‘What are you doing?’
‘Seeing if he played that game we found on Sophie’s laptop. Blood Hunt.’
Sure enough it was there. It seemed that, like Sophie, Barney had played it virtually every night. He wondered whether there
was any link to the email from Game Master. He’d just have to be patient until Tom, the expert from scientific support, gave
his verdict.
He found the laptop case and packed the computer away. With Patsy’s consent, they’d take it back to the police station for
inspection. Sophie’s was also being examined and Wesley hoped that it might yield some clue as to why two young people had
died in that violent and terrible manner.
The search didn’t turn up much else of interest and they were about to leave the room when Wesley noticed something pinned
to a notice board hanging on the wall above the desk – a cutting from a newspaper, slightly yellowed by the sunlight that
streamed in through the window. He retraced his steps and stood there studying it.
‘What is it?’ Gerry was hovering by the door, anxious to be gone.
Wesley began to read aloud. ‘Manhunt. With fox hunting now declared illegal, groups of enthusiasts have taken up
the sport of Hunting the Clean Boot. This involves human volunteers being hunted by riders who follow a pack of bloodhounds,
rather as regular hunts used foxes as their quarry before the government ban.’
He read on in silence, Gerry now looking over his shoulder. It was a standard article, certainly nothing sinister, and the
people involved seemed to belong to the normal hunting fraternity rather than any shadowy organisation. It didn’t look like
the sort of thing a boy like Barney would take much interest in – unless he’d volunteered to act as the quarry to earn himself
a bit of extra money. Hunting was a closed book to Wesley so he didn’t even know if his theory was feasible. But in this part
of the world there were bound to be people who’d be able to help him. Rachel with her farming connections might know.
When Wesley unpinned the cutting from the board he saw something hidden behind it – a sheet of paper with a list of names
scribbled on it. He took it down and Gerry began to read out loud.
‘Dun. Jodie. Marcus. Then an email address. Game Master again. And a hundred pounds. What the hell does it mean?’
‘If we pay another visit to Catton Hall we might find out.’
Trish had been looking forward to her visit to the dentist all morning. Armed with the dead woman’s dental chart from the
mortuary, she drove out to Morbay in the sparkling sunshine, taking the route via Neston rather than the car ferry. It was
the height of the tourist season and the ferry queues were lengthening by the minute.
Steven Bowles’s surgery was on the outskirts of the town,
housed on the ground floor of a large Victorian villa. She found herself staring at the sign bearing his name, clutching the
file tightly in her hand. Suddenly she felt nervous. But dentists always had that effect on her.
The receptionist behind the desk was a buxom redhead whose low-cut top hardly screamed out ‘medical efficiency’, and the sight
of her made Trish’s heart sink. But the girl seemed to be expecting her and told her that Steve was between patients so she
could go straight through.
When she entered the surgery he was standing by the chair in his snowy white coat, a wide smile of greeting on his face. His
own teeth were perfect, as good a recommendation, she supposed, as an advertising billboard. She automatically took a step
towards the chair, almost forgetting that she wasn’t there for an appointment. But she needn’t have worried; Steven was holding
out a small brown cardboard file.
‘Have you brought the records from the mortuary?’ he asked.
She handed her own file to him without a word and watched while he spread both sets of records out on the counter next to
the steriliser. He looked from one chart to the other and Trish saw a frown spread across his face.
Steven turned to face her. ‘You’re sure the chart the mortuary provided belongs to the dead woman? There couldn’t have been
a mix up?’
Trish shook her head. ‘Our DI picked it up himself.’
‘In that case, the dead woman isn’t Tessa Trencham. I’m sorry.’
For once Trish was lost for words.
The Steward’s Journal
10 June 1815
News of our colourful guest has spread to the garrison at Fortress Point, for the Squire received a visit from two young officers
who were enquiring about strangers in the vicinity. They had heard of a foreign lady, they said, and were desirous to meet
her as they feared that she might be a French spy in our midst. The Squire assured them that she speaks not a word of French;
rather she talks in some strange language quite unknown to him. He also insisted that there are no secrets for her to spy
out at Catton Hall, a statement I feel to be far from the truth.
