The Flesh Tailor (19 page)

‘Perhaps he’d found the pictures behind the panels and that began his interest in … in science,’ Wesley suggested.

Esther thought for a moment. ‘It’s possible.’

‘What do you know about the history of Tailors Court?’

She shook her head. ‘I know it’s bloody old. And that it’s draughty and falling to bits. My mother-in-law told me it was built
when Queen Elizabeth was on the throne – not this Queen Elizabeth we’ve got now, the other one with the big dresses and the
red curly hair. A family called Garchard built it and the Janningses only got it in Victorian times. And it wasn’t always
called Tailors Court.’

‘What was it called, do you know?’

She frowned. ‘Flesh Tailor’s Court. That’s it. Flesh Tailor’s Court.’

Wesley glanced at Rachel. ‘No wonder they changed it,’ he said in a whisper.

Rosalind Dalcott had been brought in and it looked to Trish Walton as though she’d decided to play the Grieving Widow – and
a heavily pregnant Grieving Widow at that. Not that it washed with Gerry Heffernan.

‘We’ve just released your partner on bail,’ Gerry began. ‘But we’ll want to speak to him again.’ He leaned forward, slightly
threatening. ‘Sooner rather than later.’

All of a sudden the Widow abandoned her role and stared at the DCI, dry-eyed and defiant. ‘He didn’t kill James. You’re wasting
your time – and mine. I’ve told you everything I know.’

Trish watched as Gerry gave Roz a dangerous smile. She had seen a similar grimace once on a crocodile at Morbay Zoo when it
had spotted a tasty snack. He let the tension build for a few seconds before turning over the photograph that had been lying
face down on the table in front of him. It was a still from a traffic camera, enhanced to reveal the car number plate.

‘Harry’s refused to say he was driving. That means he’s landed you right in it. Terrible that – he wants to save his own skin
so he leaves you to take the blame. Or was it you driving that car? Did you kill your husband, Mrs Dalcott? Did you point
the gun at his head and pull the trigger? Ever fired a revolver, Mrs Dalcott?’

She shook her head vigorously. ‘Never.’

‘We’ve got a warrant to search your flat.’

‘Well, you won’t find anything.’

‘Why? Have you got rid of the evidence? Where is it – in the river? Buried under some hedgerow? There are lots of places around
these parts to get rid of a gun.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she replied.

‘Well, you can’t deny it’s your car so what was it doing driving towards Tradington while you and Harry Parker were supposed
to be tucked up all cosy in your Tradmouth love nest?’ Gerry Heffernan smiled again and waited for a reply.

Roz let out a loud sigh. ‘OK. I went round to see James around seven. He’d told me he was going to see the solicitor about
the divorce settlement and I was going to try
and persuade him to be more generous. I mean, Harry doesn’t make a fortune with his art … yet. And I’m just paid pin money
at the gallery. I needed that money.’

‘And now you’ve got it,’ said Trish. ‘Let’s face it, Mrs Dalcott, your husband died just at the right time.’

Trish saw Gerry glance at her appreciatively.

‘But I would never have killed James. I was sure I could make him see reason,’ Roz continued.

‘And when he didn’t you shot him,’ said Gerry.

‘No. You don’t understand.’

‘Make us.’

Roz swallowed hard. She looked tired, Trish thought. Perhaps the interrogation was too much for her in her condition. But
then she told herself firmly that there was a distinct possibility that this woman was a cold-blooded murderer.

‘OK,’ said Roz, bowing her head. ‘I drove there and when I arrived James was getting ready to go out – some dinner party at
one of his colleagues’ houses. I said I wanted to talk but …’

‘But what?’

‘He started saying how he was willing to take me back. How he’d forgive me and bring up the child himself. He said we could
put everything behind us if I’d leave Harry.’ She looked Gerry in the eye. ‘He said some awful things about Harry. He said
he was a little crook who was after his money. It’s not true. Harry loves me.’

‘So you told him he was wasting his time?’

‘That’s right.’

‘How did he react to that?’

Roz thought for a few seconds. ‘More sad than angry, I suppose. He didn’t raise his voice or anything like that.
He just said I was making a big mistake but it was up to me.’

‘Did he mention changing his will?’ Trish asked.

