The Jackal Man (18 page)

Wesley said nothing. Instead he stood up and walked over to the shelves. He picked up the model of Anubis that stood there,
similar to the one found with Analise’s body but a little larger. He carried it over to the desk and placed it in front of
Crest, watching his face carefully.

‘Do you know what this is?’

Crest looked a little relieved. ‘It’s an Egyptian god. I forget the name.’

‘Anubis. His name’s Anubis and he’s the god associated with preparing the dead for burial.’

‘I’ll take your word for it. Suzie probably knows more about it than I do. She borrowed all those models a while ago. Late
last year, I think.’

Wesley caught Gerry’s eye. ‘Why was that?’

‘Her dramatic society put on a play called
I Remember Cleopatra
last November. They’re performing it again for the Tradmouth Drama Festival in a few weeks’ time.’

‘Set in ancient Egypt?’

‘No, as a matter of fact it’s a comedy by some local
playwright about a theatre company visiting an isolated Scottish island and putting on a production of
Cleopatra
. Anyway, Suzie borrowed the models for some reason … to get ideas for costumes, I think. She helps with the backstage
stuff … as well as having a large part in the play.’

‘What’s the name of the dramatic society?’ Wesley asked casually.

‘The Castle Players. Suzie’s a bit of a leading light.’

‘I expect you were there in the front row,’ said Gerry. ‘Showing your support.’

Crest nodded. His earnest expression told Wesley that he hadn’t quite appreciated the irony in Gerry’s voice.

Wesley stood up. ‘I know we’ve already searched Analise’s room but I’d be grateful for your permission to search the whole
house.’

Crest’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘Suzie won’t like it.’

‘We can get a warrant.’

‘I don’t suppose I’ve got much choice then.’

‘I would have thought you’d be glad to help the police.’

‘Not when I’m being victimised.’

Gerry got to his feet slowly. ‘Sorry you feel like that, Mr Crest. We’ll be in touch.’

The two men left the building in silence. But once they were in the car heading back Wesley felt he had to voice the thoughts
whirling around his brain.

‘You think Suzie could have borrowed the model to make a mask?’ Somehow disembowelling someone didn’t really seem like a woman’s
crime. But they had to consider all possibilities.

‘She’s a fearsome woman but I think this murder’s out of her league,’ said Gerry.

‘We need to interview Geoff Dudgeon – the artist Analise was sweet on. According to his wife he’s been in London but
he’s due back today. I’m going over to Neston with Ian Petrie later so maybe I’ll be able to speak to Dudgeon while I’m there.’

‘Good. And we’ll get the Crests’ house searched … sooner rather than later before madam has a chance to do any tidying
up.’ Gerry picked up his mobile phone and pressed out the number of the incident room.

‘What about Vicky?’

‘So Clive Crest is a randy old goat. That wasn’t a crime last time I looked.’

‘But now Analise is dead he has no alibi for the attack on Clare. We only have his word for it that he returned home and didn’t
go out again till Vicky called him.’

Gerry said nothing for a few moments. Then he spoke, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. ‘And now Analise is dead there’s
nobody to tell us he did come back, is there, Wes? It works both ways.’

Gerry had sent a team to search the Crests’ house and, as Wesley walked down the stairs to Reception, he felt glad that he
wasn’t with them. The prospect of facing Suzie Crest on an empty stomach was more than he could deal with at that moment.

Ian Petrie was waiting for him as arranged, studying the posters on the walls, and when Wesley pushed open the door at the
side of the reception desk, he turned round, a smile on his lips. ‘I don’t know how you put up with it down here, Wesley,’
he said. ‘Stolen farm machinery and thefts from yachts.’

‘We have our moments.’ Wesley looked at his watch meaningfully but Ian didn’t appear to notice.

‘I saw the headlines. Young au pair, wasn’t it? It’ll be one of your local nonces. Just check the sex offenders’ register
and you should pick up the pervert in no time.’

Wesley smiled. If only it were that simple. ‘Is it OK if we grab a pasty before we go off to Neston?’

Ian shrugged. ‘I suppose I should sample the local delicacies while I’m down here.’

