James Dalcott’s things,’ Wesley said with a decisiveness that Gerry found surprising.
‘We’ve not really covered the George Clipton angle, have we? Clipton was Dalcott’s father – and he was hanged for murder.’

‘You saying someone was out for revenge? One of the victim’s relatives?’

Wesley shook his head. ‘That doesn’t make sense. James was the victim’s son as well as the murderer’s.’

‘Any ideas on this old bloke Brian Carrack saw visiting James Dalcott on the night he died?’

‘If you want my opinion, he’s playing with us, Gerry. Anyway, it was dark and remember how badly lit that lane was.’

Gerry had to concede that Wesley was right. Brian Carrack was probably making the whole thing up.

‘OK. You go and search through Dalcott’s belongings if it makes you happy. But remember the place has already been searched
and time is tight.’

Wesley began to move towards the door. ‘I won’t be long.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m meeting Nuala Johns later.’

Gerry raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh aye? Just you be careful. I’ve come across her type before. Given half a chance she’ll have
the words out of your notebook and the clothes off your back. Does your Pam know about this assignation?’

‘It’s not an assignation. It’s purely in the line of duty.’

‘That’s what they all say.’ Gerry raised a warning finger. ‘Watch your step, that’s all I’m saying. And don’t forget about
the TV appeal. In fact why don’t you get back here in time for the finish – see what comes in?’

Wesley looked mildly irritated. ‘Is that necessary? There’ll be plenty of people –’

‘I need someone to sort the wheat from the chaff. Besides, it’ll give you a valid excuse to get away from that Nuala so I’ll
be doing you a favour. You’ll thank me in the morning.’

Gerry Heffernan gave Wesley a knowing wink before he swept from the room.

Wesley was on his way to James Dalcott’s house but the knowledge that Tony Persimmon might have known James Dalcott through
the Podingham Clinic kept nagging away in his head like a buzzing insect. And he knew the only way to get rid of it was by
paying Persimmon a call at Tailors Court. Besides, he wanted to see the place again so this new angle gave him the perfect
excuse.

When Jill Persimmon let him in she directed him to the room Tony was using temporarily as an office. He found the man there,
relaxed in jeans and sweatshirt, sitting in front of a laptop computer.

Wesley cleared his throat and Tony looked up. For a split second he looked annoyed at the intrusion, then he rearranged his
features into a mask of polite cooperation.

‘What can I do for you, Inspector? I take it this is about our skeletons?’

‘Not this time. I believe you worked for Pharmitest International. Did you know James Dalcott?’

Tony Persimmon didn’t answer for a few moments and Wesley waited. He intended to let Tony fill the silence.

‘I worked at Pharmitest’s head office in London but I had to come down here from time to time to check on the trials at the
Podingham.’ He gave a weak smile. ‘I rather fell in love with the countryside round here – that’s how I ended up at Tailors
Court.’

‘Did you meet Dalcott at the clinic?’

‘Yes, I did as a matter of fact.’

‘And what was your relationship with him?’

‘There was no “relationship”,’ he said quickly. ‘He was just a problem that needed solving.’

‘A problem?’ Wesley had hardly expected such honesty. He sat quite still and listened.

‘I don’t work for the Pharmitest dollar any more so I suppose it’s OK to tell you.’ There was a pause while Persimmon gathered
his thoughts. ‘James Dalcott was threatening to make waves. One of the drug trials had gone tits up – a bloke was left scarred
for life. Dalcott thought the company should have been open about the whole incident and the victim should have been given
a huge payout. My masters disagreed. We had words.’

‘So you bore him a grudge?’

Tony shook his head. ‘No way. It was business, pure and simple. I just had to make sure Dalcott kept his mouth firmly shut
and I succeeded – using only legal niceties, incidentally.’ He sat back in his seat. ‘I got out of Pharmitest soon after –
got sick of the whole business to tell you the truth. And if you think I killed Dalcott, you’re barking up the wrong tree.
I had no reason to wish him any harm: I’d left Pharmitest and, like I said, our dispute wasn’t personal in the first place.
Anyway, I hadn’t seen him for months – not since the unfortunate business. Look, if anyone bore Dalcott a grudge it’d be the
poor sod who was left scarred. Or even Welman – he doesn’t like people who don’t toe the line and Dalcott came dangerously
close. Welman tends to take these things personally … unlike me.’

