‘Catton Hall? I haven’t met the owner but I’ve met his son, Richard Catton.’
‘Does this land belong to the hall too?’
‘The Cattons own the lot – even the holiday park, but that’s been leased to a company for years.’
‘Do you know where we can find Richard?’
‘He’s been about but I’m not sure where he is at the moment.’
‘If you see him, tell him we’d like a word.’ Wesley handed Neil one of his cards. ‘Give him this and ask him to call me, will
you?’
Neil nodded. ‘Will do. I’d better get back – show willing.’ He turned and walked slowly back to Orford and his companions,
dragging his feet like a reluctant schoolboy.
On their return, Rachel told Wesley in a hushed voice that Paul had identified the dead girl as his cousin, Sophie. He had
gone to stay with his aunt and uncle for a while, just to take them through the procedure and make things a little easier
for them. If things could ever be easy for them from now on.
There was no banter in the incident room and none of the gallows humour that usually helped them get through the day. Even
Gerry seemed subdued. It was as though
Paul’s connection with one of the victims had brought the whole nasty business too close to home.
Rachel looked restless, as if there was something on her mind. He waited for her to continue.
‘I went to see Carl Heckerty at the paintball place,’ she said, leaning forward. ‘Tessa Trencham used to work for him – admin
and accounts. Sylvia Cartland told him the same story as she told us – that she’s staying in France for a while to get inspiration
for her jewellery designs. According to him, their relationship was strictly platonic and he claims he hasn’t seen Tessa since
she asked him for that reference.’
‘You believed him?’
She tilted her head to one side, considering the question. ‘I think I did.’ She opened the cardboard file that was lying in
front of her on the desk and pulled out a photograph. ‘That’s Tessa Trencham there.’ She pointed to a dark haired woman. ‘Think
she’s our mystery lady in Morbay?’
Wesley studied the photo closely. ‘Probably. I’ll show this to Gerry.’
‘If it is her, why did she come back from France without telling anyone? And why did Sylvia Cartland lie about speaking to
her on Saturday when she’d already been dead a week?’
‘Maybe she wasn’t lying. Maybe someone was pretending to be Tessa. We need to speak to Ms Cartland again.’
Rachel nodded. At the moment she has to be a suspect. Then there’s Keith Marsh. It looks as though he found the body.’ Her
eyes lit up with the challenge of speculation. ‘Marsh kills her before going off to Germany. Then when he comes back he has
a fit of conscience when he remembers how he’s left her lying there so he gives us a call.’
‘It would make more sense if he’d gone straight home to
Manchester when he arrived back at Heathrow. If he knew she was dead, why come back here? Why incriminate himself?’
‘Maybe he’d left something at the flat that would lead us to him.’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘I don’t know. It could be something he had on him when he had the crash, or he might have destroyed it.’
He knew Rachel had a point. At that moment Keith Marsh was at the top of their list.
‘The police want to talk to you.’
Richard Catton swung round and Neil thought he looked shocked and maybe a little guilty, like a schoolboy caught stealing
sweets from a shop.
‘Why?’
‘Did you hear the rescue helicopter earlier?’
Richard regained his composure. ‘Another sailor in trouble, I presume.’
‘Not this time. They found two bodies at the foot of the cliff about half a mile from here.’
‘Jumpers?’
‘They were shot.’
Richard’s face arranged itself into an appropriate expression of shock. ‘That’s awful. Dumped from a boat, I suppose. Drugs.
The coastguard have a hell of a job keeping an eye on all that sort of stuff these days.’
‘The police don’t think they were ever in the sea.’
Richard gave a nervous laugh. ‘You seem to know a lot about it.’
‘A mate of mine is a detective working on the case. He wants to talk to you because it happened near your land.’
‘That cliff top belongs to the National Trust,’ Richard said quickly.
‘The police don’t think they were killed there. My mate gave me his card and asked if you could give him a call.’
Richard took the card from him. ‘OK. But I don’t see how I can help. How’s the dig going?’
‘We’ve not reached the picnic yet.’
‘Feast of Life,’ Richard reminded him with a awkward smile.
A family liaison officer had broken the news to Barney Pickard’s mother. Wesley and Gerry were grateful that they hadn’t had
to do it.