‘If we make an arrest for this murder soon I might even buy you a cream tea,’ Wesley said, steering Ian out of the police
station door. ‘There’s an artist in Neston called Dudgeon. I need to speak to him in connection with this murder case. According
to his wife, he’s been in London but I’m hoping he’ll be back.’

‘Let’s hope we can kill two birds with one stone then,’ said Ian. He sounded distracted, as if his mind was on something else.

It had begun to drizzle so they ate their pasties in Wesley’s car. It was too cold to open the windows so the car would stink
of food for a while but Wesley didn’t really care: he had more important things to think about.

They reached Neston at one o’clock and Wesley managed to find a parking space behind the council offices.

‘I take it you’ve never been to Neston before?’ he said to Ian as they began to walk towards the High Street.

‘No. Seems a nice little place.’

‘Yes. It is.’ Wesley wondered how long it would take Ian to notice that Neston wasn’t quite like other towns. Here you were
more likely to find practitioners of New Age healing than conventional doctors or dentists and the wholefood emporium dwarfed
the local Tesco.

‘I’ve got a list of all the art galleries,’ Wesley said as they walked up the steep High Street towards the castle. ‘There
are five in all.’

‘Tourist tat?’

‘Not necessarily,’ Wesley said, slightly offended at Ian’s
assumption that everything in Devon was geared up to ripping off tourists. ‘There are a lot of good artists working around
here. And some of them charge prices that a humble detective inspector can’t afford.’

He saw Ian smile. ‘You have gone native, haven’t you, Wesley? No need to sound so defensive. Look at these shops – hippies’
paradise.’ He snorted. ‘Bet your drug squad do a roaring trade round here.’

‘Neston’s always been a bit New Age. But that particular element doesn’t cause us many problems.’

They visited four galleries, starting at the top of the High Street near the castle and working their way down, underneath
the arch that formed part of the old town walls and past the red sandstone church.

Wesley allowed Ian to do the talking. Always the same questions: could they have a quick look around the studio and storeroom
and did the staff know of anybody called Ra? The answer to the first question was yes each time: they were free to look anywhere
they liked. And the answer to the second question was always no. Nobody had heard of anybody connected with the local art
scene who called themselves Ra. After four visits they seemed to have drawn a blank. But there was still one more to go. And
that happened to be the one Wesley was anxious to visit.

Wesley led the way, turning right just before they reached the bridge over the River Trad. In this part of Neston shops and
restaurants had been created out of the shells of old warehouses and Geoff Dudgeon’s gallery was situated down a little alley
next to a newly converted block of apartments not too far from where Andrea Washing ton, the woman who’d been assaulted back
in January, lived.

When he reached the Dudgeon Gallery with its tasteful
sage-green frontage, he looked round and saw that Ian was hanging back.

‘This is the last one on our list. The Dudgeon Gallery. Proprietor Geoffrey Dudgeon.’ He paused. ‘He’s the artist I mentioned
before; the one who appears to have a connection with our dead au pair.’

‘In that case I’ll let you ask the questions this time.’

Wesley saw that the sign on the door of the gallery was turned to open. To his disappointment, when he pushed at the door
a bell jangled to announce their arrival. He had always preferred the element of surprise.

The woman who shot out of a back room to greet them was in her thirties, stick-thin with hair that was an unnatural shade
of red. When she saw that a pair of potential customers had entered the premises a half-hearted smile of greeting appeared
on her lips as she asked if they were looking for anything in particular.

Wesley looked around. The gallery was filled for the most part with colourful pottery, eye-catching and unusual. Some pieces
were large and heavy, others delicate. The artist certainly had talent. The prices were steep but he saw a tiny vase that
he knew Pam would love. But then he realised that giving expensive pottery as a present for her coming birthday probably wasn’t
a good idea with children and a kitten tearing about the place.

He took out his warrant card and held it out for the woman to examine and the smile was replaced by a sneer of disapproval.

‘We’d like to speak to a Mr Geoffrey Dudgeon. Is he back?’

She didn’t reply. Instead she vanished through the door into the back, leaving them standing there.

‘Let’s go through before he decides to do a runner,’ said Petrie, making for the door.

But Wesley put out a restraining hand. ‘I think it’d go down better if we didn’t go barging in.’

