Deadly Remains, page 3
When it was time for the tea break, he went round telling everyone to down trowels for a while. Sometimes people needed reminding. As everyone made for the marquee, he fell in beside Michael.
‘Are the students looking after you OK?’
‘Yeah. They’re great.’
Michael seemed to be about to say something else, but then changed his mind. Neil stopped walking. ‘Something the matter?’
He saw the boy glance towards the group from the local society, who’d already reached the marquee and were taking flasks of coffee out of their rucksacks.
‘No. Nothing. I just thought I saw that man in the bucket hat wandering off over there.’ He pointed to the big rock in the distance. He looked a bit . . . shifty.’
‘Probably didn’t realise the Portaloos were in operation and was looking for somewhere private to have a pee. Did he say anything to you?’ Neil asked, suddenly feeling protective towards his best friend’s son, a side of his nature he hadn’t known he possessed.
‘No. Nothing like that. Just thought I’d mention it.’
Neil nodded. Panic over.
‘What do you think?’ Wesley asked as they were walking back to the car.
‘Ms Pugh admitted that she was too far away to see properly. And it was dusk,’ Gerry replied. ‘Can you really see those jewellery robbers changing their MO and targeting holiday cottages? And don’t forget the Rolex that was left in plain sight on the bedside table; that must be worth a couple of grand at least. Not that I know much about it. Can’t afford that sort of thing on a policeman’s salary.’
Wesley chuckled. ‘Whenever Pam mentions my pay, I point out that our financial position would have been a lot worse if I’d stuck to archaeology.’
‘Your Michael’s on a dig at the moment, isn’t he?’ Gerry asked as he opened the car door. ‘Heard how he’s doing?’
‘No doubt I’ll find out tonight.’
‘It’ll keep him out of mischief over the school holidays.’
‘That’s the plan.’ Wesley returned his attention to their case. ‘We need to know more about the victim.’
‘The team are trying to track down his next of kin as we speak.’
He was about to start the car when his phone rang. After a short conversation, he pressed the speaker so Gerry could hear what was being said, and DS Rachel Tracey’s voice filled the car.
‘Thought you’d like to know right away,’ she said. Wesley could hear the excitement in her voice. ‘We’ve traced Barry Brown’s next of kin – his sister. I’ve spoken to her, and she says he came to Devon a week ago on an assignment.’
‘What kind of assignment?’
‘She wasn’t sure, but she says he’s a freelance author and that he writes a lot about celebrities.’
‘Thanks, Rach,’ Gerry called over from the passenger seat. ‘We’ll be back with you in half an hour.’
5
The large window took up almost the whole of the far wall of the CID office and overlooked the Memorial Gardens with the sparkling ribbon of river beyond. It was a view that would add considerable value to any Tradmouth house or flat, but everybody who worked at the station had become so used to the stunning vista that they barely noticed it any more.
When Wesley and Gerry had arrived back in Tradmouth, they’d found the office humming with purposeful activity as officers spoke quietly into phones or typed on computer keyboards.
As they walked in, they were greeted by Rachel. ‘Here are the victim’s details,’ she said, handing Wesley a printout.
Gerry plucked it from his fingers and began to read. ‘Barry Steven Brown, aged thirty-five. Address in London. Your family’s neck of the woods, Wes.’ He thrust the paper under Wesley’s nose. ‘Know it?’
‘Can’t say I do. I was brought up in Dulwich. He lived in Docklands. New development, by the sound of it. It wasn’t one of my childhood haunts.’
‘Sorry, forgot you came from the posh bit. How does your dad like being “Sir Joshua”?’ Gerry, the son of a Liverpool docker, could never resist the urge to tease Wesley affectionately about his classy upbringing by parents who had come over from Trinidad to attend medical school and went on to forge extremely successful careers in medicine.
Wesley gave the boss a modest smile before reading the address again. ‘He must have been well paid. Those Docklands flats don’t come cheap.’
‘Nothing in London comes cheap, so I’ve heard,’ Gerry said with a dismissive sniff. ‘What else have we got on him?’