Barney’s earthly home was a substantial Georgian house on the edge of a small village not far from Bereton. The gatepost bore
the name ‘The Old Rectory’ but, judging by the glossy paintwork, the brand-new sash windows and the immaculate window-boxes,
the rector had probably moved out many years ago. The vicarage in Belsham near Neston, where Wesley’s brother-in-law lived,
worked and held parish meetings had a far more shabby, workaday look.
He parked the car in the gravel drive and looked at Gerry. Neither of them relished the prospect of questioning the bereaved
mother, but it had to be done: a necessary evil.
The family liaison officer opened the door. She was a no-nonsense blonde who reminded Wesley a little of Rachel. She gave
them a sad smile of greeting as she stood aside to let them into the hall with its polished floorboards and sweeping Georgian
staircase. The place smelled of money. But no amount of money could bring Barney Pickard back from the dead.
‘How is she?’ Gerry asked.
‘Not good,’ the young woman said in a hushed voice. ‘I don’t think it really sank in until I took her to Tradmouth to identify
the body. And now …’
She didn’t have to finish the sentence. Wesley knew they’d have to tread carefully.
‘What about the boy’s father?’
‘They’re divorced and he lives in Morbay. He’s been contacted.’
‘Are they on good terms?’
‘I don’t think so. From what I’ve picked up the divorce was pretty acrimonious. She used to be a model, you know. Quite famous.
Patsy Lowther. Have you heard of her?’
It was Gerry who nodded. ‘I remember the name. Wild parties and drug convictions, wasn’t it? And didn’t she have an affair
with that Labour peer? And a couple of rock stars, if I remember right.’
‘You’re better informed than I am, Gerry,’ said Wesley with a smile.
‘Oh my Kathy used to love all the gossip magazines.’
It wasn’t often Gerry mentioned his late wife and Wesley thought the casual way her name came up in the conversation was a
good sign. Recently, since his children had both left home and gained their independence, his relationship with Joyce seemed
to have reached a comfortable equilibrium – he appeared to be more contented with life these days and Wesley was glad.
He took a deep breath. ‘We’d better get it over with, I suppose.’
Without another word, the family liaison officer led them to a room on the right of the hallway and knocked before opening
the door.
‘I’m really sorry, Patsy, but two detectives are here and
they need to ask you some questions. They’ll understand if you don’t feel up to talking, but it really is important.’
Wesley was standing on the threshold and he heard a voice saying ‘OK. I’ll see them.’ It was a sexy, slightly hoarse voice,
the sort that comes from late nights spent in smoky clubs. He had heard that voice coming from the lipsticked mouths of middle-aged
female rock stars being interviewed on TV and, although he had never experienced that world, he was reminded of a more carefree,
decadent time before Health and Safety inherited the earth.
He followed Gerry into the room and he had the opportunity to study Patsy Pickard, née Lowther, for the first time. She was
perched on the edge of a brocade sofa, cigarette in one hand and a glass of some clear liquid in the other. Her hair was long,
blonde and poker-straight, and her tall body was thin to the point of emaciation. She wore a pair of skin-tight jeans and
a long black T-shirt. It was only the fine network of lines around her eyes that betrayed the fact that she was no teenager.
She looked up, assessing the new-comers, and Wesley was struck by the beauty of her bone structure. To his surprise, he realised
that her face was familiar. He must have seen it without realising in various commercials, magazines and newspapers over the
years.
Gerry gave him a nudge. It was up to him to begin. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Pickard,’ he said gently.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Liz here has been great. Couldn’t have got through without her. We used to call the police pigs in the
old days but …’ She favoured the family liaison officer with a weak smile and the young woman’s cheeks reddened a little.
‘I’m glad you’re being looked after,’ Wesley said with some sincerity. ‘I know it’s a difficult time for you but we
have to ask you some questions about Barney. I’m sorry if it seems intrusive but if we’re going to catch whoever’s responsible
for what happened …’
Patsy stubbed out her cigarette and pulled herself upright. ‘I’m ready. Go on.’
‘You last saw Barney on Thursday?’
‘Yes. Around seven. I passed him in the hall and he said he was going out.’