Ian stopped, deferring to Wesley’s superior local knowledge. ‘OK. But if we lose him …’

Wesley suddenly wondered whether he’d done the right thing – whether his gentler, more measured approach was going to backfire.
He could almost read Ian’s mind: his bright young black DS had become soft down here in his rural backwater and if he were
to return to the Met he probably couldn’t hack it any more. He sent up a silent prayer that Dudgeon hadn’t made a rapid escape
through the back door: if he had, Ian’s assumptions would be confirmed.

After what seemed like a long time, the woman returned, her expression hostile as any criminal’s partner on the defensive
when the cops came to call. ‘He’ll see you. This way.’

She spun round and marched off into the back and Wesley followed, Ian on his heels.

They found themselves in a large light studio. An electric kiln stood at one end and the shelves around the walls were filled
with pots, bowls and plaques in various stages of manufacture. At the other end of the room stood an easel and an assortment
of colourful paintings were stacked against the walls.

Wesley recognised the man who stood at the sink drying his hands from the photograph Rachel had found in Analise’s room. Geoff
Dudgeon was in his thirties with sandy hair and neat features and he wore paint-spattered blue overalls of the kind favoured
by garage mechanics. Wesley had half expected Analise’s lover to be some louche middle-aged artist with long hair, a disreputable
corduroy jacket and a
taste for wine and women – but he knew from experience that stereotypes rarely exist in reality.

Wesley introduced himself and a concerned frown appeared on the man’s face. He turned to the woman and gave her a nervous
smile. ‘It’s OK, Bea. Why don’t you get us all a cup of tea?’

The woman hesitated for a moment before walking slowly from the room.

Wesley watched her go and once he was satisfied that she was out of earshot he began to speak. ‘We’ve been trying to contact
you, Mr Dudgeon.’

‘I had to go to London yesterday – a rather nice deal with a West End gallery. I came back this morning and my wife said the
police were trying to get hold of me. I’ve been intending to call you.’ He picked up a damp paper towel and began to knead
it in his hands. ‘Look, I know they haven’t named that girl who was found dead near Tradmouth Castle yet but I heard on the
news this morning that she was an au pair who lived with a local family.’ He glanced towards the door as though he was afraid
of being overheard. ‘I’ve been … I’ve been seeing a girl called Analise Sonquist and as soon as I heard about this au
pair getting murdered I tried to ring her, just to make sure she was all right, but when there was no reply I started to worry.
Was it Analise?’ He looked from one man to the other with pleading eyes. ‘Well, was it?’

Wesley looked at Ian Petrie. He was hovering, shifting from foot to foot, trying to conceal his impatience. He’d wanted to
question Dudgeon but murder trumped art theft and Wesley’s investigation had intruded. Petrie would have to wait his turn.

‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mr Dudgeon, but I’m afraid Analise Sonquist was the victim. We won’t release
her name to the press until the relatives have been informed but … I’m sorry.’

‘Oh God.’ Dudgeon slumped down on a nearby stool and buried his head in his hands.

Wesley waited. There was no point in pushing the man until he was ready to talk. He felt Ian touch his arm.

‘Can I have a word, Wesley?’ he hissed in his ear.

He could see Ian wasn’t pleased. He followed his old boss to the far end of the room and waited.

‘We’re supposed to be asking about Ra and the Egyptian antiquities.’

‘He’s a suspect in my murder enquiry. Besides, he’ll be less inclined to think up a clever story with his girlfriend’s death
on his mind.’

Ian said nothing and as Wesley returned to Dudgeon’s side, he suspected that he’d won the argument, not that it made him feel
any better.

‘Sorry about that, Geoff,’ Wesley said gently, playing Dudgeon’s new best friend. ‘You were close to Analise?’

Suddenly the woman entered with a tray of brightly coloured mugs, the fruit of Dudgeon’s labours. Wesley thanked her as she
put the tray down and waited for her to go. But she stood there defiantly.

‘I’m sorry, Ms …’

‘Dudgeon. I’m Geoff ’s wife. Whatever you have to say you can say in front of me.’ She folded her arms and stood her ground.

‘Please, Bea, can you give us a few minutes?’

She touched Dudgeon’s shoulder, a worried look on her face. ‘You’re upset. What have they said?’

Dudgeon turned to her. ‘Please, Bea. I just need a minute. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll tell you all about it later.’