There was a long silence. ‘I didn’t know about it till you told Harry.’

Trish glanced at Gerry who gave a slight nod. ‘I can’t believe he didn’t mention he’d made an appointment with his solicitor
when you saw him on the night he died. And it must have been so tempting – if he died that weekend, you’d be financially secure
for the rest of your life. And with the baby coming …’

Roz looked away. ‘I know. But I didn’t kill him. Even when he started going on about faithless wives running in his family,
I just felt sorry for him.’ She began to pick at her fingernails: Trish could see that the glossy red varnish was chipping.
‘I didn’t hate James, Chief Inspector. Far from it. I just found him boring.’

‘So you left James for a bit of excitement?’

She didn’t answer.

‘Did you know about your husband’s real parents?’

‘Of course. They were at the wedding. But they’re both dead now. What about them?’

‘Would it surprise you to learn that the Dalcotts weren’t James’s real mother and father? Mrs Dalcott was really his aunt
– his father’s sister. His real father was called George Clipton and he was hanged for murdering his wife, James’s mother.
He strangled her because she was unfaithful to him.’

Trish glanced at the DCI. His words had been brutal and now Roz was sitting, stunned, her hand resting protectively on her
bump. ‘I take it you didn’t know?’ she said.

‘I’d no idea. Poor James,’ said Roz. ‘He was obsessed with researching his family history – not that he ever
shared it with me. It explains a lot, him harbouring a dark family secret like that. He was probably too ashamed to tell me.
That’d be James all over. He was a proud man.’

Trish thought she could detect a reluctant fondness in Roz’s voice and this was something she hadn’t expected. Perhaps, she
thought, there had been some latent affection for the boring husband after all and Harry Parker had had an inkling that his
position was precarious. Perhaps that was why he had killed Dalcott – or had him killed.

‘How long did you stay in Tradington on the night James was killed?’ Gerry asked.

‘It can’t have been more than fifteen minutes. To tell you the truth, once I started talking to James, I realised I shouldn’t
have gone. It was upsetting for him and upsetting for me. And he was rather preoccupied. Getting ready to go out, I mean.’

‘You’re quite sure he didn’t mention changing his will?’

‘No,’ she said without making eye contact.

‘And he didn’t mention if he was expecting a visitor?’

Roz shook her head, more relaxed now. ‘I told him I’d speak to him another time then I left – drove straight back to Tradmouth.
No doubt you’ve got that on tape as well,’ she added with a hint of sarcasm.

‘Yes we have. But you’d still have had time to shoot him.’

‘I wouldn’t know one end of a gun from another. And before you ask, Harry was home when I got back and neither of us went
out again that evening.’ She raised her head and looked Gerry straight in the eye. ‘I know for certain that Harry didn’t kill
James so you can search the flat any time you like.’

‘We’ll do that, love.’

‘Can I go now?’

Trish saw Gerry Heffernan nod. The young policewoman who was sitting by the door of the interview room stood up and guided
Roz Dalcott out with the studied concern of a hospital nurse reassuring a patient that the procedure was over and had been
successful.

Wesley had met Stella Tracey before when armed robbers had targeted Little Barton Farm and as Rachel led him into the kitchen,
her mother greeted him like an old friend.

Wesley sat by the table in the warm farmhouse kitchen breathing in the aroma of a baking casserole as Stella placed a ham
sandwich made with home-made bread and pickle, a mug of steaming tea and a slice of her famed fruit cake in front of him.
He began to feel a little guilty at enjoying this impromptu lunch. But, as Rachel pointed out, her mother was the fount of
all knowledge concerning the local farming community and she would be able to provide more information about the land girl
who married into the family at Gorfleet Farm than any police computer system.

It was Rachel who began the interrogation. ‘Now, mum, we need some information.’

‘Fire away,’ said Stella, walking over to the Aga and checking the oven.

‘You know the Hayneses at Gorfleet Farm near Tradington, don’t you?’

‘Of course. I think you know them too. Didn’t you meet Nigel Haynes at a Young Farmers’ Dance? Oh, it must be over ten years
ago but surely you must remember.’

When Rachel didn’t answer Stella continued.

‘Nigel’s due to take over the running of the farm when
his father retires. And he’s still single,’ she added meaningfully, her eyes flicking in Rachel’s direction.

