The Flesh Tailor (3 page)

Wesley couldn’t help smiling to himself. It was a long time since he’d heard a woman described like that. The phrase somehow
seemed to belong to an earlier, more innocent age.

‘What did she do, love?’ Gerry asked, a look of rapt attention on his face.

‘Well, she left him for another man and now she lives in Tradmouth. And I heard she’s having a baby by this new man. She must
be forty if she’s a day. I ask you.’

Wesley caught Gerry’s eye. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know her address or the name of the man she lives with?’ No doubt the information
would be somewhere amongst Dalcott’s belongings but a bit of local intelligence would save a lot of time.

The couple looked at each other. ‘I don’t know,’ said Ruby. She looked disappointed at having to admit the limits of her knowledge.

‘Does she work?’

Ruby snorted. ‘Work? Her? Wouldn’t get her hands dirty, that one.’

Her husband opened his mouth to speak, giving his wife a nervous glance as though he was afraid to contradict her. ‘She does
work, actually,’ he said quietly. ‘When I went to the dentists in Tradmouth the other week I saw her in an art gallery in
the High Street.’

‘Which gallery was this?’ There were quite a few to choose from in Tradmouth High Street.

‘It’s the one with all those pictures of boats in the window.’

‘They’ve all got pictures of boats in the window,’ said Gerry with a hint of impatience.

‘It’s on the corner near the church. Quite a big place.’

Wesley saw Gerry’s face light up in triumph. ‘Trad Itions. That’s what it’s called. Daft name and daft prices. So you reckon
she works there, do you?’

Len nodded meekly. ‘I saw her sitting in there behind the counter but that’s all I can tell you.’

Wesley had the feeling that this particular avenue had been exhausted. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything at
all out of the ordinary.’

But the Wetheralls shook their heads, almost in unison.

‘Thanks, you’ve been a great help.’

‘We’re always happy to help the police, aren’t we, Len?’ Ruby said smugly.

As they left, Wesley noted the excitement in the woman’s eyes. But there are always some, so he’d heard, who enjoy a good
murder.

‘Better get home and get some sleep, Wes,’ Gerry said wearily. ‘Early start tomorrow.’

Wesley looked at his watch. Midnight already and the black van had just arrived to take James Dalcott on his journey to the
mortuary.

Eight o’clock on a Sunday morning was an hour Tony Persimmon hardly knew existed when he’d lived in London. At eight he would
have been asleep after a tough week working at the headquarters of Pharmitest
International. He would have risen at eleven and read the Sunday papers over coffee and croissants. But those days were over.
And as Nigel Haynes from the farm next door had specified eight o’clock sharp, take it or leave it, he’d thought it wise not
to argue if he wanted the job done.

Tony and Jill Persimmon had known since the moment they set eyes on Tailors Court that it was ideal for their needs. Stone
built. Sixteenth century. Plenty of outbuildings. Not too far from Neston. And cheap because it had been owned by an elderly
woman who’d lived there for years and let the place go to rack and ruin.

Tony and Jill’s priority had been to move in and get the business up and running and the renovations were more or less finished,
although there were still some parts of the house that hadn’t been tackled – unimportant rooms that could wait a while.

The outbuilding they’d earmarked for the office was just perfect – not too far from the house and large enough for all the
equipment. Tony wasn’t too sure what its original function had been. A cow shed, perhaps. Or some kind of storehouse. But
that didn’t matter now. It had already been pointed and plastered beyond recognition and after the modernisation was completed
it was destined to be the hub of his consultancy business. And the other outbuildings, once converted, would be ideal for
the children’s clothing company Jill was developing. The one thing the outhouses lacked was electricity and it was costing
a fortune to put in. But it had to be done. No electricity, no business. No business, no income.

This was supposed to be the good life away from the London traffic, crowds, pollution and the threat of violent crime, Tony
thought as he watched Nigel Haynes scoop
up a bucketload of red earth and deposit it delicately at the side of the trench. They had come to Devon with such plans,
such optimism, and at first their stay had seemed like an extended holiday. But now the reality of the more measured pace
of life and all the petty inconveniences of isolation was starting to get frustrating. In summer the countryside was gentle
and stunning in its green, rolling beauty. But now winter had arrived Tony felt rather unprepared for the harshness of rural
life once the tourists had gone.