It was Rachel who answered the DCI’s question. ‘Naturally his sister’s very upset, but I managed to have a good chat with her. She lives in Walthamstow with her family, and she said she didn’t see Barry as often as she’d have liked because of kids and work.’ Rachel, with her police career, a farm to help run and a baby who’d soon be celebrating his first birthday, understood what it was like to be a busy mother. ‘She said he’s ghostwritten books for celebrities and it paid really well. But she doesn’t know any details.’
Wesley and Gerry exchanged a look. ‘I expect it’s too much to hope that she gave you the names of these celebrities,’ said Gerry.
Rachel shook her head. ‘No, but she’s coming down here tomorrow, so it’s something we can ask.’
‘If he was here for work, I think we can assume someone gave him a commission. If we can find out who that was . . . ’
‘Any clues found at his accommodation?’ Rachel asked.
‘The search is still ongoing,’ Wesley answered. ‘But it looks as though his laptop was taken, and there’s no sign of a phone either. There were a few cardboard files lying about, but they were all empty.’
‘His sister gave me his phone number, so the service provider might be able to give us a list of his calls. Although from experience, we know that could take time.’ Rachel thought for a moment, smoothing her blonde ponytail, an unconscious habit. ‘If the contents of his files were missing, it suggests that the killer was after his research. Whatever he was planning to write about, somebody might have been trying to stop him.’
‘Sounds likely,’ said Gerry, scratching his head.
‘What time’s the sister arriving?’ Wesley asked.
‘She’s catching the train first thing and she’ll let me know what time it’s due in. I’ll arrange for someone to pick her up from Neston station to take her to do the formal ID.’ Rachel shuddered. ‘Trish has booked a room for her in Tradmouth.’
Wesley could see DC Trish Walton sitting a few desks away, studying her computer screen with great concentration. Her fiancé, DC Paul Johnson, was sitting at the adjacent desk. They were due to get married in a few weeks’ time, and Wesley hoped this latest case wouldn’t drag on and put a damper on the proceedings.
‘Don’t suppose anything new’s come in on the jewel robberies?’ Gerry shouted across the room.
When DC Johnson replied that they were still in the process of gathering CCTV footage from premises around Parker’s shop, the DCI thrust his hands in his pockets and slouched into his glass-fronted office.
‘Boss isn’t in a good mood,’ Rachel commented to Wesley as she watched him go.’
‘The chief super’s expecting progress on the robberies. Trouble is, all the likely local candidates have been interviewed and eliminated, and now we’ve got this murder . . . ’
‘I think the jewellery gang are from outside the area. But when Rob checked whether any similar crimes had been reported in other parts of the country, he drew a blank.’ She glanced towards the window, where DC Rob Carter was speaking on the phone. When Rob had first started in CID, he’d been keen and sharp, reminding Wesley of an enthusiastic sheepdog eager to please his farmer. But since his partner, Harry, had passed away after a long illness the previous winter, he had seemed subdued, as though he was overwhelmed by a cloud of grief. Recently, however, they’d begun to see small glimpses of his old self. And now, whenever he smiled at one of the DCI’s awful jokes, Wesley’s spirits rose a little.
When Rob ended his call, he turned to face Wesley and Rachel, his cheeks reddening slightly as though he realised they’d been watching him.
‘The bad news is that there’s no CCTV or door-cam footage from around the murder scene, and no witnesses.’
‘And the good news?’ Wesley asked hopefully.
Rob shook his head. ‘There isn’t any.’
Lunch break. Pam had packed sandwiches for Michael. Tuna – his favourite – along with crisps, an apple and a small carton of orange juice. He’d often heard his mother complaining that she hadn’t time for anything more imaginative because she was a busy woman: a teacher with a husband who worked long hours whenever there was a major case to investigate.
Then there was his mum’s mother, Della, whose weird crazes and arty clothes proved a great embarrassment to her teenage grandson. Michael always offered up a silent prayer to the God he’d learned about at his Uncle Mark’s Sunday school that his gran – she hated being called that – wouldn’t turn up when he brought friends home.
