Cursed Inheritance (5 page)

The manager hurried straight out of his office behind the desk. It would probably have been easier for the girl to knock at his door to announce their arrival but she had decided to do things by the book. He was a slim young man with slightly receding hair and the keen, intelligent look of a police sniffer dog. Like policemen, hotel managers seemed to be getting younger by the minute.

He held out a confident hand to Wesley. His handshake was firm and he looked Wesley in the eye and introduced himself in a strong, clear voice, as Matthew Fellowes. Wesley didn’t know whether his apparent self-confidence was natural or if he’d learned it on a management course of some kind but he reserved judgement. He and Rachel were led into Fellowes’s office, which .was smaller than he’d expected and fitted out with uninspiring chipboard furniture.

Fellowes sat down behind his desk and began to thank them profusely for turning up so promptly. Wesley, unused to effusive praise from members of the public, basked in the admiration for a few moments before asking the man to explain exactly what was wrong. He hardly liked to admit that they hadn’t rushed there in answer to his summons: he’d make the most of the situation while the going was good.

‘It was the chambermaid who found it like that … ‘

‘Like what exactly?’ Wesley asked, hoping a full explanation would follow.

Fellowes looked uncomfortable for the first time. ‘As I said on the phone, one of the first floor rooms has been ransacked. Things thrown all over the place. Terrible mess. Of course we won’t know what’s missing until Mr Evans gets back.’

‘Mr Evans?’ Rachel asked.

‘The guest who’s been staying in room fourteen. I’ve

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questioned the staff and nobody’s seen him for a couple of days. And now the chambermaid tells me that she doesn’t think his bed’s been slept in for the last two nights.’

The two officers exchanged glances. ‘Can you describe this Mr EvansT

Fellowes proceeded to give a remarkably good description of the corpse in the river. Wesley tried to keep the excitement he felt under control and asked to have a look at the room.

As Fellowes led the way upstairs, the girl at reception looked terrified as they passed. ‘She’s new,’ he whispered to Wesley when they were out of earshot. ‘Owner’s niece. Not the brightest pixie in the forest, if you get my meaning, but we have to work with what we’re given, don’t weT

Wesley smiled. He could say the same about several of the police officers under his command.

They reached the door and Fellowes let himself in with his pass key. ‘I told the chambermaid to leave everything as she found it. 1 thought you’d want to take fingerprints and all that.’

Wesley stepped over the threshold, followed by Rachel. The chambermaid had been right. The room had been ransacked. Clothes had been pulled from the wardrobe and from the chest of drawers that stood beneath the window. The bedclothes had been ripped from the bed, probably in an effort to search beneath the pillows and mattress. A suitcase lay open and empty on the floor. Someone had been anxious to fmd something.

‘Nobody heard anything,’ Fellowes said with what sounded like disbelief.

Wesley wasn’t surprised. This kind of search wouldn’t necessarily be noisy.

‘Will you … er … be all right here on your own?’

‘I think we can manage.’ Wesley felt relieved when the manager hurried off. He never liked to be watched when he was working: not many people do.

‘Not a professional job,’ Rachel observed, pointing at the

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chest of drawers. Wesley saw what she meant. The drawers had obviously been opened from the top downwards - the professional thief always finds it quicker the other way around. And something about the way the clothes were strewn about suggested a haphazard rather than a methodi-cal search.

Wesley knelt amongst the clothes on the floor and began to feel in the pockets. He pulled out a half-finished packet of low-tar cigarettes from the inside pocket of a linen jacket and four pounds thirty-three pence in change from the back pocket of a pair of jeans. But there was nothing much else. If the man had credit cards or a driving licence he would probably have been carrying them with him in a wallet. And if the occupant of the room was indeed their mystery corpse, that wallet was either in the possession of whoever killed him or at the bottom of the river.

Wesley pulled on a pair of latex gloves and began to examine the room in more detail. But there was nothing much to find. A toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste still stood in a glass in the en suite bathroom beside an electric razor. Mr Evans, whoever he was, hadn’t decided to stay with friends or a woman he’d just met if he had left these essentials behind. It was looking more and more likely that Evans was their man. He could feel it in his water, as Gerry Heffeman would say.