He turned away, wondering if he could risk a trip to the house to make himself some coffee. Even though Nigel was a local
farmer who, presumably, knew what he was doing, Tony was a little reluctant to leave him to his own devices. In London experience
had taught him that tradesmen usually needed constant monitoring if disaster was to be avoided and Tony Persimmon was used
to being in control. But he also wanted that coffee. He stood there wavering for a few moments, almost tasting the hot liquid,
before reaching the conclusion that the few minutes he’d take to get himself a drink wouldn’t be long enough for any corners
to be cut.

When he tried to call out to Nigel, to tell him that he was going indoors for a few minutes and that he was to call him if
there was any problem, however slight, his words became lost in the din made by the digger’s engine. Nigel was too involved
in his task to look up – either that or he chose not to, which Tony suspected was the case – so Tony walked slowly back to
the house, glancing back every now and then to make sure the work was still carrying on without his supervising presence.
Nigel Haynes was a tall, wiry man aged around thirty with fair wavy hair, freckles,
and a mouth that naturally turned up at the corners; good looking in a rustic sort of way. He seemed pleasant enough, but
more than once Tony had had a sneaking suspicion that the man was smirking at him behind his back. Even though Tony was determined
to make a success of their escape to the country, there were times when he felt a little out of place; times when he yearned
for the impersonal bustle of London where the basics of life were available twenty-four hours a day and there was a coffee
shop on every corner.

As soon as he reached the back door of the house the digger’s engine stopped, confirming Tony’s worst suspicions. He turned
round and saw that Nigel had climbed from his seat and was staring down into the ditch he had created. Tony could feel his
blood pressure rising. He was paying the man to dig a trench for the electric cable. He wasn’t handing over good money – cash
of course, not a word to the taxman – for him to waste time like this.

Tony began to retrace his steps. If there was one thing he couldn’t abide, it was people taking advantage of him. As he approached,
Nigel made no attempt to move and kept staring down into the trench as though there was something fascinating down there.

‘Problem, Nigel?’ he asked in a businesslike voice. Even though Nigel was a neighbour, he didn’t feel inclined to let the
relationship get too cosy.

‘Could be.’ Nigel took off his cap and turned to face him. ‘Come and have a look at this.’

Tony hesitated for a moment before leaning over the open trench. The smell of the freshly dug soil reached his nostrils, an
unfamiliar scent of rotting vegetation and something else he couldn’t quite name. As he squinted
down he could see something pale lying against the darkness of the earth. ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t reckon that’s animal bone.’ Nigel tilted his head to one side. ‘Could be a dog, mind. It’s a fair size but it isn’t
a cow or a pig, or even a sheep. I’d put money on that.’

Tony took in the bones lying at the bottom of the trench. ‘It must be an animal,’ he said with a confidence he didn’t feel.
After all, what did he know about bones?

He glanced down at his pristine green Wellingtons, thinking that it was about time he got some good Devon mud on them and
gained himself some credibility amongst the natives. He jumped down into the trench and began to move the damp earth away
from the bones.

‘Careful,’ said Nigel. ‘Don’t you think we should …?’

But Tony ignored him and carried on digging. He was surprised at how cold the soil felt on his bare hands as he uncovered
more bones – surely too many for one individual. And when a skull finally appeared, its eye sockets clogged with earth, he
knew this was the worst possible outcome. It could cost him time and it could cost him money. Then another skull emerged next
to the first, grinning with crooked teeth as if it was sharing a joke with its companion.

A pair of buried human skeletons was bound to cause a tremendous amount of fuss and bother.