‘James Dalcott lived nearby. You must have seen him around the district?’

‘We move in different circles, Inspector. I haven’t seen him since I left Pharmitest and that’s the truth.’

‘I’ll be sending someone along to take a statement.’

Tony Persimmon sat up straight, bristling with indignation. ‘Look, I resent being treated as a suspect. I haven’t seen James
Dalcott for several months and you’ll just have to take my word for it. I’ve told you everything I know. Now, if that’s all
…’

Wesley knew when he was being dismissed.

He was unsure whether to believe Persimmon’s claim about not seeing Dalcott. Surely in a place like Tradington, their paths
must have crossed. But Tony Persimmon would keep.

He drove the short distance to Dalcott’s cottage and stood at the gate for a while taking in the scene, putting himself in
the mind of the killer who had walked up the garden path and shot a man at close range on that dark, damp evening six days
earlier.

He could see the neighbours’ car standing in the drive next door but he wasn’t in the mood for another encounter with Ruby
and Len Wetherall so he pulled up the collar of his jacket and opened Dalcott’s gate gently, ensuring that it didn’t shut
with a crash behind him and bring the Wetheralls rushing to their net curtains. The killer would have done the same, he thought
as he hurried up the path to the front door – he or she wouldn’t have wanted to be seen. But Forensic had assured him that
no discernible fingerprints had been left: the murderer had worn gloves but, given the cold November weather, this would hardly
have looked suspicious.

He had the key to the front door so he let himself in. As it was no longer considered necessary to have a constant police
presence at the scene, the place was deserted and, once the front door was closed to exclude the outside
world, Wesley stood quite still in the rapidly fading light, drinking in the heavy silence.

When he’d lived in London he’d never been able to experience this absolute quiet. There would always have been the distant
rumble of traffic or an aircraft humming overhead. But here in the countryside was pure darkness and complete silence. And
it made him uncomfortable, especially here in the very hallway where a man had died so violently. And reminders of death were
all around: the smears of grey aluminium powder left by the fingerprint people and the small stickers used to mark out spots
of possible forensic interest. Then there was the dark stain of dried blood in the place James Dalcott had fallen and the
slick of red wine from the broken bottle, now dried to a sticky mess.

As Wesley switched on the light to banish the ghosts he could have sworn he heard a sound from upstairs, a soft padding across
a bedroom carpet perhaps. Or perhaps it was his imagination.

He decided to ignore it. Empty houses, especially empty houses where a murder had taken place, were inclined to make the senses
work overtime. He opened the door to what he knew from previous visits was the drawing room. It was almost dark so he flicked
on the light and took a deep breath.

The contents of the bureau in the corner of the room had been pulled out and strewn all over the carpet and his heart began
to beat a little faster. Someone had taken advantage of the fact that the police guard had been removed to conduct a rather
chaotic search.

The police team had searched for any papers or letters that might throw light on the murder but had found nothing
out of the ordinary. If the killer had made his own search, it might mean that something important had been missed. On the
other hand the intruder might have just been an opportunist thief targeting an empty house – but all his instincts still screamed
that it was James Dalcott’s killer.

He walked out of the room on tiptoe and when he reached the hall again he stood and listened. Somewhere upstairs a door opened
and closed softly. The intruder was there in Dalcott’s house with him. He hadn’t been imagining things.

He took his mobile phone out of his pocket and began to dial Gerry Heffernan’s number but before he could finish, he heard
a crash and footsteps. Whoever it was had decided to make a break for it. He started to climb the stairs, two by two and when
he reached the landing, he was faced with a row of doors – all of them shut tight.

Wesley, being methodical by nature, decided to start at one end and work his way along. He turned to his left and opened the
first door. It was a bathroom and it was empty. Standing by the basin he dialled Gerry’s number again and when the DCI answered
he outlined his predicament, briefly and in a whisper. Gerry promised to send back-up. Wesley only hoped it would be soon.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have come alone but hindsight is a wonderful thing.