He’d been sitting on his own, but Harriet came and sat beside him. He felt himself blushing and hoped she wouldn’t notice.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked.
‘OK.’
‘Want one of these cheesy things?’ She held out a plastic box and he took one, muttering his thanks.
‘I just wanted to ask you, is Dr Watson your uncle?’
‘Sort of. He’s a . . . friend of my dad’s. They were at uni together.’
Michael had known Neil all his life and he’d never given him much thought. He was a fixture, rather like his parents, his sister, Amelia, Uncle Mark and Auntie Maritia and the embarrassing Della.
‘Someone told me your dad was a detective.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I heard on the news that a man’s been murdered in Little Rockington. Is your dad working on that case?’
‘I expect so.’
There was a short silence before Harriet spoke again. ‘Must be exciting, having a dad who’s a detective.’
‘You get used to it,’ said Michael, trying to sound nonchalant.
‘Do you know anything about what happened? With that murder, I mean.’
‘I haven’t seen my dad since this morning. But he might mention it tonight,’ Michael replied, mildly disappointed that he wasn’t able to impress her with a spot of inside knowledge. ‘Why?’
Harriet smiled. ‘Everyone likes a good murder, don’t they? Ever read an Agatha Christie book?’
Before Michael could answer, one of the other students had joined them: a boy called Greg with fair hair and freckles. He gave Michael a wide grin.
‘Hey, have you heard that the royal family are going round robbing jewellers’ shops? It’s all over social media.’
‘You mean a gang dressed up as the royal family. Not the real ones,’ Michael corrected. ‘My dad’s working on that case,’ he added proudly.
Harriet stood up. ‘See you later.’
‘Where’s she going?’ Michael asked as he watched her disappearing back.
‘Don’t ask me. I think she’s got a secret boyfriend. Maybe one of those hunky soldiers. I saw her giving one of them the eye before. A woman of hidden depths is our Harriet.’
Michael knew Greg was joking, but he couldn’t help feeling a tiny pang of jealousy.
6
Ellie, one of the newest DCs in the team, knocked on the open door of Gerry’s office. When Wesley looked round, he could tell from her eager expression that she had news.
‘The car’s been found, sir. The one used in the robbery at Parker’s Jeweller’s.’
‘Where did it turn up?’ Gerry asked, hoping the location might give them a lead. Up until now, the robbers had covered their tracks well, stealing cars and abandoning them once the job was done, leaving no forensic traces. Presumably they transferred to another vehicle, but so far they’d been careful not to choose a place covered by CCTV.
‘A lay-by just outside Belsham. It’s between Neston and Morbay.’
‘I know where it is,’ said Gerry, looking at Wesley. ‘Inspector Peterson’s sister lives there.’
Wesley nodded. His sister, Maritia, was married to the Reverend Mark Fitzgerald, the vicar of Belsham, so he knew the village well. Several years ago he’d even investigated a murder at the large Victorian vicarage that had later become Maritia and Mark’s home.
‘Please tell me the lay-by’s bristling with CCTV cameras,’ said Gerry, his chubby face full of hope.
‘Sorry, sir. Nothing. It’s just off the main road, and there are no houses nearby.’
‘I don’t suppose anyone saw another vehicle waiting there? A car they might have used after they’d abandoned the stolen one? No observant farmers driving past in a tractor first thing this morning, for instance?’
‘The nearest farm is some distance away, so . . . ’
‘Pity, but it was worth asking.’ Wesley was trying to sound encouraging. ‘Is the car damaged at all?’
‘No. It’s just like the other raids. High-end car nicked nearby then abandoned in a deserted place. It had been thoroughly cleaned, just like the others. The patrol who called it in said it looked as though it’d just been valeted. The forensics people are going over it, but they’re not holding out much hope.’
‘Considerate thieves who clean up after themselves. At least the owners’ll be relieved to get it back in one piece once the CSIs have finished with it,’ said Wesley, who was well aware that many getaway cars ended up burned out, with all possible evidence destroyed.