I met with William’s mother again yesterday and she said that he has gone away to work on Henry’s estate. I wonder whether
this is the truth or whether some darker fate has
befallen the lad – although I can think of no fate so dark as serving Henry Catton.
12 June 1815
Henry Catton has come again to visit us, riding up to the door as though he already owns the place (which is entailed to him
on the Squire’s demise should he die without issue). The Squire was out with his hounds so, in his absence, Henry made straight
for the library where the Lady Pegassa was sitting, as is her habit in the afternoons. I feared for her welfare so I lingered
for a while in the passage outside the chamber in case she should cry for help. No cry came, so after a while I returned to
my duties. Perhaps the lady has tamed the wildness in my master’s kinsman, for she is a woman of great beauty and strength
such as I have never encountered before in the female persons of this fair county.
Since that kiss she placed upon my lips I have found myself much in her company. I beg the Lord to forgive me for she inspires
feelings of desire in my breast that I know would be an abomination to all decent folk hereabouts. I have no business entertaining
libidinous thoughts of a woman who is like an exotic bird of paradise compared with our English sparrows. And yet I feel I
must protect her from Henry Catton and his wicked schemes.
Silly John is behaving in a most secretive manner, whispering in corners and closeted with the Squire for hours upon end.
When he sees me he pulls out his tongue and insults me to my face. Hiding behind the mask of the Fool gives him licence to
take liberties with manners … and morals.
‘I need to see you. When can you come round?’ Richard Catton pressed the telephone receiver to his ear, hoping the urgency
in his tone would spur Carl Heckerty into action. He didn’t want to face his dilemma alone.
He stood in the drawing room of Catton Hall, a room that had been left untouched since his grandfather’s day, or maybe before,
and watched dust particles dancing in the shaft of sunlight beaming in through the window, aware of nothing apart from the
overwhelming problem that had occupied his every waking thought since that night.
‘Calm down, Richard. They can’t link anything to us.’
‘They’ve been round asking questions. They want to speak to me.’
‘I’ve already been interviewed.’
There was a moment of hesitation as Richard considered the implications of Heckerty’s last remark. ‘They’re onto you?’
‘No. It was about someone who used to work for me. A woman I know. It won’t occur to them that there’s any connection. In
my experience the police aren’t that bright, you know. In fact they sent me a rather pretty blonde called Detective Sergeant
Tracey. She was the down-to-earth, straight-laced type but she was rather nice to look at. She asked me a few questions and
then she went away satisfied … if you know what I mean.’
Richard caught the innuendo in Carl’s voice and wondered how he could joke at a time like this.
‘If they find out about the hunts—’
‘They won’t find out. The kids will keep their mouths shut.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘Anyway, what we do isn’t illegal.
They’re all over eighteen and they gave their full consent. It’s just a bit of fun.’
‘I know but—’
‘Just keep your head down and don’t say anything.’
‘I think we should meet. When the police question me we need to tell them the same story.’
‘Stop panicking. You’re making me bloody nervous.’
The line went dead and Richard was left staring at the phone, his hand shaking. There were times when he wished he’d never
met Heckerty – and this was one of them. But there was no escaping him now.
‘Who was that?’
Richard swung round and saw his father standing in the doorway. Alfred Catton had once been six foot tall and straight-backed,
but now age and ill-health had made him stoop a little so he appeared smaller. His shiny, liver-spotted scalp was visible
through his thinning white hair and his clothes hung loosely off his fragile body.
‘Just someone trying to sell double glazing,’ Richard said
quickly. ‘I said the place was Grade Two listed – that shut them up. How are you feeling?’
‘Well enough to know you’re lying,’ the old man said.
Richard didn’t reply.
Nobody took much notice of Trish as she walked into the incident room. Everyone was engrossed in their own particular tasks:
talking to potential witnesses on the phone; tracking down the school friends of the dead youngsters; and trying to trace
anybody who’d known Tessa Trencham.
