The Flesh Tailor (17 page)

Wesley obeyed and brought the car to a halt in front of a tiny modern cottage on the southern edge of Tradington village,
built as token ‘affordable housing’, neat and compact as a rabbit hutch. It was about half a mile from James Dalcott’s place.
Very convenient, Wesley thought, for Evonne to comfort the abandoned husband.

Wesley switched off the engine and turned to face her. ‘Did James ever mention that he’d been adopted?’

She shook her head.

‘So he didn’t tell you that his biological father had been hanged for murdering his mother?’

Evonne stared at him for a few moments, lost for words.

‘His father’s name was George Clipton. He was a GP in Dorset and he strangled his wife because she was unfaithful. He never
mentioned the name?’

‘No.’ She looked rather stunned. ‘That might have been why he was so preoccupied. That might be what he meant by family business.
I assumed it was about Roz.’

‘We think he’d only found out recently. He was only a baby at the time and his father’s sister and her husband adopted him.
I imagine they thought it best if he never knew the truth.’

‘Oh, poor James. Fancy finding out something like that. He must have been devastated.’ She hesitated. ‘Did Roz know?’

‘That’s something I need to find out,’ he said quietly.

Because of Roz Dalcott’s pregnancy and the fact that it was her new partner rather than herself who had the criminal record,
they’d been treating her gently – maybe too gently. Trish Walton had visited her a couple of times for a bit of soft questioning
but perhaps it was time to get tougher. Rachel had mentioned bringing her in for questioning and suddenly he couldn’t wait
to hear what she had to say.

‘Look, I’d better go.’ Evonne opened the car door, suddenly eager to get away.

‘Thank you for taking part in the press conference. Let’s hope it brings a few witnesses out of the woodwork, eh?’

She gave him a shy smile and slammed the car door.

Transcript of recording made by Mrs Mabel Cleary (née Fallon) – Home Counties Library Service Living History Project: Reminiscences
of a wartime evacuee.

The girl was called Belle and the boy was her cousin, Charlie. Belle was about the same age as me with curly blonde hair and
she was very pretty. Charlie was about six months younger and he had fair curls too. Mary said he looked like a little angel,
but some of the village boys said he looked like a girl. I think Mrs Jannings had been railroaded into taking them because
the evacuation people knew that she had lots of room at Tailors Court and she had to be seen to do her bit for the war effort
like everyone else. Not that she was happy about it.

Charlie was very quiet and Belle used to tease him which only made him worse. At first he used to spend hours on end with
the pigs they kept in the outhouse and
Belle said he smelled like them, which was unkind even though she was right. Not that Mrs Jannings ever said anything. I don’t
think she noticed what was going on under her own roof.

Belle told me Charlie’s family had all been killed by a bomb and I felt sorry for him. But when I tried to be friendly he
wouldn’t say much and then he started following Miles around. Miles was back from the army and Mary told me he was on leave
for medical reasons. I didn’t know then what those reasons were of course. He didn’t seem to be wounded or anything and I
could tell by the way Mary said it that she didn’t really believe it.

There was a girl used to come and see Miles – Esther her name was and she was a big, plain girl. Mary reckoned she was sweet
on Miles and she said she was welcome to him.

One day Miles killed one of the pigs and it made a terrible noise like someone screaming in agony. I can still hear it now,
that awful sound, and I had nightmares about it for ages afterwards. Charlie helped him and although he didn’t say anything,
there was a funny look in his eyes, almost as though he was enjoying it. From that day on Charlie never seemed to leave Miles’s
side and sometimes it seemed as if they shared a big secret.

But for a long time I never knew what that secret was.

Roz Dalcott put her hand on her growing belly. It was evening now but Harry was still painting in the old outhouse at the
back of the shop. When he went in there she knew he wasn’t to be disturbed and his single-minded focus on his art was beginning
to annoy her – especially when that art was so uncommercial. Who was going to
buy those hideous pictures of dissected bodies downstairs in the gallery? People round here wanted something more cheerful
on their walls – not something that reminded them of death and decay. And as for the tourists who came flocking in the summer
months, they wanted something to remind them of pretty Devon – fishing boats, beach huts and Tradmouth with its jumble of
pastel-coloured houses tumbling down to the river. Not blood and gore.