They left the room, closing the door carefully behind them, and made their way down the thickly carpeted stairs to Fellowes’s office. He invited them to sit down but no tea was offered, much to Wesley’s disappointment. Gerry Heffeman would have demanded some but Wesley lacked his audacity.

Wesley drew a photograph from his pocket and handed it to Fellowes; a picture of the corpse, tastefully arranged so as not to alarm the sensitive. ‘Is this Mr Evans?’

Fellowes went pale and nodded. ‘Is he … ?’

‘I’m afraid so. I suppose you have an address for him?’

‘Of course.’ Fellowes wrote the address on a piece of

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paper and handed it to Wesley. ‘He arrived the Sunday before last and booked in for a fortnight, saying he might want to stay longer. He gave us his credit card details. Usual practice.’

‘In case the guest disappears without paying?’ said Rachel.

‘A precaution.’

‘Can you tell us anything else about him?’ Wesleyasked. ‘Did he say why he was here? What his line of work was?’

Fellowes shook his head. ‘I presumed he was down here on business but I’ve told you all I know, I’m afraid.’ Fellowes assumed an apologetic look.

‘I’ll arrange for some officers to come over and talk to the staff and the Other guests. He might have talked to someone.’

Fellowes looked alarmed. ‘I hope they’ll be discreet. Our guests…’

‘You won’t even know they’re here,’ he said with a reassuring smile.

Wesley studied the piece of paper in his hand. Evans’s initial was P and the address was in south-east Londoh. The only thing he knew about the district was that it had once been a no go area but now it was facing an invasion of young professionals courted by developers of smart warehouse-style apartments. It wasn’t an area he knew well: London was a big place. One of the reasons he had been glad to get away from it.

As they left the Tradmouth Castle Hotel they saw two uniformed constables making for the entrance. ‘Will you tell them or shall I?’ he said to Rachel.

Rachel did the honours: Fellowes would still be convinced that the two CID officers had rushed there in answer to his call. Why disillusion the man?

They returned to the office, to report their findings but Gerry Heffeman was still in his budget meeting. He’d be in a foul mood when he got back, Wesley thought. Budget meetings always affected him that way.

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After sending a couple of DCs back to the Tradmouth Castle to interview the staff and guests, Wesley made for his desk and tapped the name P. Evans and the address into the computer. If Evans had been convicted of any crime under that name, the details would come up in a matter of seconds.

But he drew a blank. P. Evans, whoever he was, had either been a law-abiding citizen or he’d never been caught. But at least Wesley had an address. And he had friends in not so high places.

His heart began to beat fast as he picked up the telephone. It was a long time since he’d spoken to his old friend in the Met, Pete Jarrod - now, like Wesley, promoted to DI and posted at P. Evans’s local police station. Pete and Wesley had been graduate recruits together training at Hendon and they had always got on well. But such is the way of the world that their only contact now was a cardˇ each Christmas with a scribbled note.

He asked the switchboard for DI Jarrod’s extension and waited, fearing that Pete would be out fighting the capital’s crime. But his luck was in. Pete answered, surprised to hear Wesley’s voice. The two men spent five minutes catching up on news - half-envious questions about life in Devon and enquiries about Pete’s wife, Becky, who worked for an investment bank - before Wesley was able to steer the conversation round to P. Evans.

Pete promised to run a check on Evans at the address he’d given and get back to him. Wesley harboured a vague hope that Pete might be able to pass on some unofficial local knowledge about his man; that Evans might be some Mr Big, as yet untouched by the law but under surveillance by the local CID. But no such luck. P. Evans was a mere member of the public. A victim rather than a perpetrator. Pete and his colleagues had nothing on him. In spite of this, Wesley thanked him profusely and said he’d be welcome down in Devon any time. It was an invitation that he didn’t

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expect Pete and Becky would take up - and he wasn’t sure

how Pam would react if they did. She had her hands full at

the moment without a couple of extra mouths to feed. And

once she returned to work when her maternity leave ended

after the Easter holidays, things would hardly improve.