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

We were taken to this big hall where we had to wait to be picked. It was a church hall I think because there were pictures
of Jesus on the wall and bits from the Bible I remember learning at Sunday School. I remember looking at all the faces of
the grown-ups and saying a little prayer that I’d be chosen by someone kind and nice. I tried so hard not to cry but I could
feel my lips quivering. I kept telling myself to be brave, that nobody would want a cry baby, and I bit back the tears. When
any of the grown-ups came near, I didn’t look them in the eye because I was too scared. And in the end, when I looked round,
I saw that there were only three of us left that hadn’t been chosen and I couldn’t stop myself from crying any longer.

Then I heard one of the women who’d met us at the station – she was a school teacher I think, a bit on the bossy side – say
that Mrs Jannings at Tailors Court hadn’t been well enough to get down but she’d said she would take someone. A little girl.
As the other two children left were boys, it looked as if it was my turn and I didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry. Maybe,
I thought, if they couldn’t find me a place they’d send me home and that was where I wanted to be more than anything else.
Just then I didn’t care about the bombs. I wanted to be back with my mum.

The lady in charge told me I was going to a place called Tailors Court and she said that I’d have to be a good girl because
Mrs Jannings was poorly. Then I was taken outside and put in a car. It was so full of passengers and it was such a squash
that I had to sit on the lady’s knee. Anyway, I was dropped off at this big old stone house – in the middle of nowhere. There
was nobody about and it looked creepy, like a haunted house. I’d never seen a ghost and I didn’t want to, thank you very much.
When I looked at the windows upstairs, I thought I saw a face. Then it disappeared and I was scared. I didn’t want to go in
there but I knew I had to. Grin and bear it – that’s what I had to do.

Then a young man wearing a soldier’s uniform came round the side of the house. He looked cruel with thin lips, cold blue eyes
and Brylcreemed black hair and he reminded me a bit of a boy called Peter Smith back home who used to bully me on the way
home from school until my dad gave him a good belting. I remember feeling scared and wishing dad was there, but I knew he
was fighting for his country and I had to be brave too. Chin
up, I thought. Whatever was coming I had to grin and bear it.

The next morning Wesley left Pam fast asleep in bed and as he crept out of the house on that damp November Sunday the sky
was a pale uniform grey and he realised it was dawn.

He felt tired. Last night Mark had brought Pam home to relieve the baby sitter and when Wesley arrived back at two in the
morning she’d been awake and asking questions. Even though Pam had never met James Dalcott, his death had come as a shock.
People you’re about to have dinner with – people who work with your sister-in-law – aren’t murdered like that. Such things
belong to the rougher areas of inner cities; to gangs and drug dealers … not to a family doctor in a small Devon town.

Wesley had arranged to meet Gerry at the vicarage and as he turned into the drive he looked at the clock on the dashboard.
Eight o’clock. He hadn’t had time for breakfast so, hopefully, his sister would provide something to keep body and soul together
but she was a busy woman – especially on a Sunday which was Mark’s busiest day – so he wasn’t banking on it. There was no
sign of Gerry but punctuality wasn’t his greatest strength.

It was Maritia who opened the door, her face tired and drawn.

‘Mark’s gone off to take early Communion,’ she said, fastening the belt of her towelling dressing gown. She glanced at the
staircase. ‘Evonne’s not up yet. She was in a bit of a state last night so I gave her a sedative.’

Wesley took his sister’s arm and led her towards the living room. Without a word they both sat down, Maritia
curling up on the sofa with her feet tucked underneath her.

Wesley leaned towards her, keeping his voice low. ‘Look, I need some background on Dalcott … everything you know. Good and
bad.’

She turned her head away. ‘No privacy in death, is there?’

There was a long silence as she stared at her long, slender hands, wondering where to begin. ‘He was a nice man, Wes, and
I’m not just saying that ’cause he’s dead – he really was a nice man. His patients adored him.’ She suddenly looked a little
unsure of herself. ‘Well, most of them.’

He picked up on her last words. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, there was a complaint. But it wasn’t James’s fault. It could have happened to any of us. It’s what you’re always afraid
of … misdiagnosis.’

‘Tell me about it.’

She inhaled deeply. He could sense her reluctance to tell tales about the dead man but if they were to catch his killer, she’d
have to overcome her scruples.