If James hadn’t died when he did, she told herself as she felt the baby moving inside her, they’d be in the direst of financial
straits. A few days later and he would have changed that will. And she’d have got nothing.

For the first time since the murder she felt relaxed. But the sudden sound of the telephone broke the silence and made her
jump. She picked up the receiver.

It was for Harry. A gruff male voice she didn’t recognise.

‘Who’s that?’ she asked, trying to sound calm even though all her senses were screaming that this was someone from Harry’s
shady past.

‘Just tell him it’s an old friend from the university of life,’ the voice said.

Roz hesitated for a moment then she went off to find Harry, her heart beating fast.

The last thing she wanted was for Harry Parker’s past to catch up with him.

It was Wednesday morning and Wesley’s ordeal by press was over. When he’d returned home the previous evening he and Pam had
watched the recorded results over a glass or two of wine. He’d been relieved to discover that he
hadn’t come over too badly. Even Neil had rung to congratulate him.

Although he was hardly a natural in front of a camera, he was satisfied that he’d done a competent job. He hadn’t made a fool
of himself but, as he’d said to Pam, he didn’t mind in the least leaving media stardom to those who were bothered about that
sort of thing. She’d looked mildly amused and said that stars’ wives probably saw even less of their partners than police
wives did. Then he’d gone upstairs to say goodnight to the children, only to find them both fast asleep.

In spite of all this, he felt unusually happy as he left the house just before eight to drive to Neston Police Station, even
though the weather was dank and grey and when he looked down the hill towards Tradmouth, the town was veiled in a thick sea
mist. His good mood lasted as he drove inland, slowed by the early-morning traffic, and when he reached the incident room
he sat down at the desk he’d been allocated and placed a sheet of paper squarely in front of him. There was no sign of Gerry
as yet – probably due to an alarm clock malfunction – so he thought he would take advantage of the DCI’s absence to get a
few things straight in his mind before the morning briefing.

He began to write.
Visit Mrs Jannings re child’s skeleton. Was Dalcott’s father definitely guilty? How much does Roz know about it and who was
driving towards Tradington in her car on Saturday evening – Parker or Roz Dalcott? Harry Parker’s phone records – has he been
in contact with Syd Jenkins and Brian Carrack?

He was just going to add something about Adam Tey and Charleen Anstice when Nick Tarnaby lumbered up to
his desk carrying a piece of paper. He muttered something and plonked the paper on top of the notes Wesley had been making.

‘This came in first thing.’

Wesley looked up at him. There were dark rings under his eyes and his breath smelled of stale alcohol. ‘Heavy night last night,
Nick?’

‘No.’

Wesley sighed, picked up the sheet of paper Tarnaby had left on his desk and began to read.

Last Friday Mrs Mabel Cleary aged 73 told her daughter she was taking the coach from London to Morbay to meet up with a long-lost
friend. Mrs Cleary definitely caught the coach but she hasn’t been in touch with her daughter since. Mrs Cleary’s been having
medical treatment for a heart condition and daughter’s reported her missing at her local police station who contacted the
Devon and Cornwall force
.

‘Nick,’ Wesley called across the room. ‘Can I have a word?’

Nick Tarnaby got up slowly and ambled across the large open-plan office to Wesley’s desk.

‘Is there any particular reason why you thought I should see this stuff about Mrs Cleary? It looks like a case for uniform
to me. And just because this woman hasn’t phoned her daughter, it doesn’t necessarily mean anything’s happened to her.’

Tarnaby grunted. ‘It’s the other thing.’

‘What other thing?’

‘The officer who spoke to the daughter said that the mum had been here during the war. She was evacuated here when she was
a kid.’

‘What’s that got to do with …?’

‘The daughter found a letter from the friend she was
coming to see and it said –’ He consulted his notebook. ‘“I often think about the time we spent at Tailors Court.”’ He lowered
his notebook. ‘Just thought you might be interested. But if you don’t think it’s important …’

Wesley hesitated. Perhaps he’d underestimated Tarnaby. ‘No, you’re right. It could be relevant. Thanks. You did well.’