As Wesley predicted, Gerry Heffernan wasn’t in the best

of moods when he returned from his budget meeting. He

lumbered through the office muttering ominously.and disappeared into his lair. After a few moments, Wesley followed

him and found him slumped at his cluttered desk.

‘If I’d wanted to be a ruddy accountant, I would have

bought myself a calculator.’

‘That bad?’ Wesley sat down and assumed what he . considered to be a sympathetic look.

‘Give me an honest armed robber any day. Anything

new?’

Wesley told him about his fruitful visit to the hotel.

‘So we’ve got a name for our corpse.’

‘Looks like it. The photo’s not good but the manager

recognised him all right. I’ve rung a friend of mine at the

Met. He’s going to send someone round to Evang’s

address. ‘

‘Good. The question is, what was whoever searched his

room looking for? And did they find it? We’ve got to find

out more about Mr P. Evans. I suppose it would be too

much to hope that the Tradmouth Castle has CCTV cameras

dotted all over the place?’

Wesley gave him a regretful smile. ‘Afraid not.’

Wesley looked at his watch. It was five o’clock already.

Another night when he’d arrive home late.

He returned to his desk to catch up on his paperwork.

There was a note from Trish: Charles Dodgson didn’t

appear on the PNC. He had no convictions - under that

particular name at least. But that could wait for another

day. Murder trumped a series of thefts.

He was surprised when Pete Jarrod returned his call an

hour later. Being familiar with the wor~oad of the Met, he

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hadn’t expected such efficient service.

‘Hi, Wes. I’ve asked around but I’m afraid nothing is known about Evans and I sent someone round to the address

ˇ but there was nobody in. According to the electoral register his first name’s Patrick and there’s a Kirsty Evans at the same address. Probably the wife. I’ll arrange for her to be informed as soon as she gets back from work.’

Somehow, Wesley had hoped for more; that perhaps one person at Evans’ s local police station would be aware of his existence. But it was hardly surprising. It was only villains who ended up ‘known to the police’.

‘Thanks, Pete. The wife will have to come down here to make a formal identification.’ He hesitated, making a decision. ‘If all’s well I’ll come down tomorrow to see her and I’ll bring her back to Devon. I’d like to see where he lived for myself.’ He looked at the heap of files on his desk. ‘I’ve got a mountain of paperwork here but … ‘

‘I understand - have the same problem myself. If we don’t manage to track down the wife I’ll let you know, save you a wasted journey.’

‘Thanks. Ring me at home if you can’t get hold of me here.’ Wesley put the phone down, suddenly impatient to find out more about the dead man’s life. In the meantime, he’d bring Gerry Heffernan up to date on his plans.

He looked at his watch again, thinking of Pam alone in the house with Michael and Amelia and experiencing a sharp pang of guilt. He had never wanted to be an absent father. But circumstances conspired against him.

Pam rushed into the hall when she heard Wesley’s key in the door. She was carrying Amelia over her shoulder, hoping she would drop off to sleep. But the baby’s eyes were wide open and alert, as though she knew Daddy was home.

Wesley greeted his wife with a weary smile and planted a kiss on her forehead. He took Amelia’s tiny, golden-brown hand in his and she gripped his fingers tightly.

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‘Neil’s been round,’ were Pam’s fIrst words. The look in her eyes told Wesley that NeH’s visit hadn’t been a routine one. Something had happened. ‘He’s off to the States tonight.’

Wesley frowned. ‘What for?’ Neil didn’t usually take holidays: he enjoyed his work too much.

‘He’s going on a dig in Virginia. Something to do with the early settlers. He said he’d keep in touch by email while he’s out there.’

Wesley made his way into the living room, where Michael was sitting on the floor constructing a tower of brightly coloured plastic bricks. As soon as he saw Wesley he jumped up and charged at his legs, demolishing his tower in the process. Wesley caught him in his arms and lifted him up.

‘So we won’t be seeing Uncle Neil for a while,’ he said, addressing Michael, who nodded earnestly. At almost three he was becoming a serious child. The uncomfortable thought that his long absences at work were responsible for this flashed through Wesley’s mind. But then, according to his parents, he too had been a solemn, studious child. Perhaps it was hereditary.