The Flesh Tailor (10 page)

‘What have we here?’

‘It’s a family tree. Looks like James Dalcott was trying to trace his ancestors.’

Gerry bent forward to study the paper on the table. ‘That’s odd,’ he said.

‘What is?’

The chief inspector scratched his head. ‘Look at the names of Dalcott’s parents.’

When Wesley looked more closely he saw what Gerry meant. Dalcott’s parents’ names were recorded as Greta and Robert Dalcott
but these had been crossed out and the names Isabelle and George Clipton printed neatly above them.

‘Perhaps he discovered that he was adopted,’ Wesley suggested. ‘Evonne said he was preoccupied by something – family business,
he said. She assumed it was Roz but maybe it was this.’

‘Look over here. Greta Dalcott, née Clipton, is recorded as his aunt. George Clipton and Greta were brother and sister … look.’

Gerry was right. At some point Greta, married to a man called Dalcott, had adopted her brother’s child who had taken the couple’s
name.

‘I don’t suppose it was that unusual,’ Gerry said. ‘Perhaps the parents were both killed and the aunt and uncle looked after
their son.’ Wesley sensed that he’d begun to lose interest.

‘But if that was the case wouldn’t you think James would have known all about his real parents?’

‘We’re talking about the fifties here, Wes. People didn’t
talk about things back then. They just got on with it. One of my mum’s favourite sayings has always been “least said, soonest
mended”. Different generation.’

Wesley nodded. Gerry was probably right. He began to fold up the family tree when Gerry put out a hand to stop him.

‘Hang on.’

‘What is it?’

‘George Clipton. Why does that name sound familiar?’

‘I’m sure I’ve never heard it before.’

‘It might have been before your time, Wes. Before mine too but I’m still sure I’ve heard it somewhere before.’

‘Do you think Parker could have been talking about genealogy when he said Dalcott was obsessed with the past?’

Gerry sighed. ‘Who knows, Wes? When a couple are at each other’s throats like that any little thing can seem irritating; any
interest can be interpreted as an obsession.’

Wesley folded the family tree and put everything back in the folder. Dalcott had no children so there’d be nobody to pass
the information on to; nobody who’d be interested in the forebears of James Dalcott. It was rather a sad thought.

He left the living room and climbed the stairs, his eyes avoiding the site of Dalcott’s violent death. He heard Gerry’s heavy
footsteps behind him, treading slowly.

‘Has anything interesting been found on his computer?’ Wesley asked as he reached the landing.

‘Still waiting. You know how Scientific Support like to take their time. I’m not getting my hopes up.’

They didn’t feel like talking much as they searched the bedrooms. It was obvious that the cottage had been
painstakingly restored and decorated to Roz’s taste, even down to the antique locks on the doors which all boasted shiny keys,
and it was as if she was still there in spirit if not in reality. There were half-used women’s cosmetics in the bathroom and
a silk dressing gown that had seen better days hung behind the door of one of the spare bedrooms. She had left things that
she couldn’t be bothered taking to her new life with Harry Parker. And James had kept these things around him, perhaps in
the hope she would come back one day.

‘Wonder if she’ll move back in here with lover boy?’ said Gerry absentmindedly. ‘After all, it’s all hers now. Might have
been a different story if he’d got round to changing the will.’

‘Mmm. But is it worth killing for?’

Gerry looked round. ‘People have killed for a lot less.’

When they’d finished their search of all the drawers and cupboards, Wesley felt a little disappointed. Somehow he’d hoped
to find some clue; a threatening letter from the killer or some secret stash of pornography. But it seemed that Dr James Dalcott
had led a worthy, dull and blameless life … unless something was discovered on the hard drive of his computer that suggested
there’d been some secret wickedness behind the benign façade.

They’d have to wait and see.

Neil had locked the attic room behind him. He’d found the whole experience rather unnerving and he felt that he never wanted
to go up there again. Perhaps he was getting too imaginative in his old age.

When he’d left Jill Persimmon in the kitchen she seemed rather quiet, as if the discovery of that room – almost
above the bedroom where she slept – had disturbed her too. Neil hadn’t discussed the matter with her beyond the bare, obvious
facts, but he suspected that, should any more bodies be found in the grounds, the thought of the place being owned by some
kind of serial killer might be enough to make the Persimmons sell up and head back to London.