In the meantime, he was determined to discover the intruder’s identity. He stepped out onto the landing and opened the door
of the adjoining room cautiously. The curtains were closed and the room was in total darkness so he felt for the light switch
on the wall by the door. There was either no bulb in the main light or it had failed so he searched his coat pocket for the
small torch he usually carried and shone its beam around the room. He remembered
from his previous visits to the crime scene that this was James Dalcott’s bedroom. It was spacious but rather untidy: Dalcott
had been a man alone and a busy man alone at that.

Summoning his courage, Wesley opened the door of the huge fitted wardrobe but when he flashed the torch inside he saw nothing
but suits, shirts and trousers hanging in rows. As he pushed the contents of the wardrobe to one side, he heard a door bang.
Then he realised it was the door to the room he was in. He disentangled himself from the clothes and stumbled towards the
door, dropping his torch on the way. And when he turned the door handle nothing happened. It was locked.

He had noticed on his previous visits that all the doors had keys. When Roz and James had bought the house they’d had all
the original features restored, down to the brass locks on the Victorian doors with gleaming reproduction keys to replace
the ones that had probably been lost over the years. He hadn’t envisaged that the intruder might take advantage of Roz Dalcott’s
attention to period detail and now he was trapped in there until Gerry’s backup arrived and he cursed his stupidity.

The front door banged shut in the distance. His quarry was gone, leaving only silence. He slumped down on the bed and put
his head in his hands before turning on the bedside light and calling Gerry to tell the back-up to get a move on.

He heard the DCI laughing on the other end of the line. ‘It’s us who should lock up the villains, Wes, not the other way round.
We’ll have to get you sent back to Bramshill for a refresher course.’

When the chuckling died down, Gerry promised that a
patrol car was on its way and, with any luck, they might bump into the intruder on his way out. They were due a bit of good
fortune.

As Wesley sat there he used the time for a little constructive thinking, eliminating all the suspects who couldn’t possibly
have been there to lock him in. Syd Jenkins and Brian Carrack were out of the frame. But that still left plenty of others.
And yet there had been no strange car parked in the lane. If the intruder had come by car, he’d parked some way off, perhaps
in the village centre, and walked the rest of the way.

Then his mind turned to the photograph Evonne Arlis had mentioned. He stood up, switched on his torch again and shone it into
the recesses of the wardrobe. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for but he harboured an optimistic hope that he’d know
it if he saw it. With a deep sigh, he walked across the room and switched on the second bedside light. The photograph could
be anywhere in the house – if that’s what the intruder was after, it might even be in his pocket by now.

But if he himself had anything he wished to keep safe and private, he’d probably keep it in his bedroom.

He lowered himself to the floor and lifted the blue cotton valance which concealed the ugly base of the divan bed. The divan
had a built-in drawer on this side for storing bedding which wouldn’t have been obvious to the casual observer. The officers
who’d carried out the initial search would surely have noticed it, he thought. But it would do no harm to have another look.

When he pulled out the drawer he saw a pile of folded bed linen. He had a rummage around and at the very bottom was a pillowcase
that felt curiously stiff to the
touch. His pulse quickening, Wesley felt inside and drew out a cardboard folder. It contained a transcript of George Clipton’s
trial for the murder of his wife and, as Wesley flicked through the pages, he saw that certain sections had been highlighted.
Beneath the transcript lay a photograph of a couple Wesley recognised from the police records he’d seen as George and Isabelle
Clipton. And standing slightly apart from the pair was another man. He was youngish, possibly only in his twenties, and he
wore a tweed jacket similar to Clipton’s own. His wavy fair hair was short and his expression was rather distant, almost aloof.
Isabelle Clipton wore a full-skirted flowery summer dress, nipped in at the waist. She was extremely pretty in a china doll
sort of way, Wesley thought, but there was an unmistakable hardness in her eyes – or perhaps he was just imagining it because
he knew how she behaved towards her husband before he strangled her. He turned the photograph over and saw that there was
writing on the back.
George and Isabelle with Liam
.