Wesley saw Rachel look away, her bottom lip jutting like a petulant child’s. Perhaps, he thought, being back in her childhood
home made her feel a little like a teenager again. Or perhaps it was something else – an uncomfortable memory maybe.

Then he remembered why the name Nigel Haynes seemed familiar. In the report on the discovery of the first skeleton at Tailors
Court, the driver of the digger had been named as Nigel Haynes from the farm next door.

‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘I believe one of the Haynes sons married a land girl who was working on their farm. Her name was Mary
and she was staying just outside Tradington in a house called Tailors Court.’ He thought it best not to mention Esther Jannings’s
comment about her being no better than she ought to be. He wanted to hear Stella’s independent verdict.

Stella nodded. ‘That’s right. Of course it was before my time but I know she came from somewhere up north and she was a land
girl during the war. She met John Haynes – he passed away about ten years ago – and she never went back. I think your gran
went to the wedding, Rachel.’

‘Considering this was all before your time, you seem to know all about her,’ Rachel said.

‘I keep my ear to the ground.’ She looked at Rachel, slightly teasing. ‘And I know she had two children. Peter – that’s Nigel’s
father who took over the farm – and she had a girl as well but I can’t remember her name. The daughter stayed around here
and I think she’s got two girls of her own. I did hear that one of them’s working for some newspaper.’

‘Is Mary still alive?’

‘As far as I know she’s still going strong. But she’ll be well into her eighties now.’

‘Do you think she’ll be up to talking to us?’

Stella Tracey shrugged. ‘You can only ask. I think she still lives with Peter and Brenda at the farm,’ she said as she busied
herself with clearing away Wesley’s empty plate. ‘I’d ring them first to see how the land lies.’

Fortunately Stella had the number of Gorfleet Farm in the battered address book that lay next to the telephone on the huge
Welsh dresser. The address book sprouted scraps of paper and dog-eared business cards which fluttered out as she leafed through
the pages, only to be thrust back in again at random.

Wesley suggested that Rachel speak to the Hayneses as there was already some tentative connection. But she was quick to say
that it might be better coming from him and as she watched him make the call, she fiddled nervously with a table mat, turning
it over and over in her fingers. Perhaps her mother’s presence was making her feel awkward. Or perhaps there was some history
between her and Nigel Haynes that her mother didn’t know about.

When the call was ended Wesley turned to face Rachel. ‘I spoke to Peter Haynes. Mary’s in hospital with some sort of infection
and she’s not up to speaking to anyone at the moment,’ he said feeling a crushing disappointment. He’d been hoping Mary would
tell them all they needed to know.

Rachel looked at him as though she’d read his thoughts.

‘But she is responding to the antibiotics they’re giving her and the doctors say it might just be a matter of time till she’s
on the mend.’

Hoping the doctors had it right, Wesley said a polite goodbye to Stella and followed Rachel out into the farmyard.

As they drove away from the farm, Rachel seemed to relax. But she stayed uncharacteristically silent as they approached Tradington.
Wesley suspected that, now that she’d enjoyed the independence of sharing a cottage near Tradmouth with Trish Walton, she
felt as though she’d become a stranger in her childhood home. She’d cut the apron strings and there was no going back.

It had started to rain again and Wesley looked out of the car window at the rolling fields. Now that winter had arrived, the
twisted black wood in the hedgerows looked dead and naked without its veil of greenery. In summer this landscape was lush
and beautiful but now it was grey-brown and bare, as though the whole earth was dying.

He glanced at Rachel, tempted to ask her about Nigel Haynes, but something in her expression made him change his mind.

Nobody saw the corpse as it floated downstream towards Tradmouth. The river Trad was swollen at this time of the year – swollen
and icy cold. Anybody who fell in wouldn’t have stood much of a chance but this body hadn’t come to be there by accident or
misfortune. It had been placed there carefully to float out to sea on the tide, unseen and unmourned.

But the treacherous currents of the river worked to the commands of nature rather than man and before long the corpse had
become entangled in the mooring rope of a small yacht bobbing at anchor in the shelter of Bow Creek. Now it floated there
and its black hair spread out, mingling with the dark, clinging seaweed beneath the leaden sky.