His colleagues were just finishing a section of marked-out grassland fifty yards from the house, just beyond the trench where
the two skeletons had been unearthed. He fixed a confident smile to his face and walked over to join them.

‘How’s it going?’

Chris, the new lad who’d come to the Unit fresh from university, looked up. ‘Not bad. How much do you want us to do?’

‘All the area up to the hedgerow. That OK?’

‘We won’t get it all done today.’

‘I didn’t expect you to.’ Neil gave him an encouraging smile.

Chris looked round, a worried look on his face. ‘And who’s paying for all this? I thought the Unit was worried about funding.’

Neil grinned. ‘We are. But this one’s down as a possible murder enquiry. If you go into the police control room ours is the
first number on their list of contacts – A for archaeologists. And besides that, the Detective Inspector at Tradmouth is an
old mate of mine from Uni.’

Neil saw Chris look at him as though he suspected he was making it up.

‘Have we any printouts yet?’

‘Dave’s got something,’ said Chris and returned his
attention to his machine. Neil left him to it and trudged across the uneven ground towards a group of people standing chatting
by the outhouse.

As he approached, Dave, who had the bearded face and stocky figure of a dedicated real ale drinker, looked up eagerly.

‘What have we got?’ Neil asked.

‘Well, there are a few interesting anomalies.’

This was what Neil wanted to hear. This was something that would potentially keep the paperwork at bay for a few more days.

With the Persimmons’ permission Dave was using one of the outhouses as a base. Neil followed him inside. The place was filthy
but they’d worked in worse surroundings. At one end of the room was a dusty door half covered with flaking green paint and
barred by a pile of old tea chests. Neil had moved the debris and tried the door, just out of curiosity, and when it had creaked
open he’d found himself in a windowless room containing an old table, an array of rusted knives and cleavers and a row of
meat hooks hanging from the cobwebbed ceiling. Once he’d peeped inside he’d shut the door and never opened it again. He’d
assumed it was an old slaughterhouse and now it reminded him uncomfortably of the strange attic room.

He turned his attention to more pressing matters. A laptop screen was glowing on top of an ancient cast-iron boiler. Dave
pressed a few keys and they both stared as the results appeared on the screen.

‘Look,’ said Dave pointing. ‘There’s where the skeletons turned up and here … it looks like the ground’s been disturbed. And
here too. And there. And there’s another one
here, slightly smaller than the others. I mean it could be something else, burying rubbish or dead animals, but it’s not linear
so we can rule out pipes and drains.’

‘You’re right,’ said Neil, squinting at the patterns on the screen. ‘It’s worth having a look, isn’t it?’

‘Those are definitely the right size for graves in my opinion.’ Dave raised his eyebrows. ‘Reckon we might have ourselves
a serial killer here?’

Neil didn’t reply. He was going over the possibilities in his mind.

‘You up to a bit of digging?’ he said after a few moments.

Dave nodded. ‘Why not?’

Wesley and Gerry were just making for the car when they heard a voice. ‘Yoohoo.’

They both turned round. Ruby Wetherall was standing there waving enthusiastically. She looked smart, as though she had dressed
up for the occasion and Wesley guessed that having a police constable stationed there to fuss over and keep supplied with
cups of tea and home-made cake was rather a treat for her.

Wesley began to walk towards her, Gerry following behind. ‘Hello, Mrs Wetherall. What can we do for you?’

She looked from left to right, as though she was afraid of being overheard, before leading them into her house and, once inside,
she insisted that they sat down and made themselves comfortable.

‘So what is it?’ Wesley asked, taking a surreptitious glance at his watch. Chief Superintendent Nutter – usually referred
to irreverently as ‘the Nutter’ by DCI Heffernan who had little faith in his superior’s abilities as
a crime fighter – wanted an update on their progress. The murder of a local doctor, a respected member of the community, had
to be seen to be dealt with swiftly and efficiently, he’d said, ignoring Gerry when he’d pointed out that every victim deserves
justice, not just the professional classes.

Ruby touched Wesley’s sleeve. ‘They’ve gone. Done a moonlight flit.’

‘Who’s gone, Mrs Wetherall?’

‘Those two men renting the house on the other side of Dr Dalcott’s. Said they were father and son.’