Ellie hurried out, looking relieved. Gerry could seem intimidating at first to new officers who hadn’t yet got to know him. But Wesley had discovered his softer side early on in their working relationship. It was Gerry who’d welcomed him into Tradmouth CID when he’d first transferred to Devon after serving as a detective sergeant in the Art and Antiques Unit at the Met, and Gerry who’d made it quite plain to everyone that any hint of racism towards the new arrival wouldn’t be tolerated. Even so, the DCI didn’t hesitate to put the fear of God into incompetent officers and uncooperative suspects whenever necessary.
Gerry let out a long sigh. ‘Why the royal family masks?’
‘Well I think we can take it as read that His Majesty hasn’t taken up armed robbery in his spare time. In my humble opinion, I reckon our thieves have got a sense of humour.’
‘I’m not laughing. And neither were those jewellers who were threatened with a gun.
‘How widely available are those masks?’
‘All the possible outlets in the south-west have already been investigated, and nothing’s come up. The only place that stocks similar masks is in Morbay, and they say none have been sold since the coronation. All the people who bought them were interviewed and eliminated from enquiries after the first raid in Tavistock.’
‘No anonymous cash sales?’
Gerry shook his head. ‘A few. But they’re untraceable, I’m sorry to say.’
‘Parker said one of the gang had a Liverpool accent. What if their MO is to travel down here along the motorway network, carry out a few robberies, then hurry back to wherever they come from. Maybe we should widen the search. And check holiday accommodation for any likely candidates in case they’re staying here. We’re looking for four adults sharing.’
‘Two couples on holiday. That’s common enough.’
‘The first one happened over a fortnight ago, and most people only stay one or two weeks, so it’s worth looking for any groups of visitors who stayed longer.’
‘OK, Wes. I’ll leave you to organise that.’
‘I’ll put Trish on it.’ Wesley thought for a few moments. ‘Is there any chance the robberies are linked to Barry Brown’s murder? Given that Ms Pugh thought the person she saw might have been wearing a mask.’
‘She might have heard about the robberies and put two and two together to make five and a half. But you’re right, Wes. It’s something we ought to consider.’
The phone on Gerry’s desk rang. He mouthed the word ‘fingerprints’ at Wesley, who sat down on the visitor’s chair beside the desk, awaiting the news.
‘You’re sure,’ he heard Gerry say. After listening to the reply, the DCI ended the call. ‘Looks like our thieves have been more careless than usual. The BMW’s been cleaned inside and out, but a partial fingerprint was found on the inside of the steering wheel.’
‘The owner’s?’
‘That’s what we need to find out. It isn’t a match for anyone on record. Someone’s gone over to take the prints of the owner and his family for elimination purposes.’
‘So it’s either the owner’s, or the getaway driver’s never been in trouble before. I guess we’ll just have to wait to find out.’
‘Patience has never been one of my strong points, Wes.’
Neil would be the first to admit that his private life had always been a little disorganised. His relationships with women tended to fizzle out, not dramatically but with dwindling interest as his partner realised that he prioritised archaeology over domestic stability and romance. He’d recently become engaged to Annabel Collins, an archivist he’d known and worked with for many years. Their relationship, once purely friendly and professional, had blossomed over the past year or so, although Neil himself wasn’t quite sure how this change had come about. They came from completely different backgrounds, hers decidedly upper crust, and yet they seemed to understand each other. In her own way, Annabel was as dedicated to the old documents she cared for in the Exeter archives as Neil was to his archaeological investigations. Perhaps they would make a good pair. Only time would tell.
But however chaotic his non-digging life might be, he prided himself that his excavations were always well organised, with everything done by the book and nothing of interest missed. This was why he found it hard to conceal his annoyance when two newcomers arrived on the scene. They swaggered into the fenced-off area bearing metal detectors and, without a by-your-leave, made straight for the nearest trench, jumping down into the newly dug hole, ignoring the archaeology society group’s feeble attempts to stop them. The postgrad student in charge was shouting something Neil couldn’t quite make out.