Trish saw that Paul’s chair was empty. Then she remembered that the boss had told him to stay with his aunt and uncle for
a while. At least his absence meant that she wouldn’t have to watch every word she said.
DCI Heffernan was in his office, talking on the phone in an animated fashion, as though the person on the other end was beginning
to irritate him. In contrast DI Peterson was sitting calmly in the visitor’s chair on the other side of the desk, studying
a file with a small frown of concentration on his face.
Trish gave a token knock on the door and pushed it open without waiting for a reply. Her news would send one of their investigations
on a whole new course. Assumptions would be ditched; carefully taken notes would be filed away as irrelevant; and new interviews
would have to be conducted.
She inhaled deeply and stepped into the office.
Wesley looked round. ‘How did your visit to the dentist go?’
He looked so hopeful that Trish felt apologetic as she gave her answer. According to her dental records the dead woman is
not Tessa Trencham.’
Gerry had just put the phone down and he half raised himself from his seat. ‘Is the dentist absolutely sure?’
‘I gave him that dental chart from the mortuary and he compared it with Tessa Trencham’s dental records. It’s definitely not
her.’
‘Unless there’s been an administrative cock up,’ said Wesley hopefully. ‘Maybe the mortuary gave me the wrong chart or …’
Trish shook her head. ‘I’ve checked with them. There’s no mistake.’
‘So Sylvia Cartland was probably telling the truth about speaking to Tessa on Saturday,’ Gerry said, staring at the heap of
papers on his desk. ‘I’d have staked my pension on that woman being a liar. We need to keep trying Tessa’s phone in the hope
that she decides to switch it on again. You don’t let just anybody use your house so it must be someone she knows well. Maybe
she let a mate use it for a bit of extramarital hanky panky.’
Trish saw Wesley nod his head. If Gerry’s theory was right, the murder of the woman at Lister Cottage
could
be a simple domestic. Maybe an enraged husband strangling his cheating wife?
‘Perhaps Keith Marsh was the lover and that was why he was in Devon when he was supposed to be flying out to Germany. He found
her when he returned to the house for another tryst and reported her death anonymously.’
‘You could well be right, Gerry,’ said Wesley. ‘But we won’t know for certain till Marsh regains consciousness.’
In spite of the identification setback, things were beginning to piece together quite well. Now all they had to do was to
find out who the dead woman was and bring in her murderous spouse. Trish knew that most murders were
quite straightforward and were often committed by the corpse’s nearest and dearest.
But the two teenagers at the foot of the cliffs near Catton Hall – that was a different matter.
The afternoon sun was hot and Neil’s T-shirt was drenched in sweat as he laid down his spade to take a swig from the plastic
water bottle he’d left on the edge of the trench. The trench was about two foot deep now and the students were digging earnestly,
piling the soil onto the ever-growing spoil heap at the side of the hole. There was a time not so long ago when he had their
stamina. Now he’d almost started to prefer the hands-off supervisory or desk-based approach and he took this as a sign of
creeping middle age.
He caught the eye of his colleague Dave, who had just returned from checking on the fort excavation. He had stripped off to
the waist and his tanned body glistened with perspiration as he leaned on his spade, taking a much-needed rest. Dave nodded
in the direction of Orford and his entourage who had obtained chairs from somewhere and were sitting in a row like a group
posed for a formal photograph, watching the activity with impassive faces, as though showing any interest or excitement would
mar their ice-cool image for ever.
‘All right for some,’ Dave whispered. ‘How far down does he reckon this picnic is buried?’
‘He says about six foot. Well, his actual words were “the same as a grave”. He said something about it being a burial ceremony.’
‘For a picnic?’ Dave, a bearded doyen of the archaeology circuit who had seen most things before but nothing like this, rolled
his eyes. ‘Well, they’re paying so we’d better get
on with it. And, who knows, we may find something interesting while we’re down there. Iron-age farmstead? Saxon village? Place
your bets.’