Wesley and Gerry looked at each other. The neighbours in the third house in the terrace of cottages had been questioned as
a matter of routine but no suspicions had been raised. They identified themselves as Syd and Brian Trenchard, a widowed father
and his son, and told the DC who’d interviewed them that they’d moved from Plymouth a couple of weeks ago and were renting
the house while they looked for a new place in the area. The son worked in Dukesbridge – something to do with cars – and,
as Mr Trenchard senior had recently been widowed, they’d decided to look for somewhere more rural.

In their brief statement they’d said that they’d been out at the time of the murder visiting friends and that they hadn’t
returned until late that evening. They’d seen and heard nothing and their only dealings with Dr Dalcott had been the exchanging
of neighbourly nods.

They hadn’t known the dead man and they hadn’t behaved at all suspiciously so checking their story was just a matter of routine
and hardly considered urgent. Syd and Brian Trenchard had seemed to be low priority.

‘What makes you think they’ve done a moonlight flit,
love?’ Gerry asked. ‘They might have just gone away for a few days. Can’t be easy living next door to a murder scene, as you
know yourself.’

Ruby leaned towards Gerry as though she didn’t want to be overheard. ‘They packed a load of stuff into the car. Looked like
all their possessions if you ask me. The place is let furnished so there’d be no need for a removal van. They drove off and
I haven’t seen them since.’

Wesley caught Gerry’s eye. This hardly sounded like proof of guilt.

‘I took their car registration number, just in case.’ Ruby delved into her pocket and pulled out a neatly folded sheet of
paper. She handed it to Gerry with great ceremony. ‘There you are, Chief Inspector.’

Gerry stuffed it into his own pocket where, Wesley feared, it would probably get lost amongst all the other scraps of paper
that ended up in there.

‘Do you want me to look after that?’ he asked.

Gerry, always the first to acknowledge that Wesley was far more organised than he was, handed the sheet over.

‘How well did you know the Trenchards?’ Wesley asked, putting the paper carefully into his pocket.

Ruby licked her thin lips and Wesley suspected she was enjoying herself. ‘Said hello a couple of times but we didn’t pass
the time of day. The father – at least I presume it’s his father: you never know nowadays, do you? – always went around in
one of those track suits. Big bloke around sixty. Shaved head. The son’s in his thirties. Also bald as an egg. Tattoos on
his arms. Smaller than the dad. They certainly weren’t here when we found poor Dr Dalcott but I saw them come back in their
car around ten o’clock.’

Wesley suppressed a smile. ‘We know. They’ve already been interviewed.’

Ruby looked disappointed.

‘But you’re being very helpful,’ Wesley said quickly. He didn’t want to discourage further confidences. He stood up. ‘Excuse
me, Mrs Wetherall, I’ll just have to make a call,’ he said and left the room.

Finding the Wetheralls’ cluttered house rather claustrophobic, he felt he needed some fresh air so he let himself out of the
front door, leaving it on the latch, and wandered into the garden. As he pulled out his mobile phone he realised he was standing
in a pile of damp and rotting leaves so he stepped sideways onto the mossy grass. He could feel the cold penetrating his shoes
but as he made his call his mind was on other things. He had a feeling, just a slight uneasy hunch, that there might be something
in Ruby’s suspicions. Or maybe a murder next door and a diet of TV detective dramas were making her see assassins behind every
tree.

He stood there a while, waiting for the station to get back to him. And once he’d received the expected call he returned to
the house, careful to wipe his feet on the doormat.

Gerry Heffernan had settled himself on Ruby’s sofa but Wesley knew that his comfort would be short lived. Thanks to Ruby’s
suspicious mind he’d just discovered that the car used by Syd and Brian Trenchard had been hired in the name of William Smith.
And that there was no record of either man having lived in the Plymouth area.

Syd and Brian Trenchard had some questions to answer.

*

Neil had moved three feet of earth very carefully, examining every spadeful of soil as he worked. He had only asked Dave to
help him. If his suspicions were correct, the fewer feet that trampled on the site, the better.

This was the first anomaly the geophysics had shown up, the one nearest the burials the Persimmons had found. As Neil dug
his thoughts kept turning to that attic room. But he knew that if he dwelt on it, it might lead to sleepless nights. Half-seen,
half-understood things always held the most horror.