Tarnaby said nothing. He turned and walked away, leaving Wesley staring at the sheet of paper in front of him. Suddenly Mrs
Mabel Cleary had assumed a new importance. If Colin Bowman’s expected report concluded that the child’s bones found at Tailors
Court dated from around the time she lived there, Mrs Cleary and the friend she was planning to visit might even be able to
shed some light on the young victim’s identity. But at the moment she was missing – and, once he’d broken the news to Gerry,
finding her might well become one of their chief priorities.

Gerry arrived at ten past nine, yawning and moaning about the traffic, but he soon recovered and gave the morning briefing
to a rapt audience. As Wesley listened, making a contribution now and then and drawing the team’s attention to the news that
had just come in about Mabel Cleary, he felt the urge to get everything down on paper – preferably in neat columns. Gerry,
he knew, didn’t work like that but Wesley liked to know exactly what was what.

When Wesley visited Mrs Jannings he wanted Rachel with him because she had a rapport with the elderly and she was sharp enough
to notice any lies and evasions. But before they set off for Morbay, he wanted to speak to Colin Bowman: the more information
he had about the
dating of the skeleton when he faced Mrs Jannings, the better.

Colin picked up the telephone on the second ring and his greeting sounded a little more cheerful today, as though he’d recovered
from the shock of Dalcott’s violent death. When Wesley asked whether there’d been any progress with the child’s bones Colin
paused before replying.

‘There’s definitely a filling in one of the molars and, from items found in the grave, Neil thinks the bones were put there
no earlier than the late nineteen thirties.’

‘I realise that, Colin, but is there any sign of a cause of death?’

‘Sorry. There’s absolutely no sign of trauma to the bones. But they bear similar cut marks to the ones found earlier on the
same site, only some are deeper.’ He hesitated. ‘At a guess, I’d say the body was clumsily dissected before burial.’

Wesley stood for a few seconds, the implications whirring in his brain. ‘Are you absolutely sure? Neil says those other bones
are a few hundred years old.’

‘I can only tell you what I think.’

‘So the other bones might be connected to the child’s skeleton? They may all be modern after all?’

‘I’m sorry, Wesley.’ Colin sounded as though he meant it.

‘We could run more tests,’ said Wesley hopefully. ‘Carbon dating?’

‘That’s more Neil’s department than mine of course. And I believe the results take time.’

‘There were those Harris lines on that first skeleton he found,’ Wesley said, a hint of desperation in his voice. He
paused. ‘Although poor nutrition isn’t necessarily a thing of the past.’

After a few pleasantries, Wesley ended the call. He wasn’t sure how to break the news to Gerry, but it couldn’t be avoided
for ever.

He looked round and saw that Rachel was walking towards him. She was carrying a heavy coat and a bright pink scarf was already
swathed around her neck. As she approached she gave him an enquiring smile. ‘Ready to visit Mrs Jannings?’

‘I’ve got to have a quick word with the boss first.’

‘Something’s wrong. What is it?’

He hadn’t realised he was that transparent. ‘I’ve just been talking to Colin Bowman. It’s possible that the bones we assumed
were old might be more recent. He thinks all the deaths might be linked and we’re pretty sure the child’s skeleton dates from
the late nineteen thirties at the earliest.’

Rachel looked him in the eye. ‘Oh dear. And the boss doesn’t know?’

Wesley shook his head.

‘You’d better go and tell him.’ Rachel touched his arm. ‘Good luck.’ She bent forward and whispered in his ear. ‘And by the
way, you were brilliant last night.’

She walked away, leaving Wesley with a smile playing on his lips.

He walked over to Gerry’s desk and sat down on a vacant chair. Gerry looked up from a heap of overtime forms and grunted.
‘I thought you and Rach were off visiting old ladies.’

‘One old lady. Mrs Jannings who used to live at Tailors Court. And the interview might be more important than we first thought.
I’ve been talking to Colin.’

He gave Gerry the gist of what Colin had said and waited. But instead of the anticipated explosion, Gerry put his head in
his hands.

After a few seconds he looked up. ‘So we’ve got a dead doctor and now it looks as though there might be a serial killer and
all.’