‘Did he say where he was going?’
She shook her head. ‘I’d heard him on his phone earlier and I presumed he was talking to his girlfriend, Sophie.’
‘Tell me about Sophie.’
‘I only met her once. Well, when I say “met” I don’t mean we were formally introduced. She grunted at me in the usual teenage
way, then Barney whisked her off upstairs to his room.’
‘Did they go to the same school?’
‘Yes. Corley Grange. But they’ve just finished their A-levels so they’ve officially left.’
‘I presume he had other friends at the school?’
‘Sullen adolescents arrived on the doorstep from time to time. None of them speak, none of them seem to have names and most
are dressed entirely in black. I’m sorry I can’t help you more, but I can’t really tell one from the other.’
Gerry nodded as if he understood. Wesley still had his own children’s teenage years to look forward to, so he said nothing.
‘I understand that he mentioned something about a hall.’
For a moment she looked puzzled. ‘Hall? Oh yeah, I thought it was a hall but I could be wrong.’
‘Could it have been Catton Hall?’ It was Gerry who spoke.
Patsy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. What’s Catton Hall?’
‘It’s near where … where he was found. There’s a house there and a disused holiday park. He never mentioned it to you?’
‘He never told me what he was up to and I never asked. He was an adult … almost.’ She lit another cigarette.
‘We’d like to look at his room, if we may,’ said Wesley.
‘Liz’ll show you where it is. I haven’t been able to go in there since … Not that he allowed me in there anyway. He valued
his privacy.’
‘Was he close to his father?’
‘He wanted to be. It became a bit of an obsession for him – being with his father – doing father and son things. Boys outgrow
their mothers when they reach their teenage years, don’t you think?’
Wesley didn’t answer.
‘George often invites him over to his place at weekends. I presume they do – did manly things together. George was never much
of a father to him when he was small and then he disappeared from his life completely for a while, but recently they’ve been
seeing more of each other.’
‘Where does your ex-husband live?’
‘It’s on the promenade in Morbay, overlooking the sea. A penthouse. A bachelor pad,’ she added bitterly. ‘Have you found Barney’s
phone yet?’
‘Sorry. No.’
‘He’d have had it with him. He took it everywhere. Surgically attached, I used to say.’
‘If you can let us have his number so we can trace his calls?’ Wesley passed her his notebook and she scribbled down the number.
He could see tears forming in her eyes and concluded that prolonging the questioning would be an
act of cruelty. He caught the eye of the family liaison officer and stood up. ‘We’ll have a look at Barney’s room now, if
that’s OK.’
Patsy put the cigarette to her lips and inhaled deeply. ‘Help yourselves,’ she said. The words were casual but the pain was
there, raw beneath the surface.
Wesley suddenly wanted to get out of there. He walked to the door and the others followed. When they reached the hall, he
let Liz go ahead of them up the stairs. Even if she hadn’t been there to show them the way, they would have found Barney’s
room easily as his name was emblazoned on the door, painted in red on the Georgian mahogany. A small act of vandalism, maybe
of rebellion.
They waited until Liz had returned to her charge before closing the door behind them and beginning the search. Wesley had
been in missing teenagers’ rooms before and always found the sight of the trivial minutiae of their lives unbearably poignant:
all the mess; the unfinished homework; the posters; and the tawdry adolescent treasures. And from the expression on Gerry’s
face, he knew he was thinking the same.
Wesley made straight for the laptop computer on the cluttered desk. He switched it on and scrolled through the emails. There
was one that caught his eye. It had been sent at four o’clock on the Thursday afternoon and it just gave a time and a place.
Catton Hall. Ten o’clock.
He turned to Gerry who was watching over his shoulder. ‘It is Catton Hall.’
‘Who’s it from?’
‘It just says Game Master.’
‘I hated my games master when I was at school. Maybe Barney was the sporty type – might be a team fixture.’
Wesley smiled. ‘Game Master, not games. And I don’t think ten o’clock at Catton Hall is a cricket first team fixture somehow.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Not very much in the emails. School stuff mainly, and stuff from his father. We’ll have to get scientific support to sort
all that out.’ Wesley closed the emails and pressed a few keys.