The Flesh Tailor (4 page)

‘It was about eighteen months ago, around the time I joined the practice. Being the new girl I had to learn most of it second-hand,
but it seems that James was called out to attend a young child who had a fever and was generally unwell. He examined him,
of course, and thought it was a virus but later that day, the parents called an ambulance and the child was rushed to hospital
where it died. Turned out it was meningitis. James didn’t make the correct diagnosis but if some symptoms – like the classic
rash – aren’t there it can be difficult. Anyway, the parents threatened to sue.’

‘And did they?’

Maritia shook her head. ‘No. They’re only in their early twenties and probably not confident enough to play the system. They
made do with slashing his tyres and scratching the word “killer” into his paintwork.’

‘Did he report it to the police?’

‘That’s the thing: he felt so bad about the kid, he kept quiet about it. Everyone told him he should do something before it
escalated.’

‘And did it escalate?’

Maritia thought for a moment. ‘No, funnily enough it didn’t. It was almost as though they got bored with it all and gave up.’

Or were biding their time for the ultimate revenge, Wesley thought, although he didn’t put his thoughts into words. ‘What
are the parents called?’

‘Adam Tey and Charleen Anstice. I know that because she’s pregnant again and they’ve started coming to see me. Always together.
It’s as though he never lets her out of his sight.’

‘Understandable if they’ve lost one child.’

‘Suppose so. Look, they’re my patients so I can’t really tell you any more.’ She suddenly looked worried. ‘In fact I’ve probably
said far too much already.’

Wesley touched his sister’s arm. ‘Nobody’s ever going to know it came from you, don’t worry. I presume quite a few people
knew of their campaign against James?’

Maritia nodded. ‘Quite a few. And I wouldn’t describe it as
their
campaign. I think it was all Adam – I don’t think Charleen had anything to do with it. She’s a bit of a mouse – wouldn’t
say boo to a goose.’

Before Wesley could say any more there was a thunderous banging on the front door. Somehow he knew it
would be Gerry Heffernan who’d never believed in making an unobtrusive entrance. He walked out into the hall and opened the
door. Gerry was standing there, his plump face solemn. Behind him stood DC Trish Walton, the regulation female presence.

‘Is she up to talking?’ Gerry asked as he marched in.

‘She’s still asleep. But I’ve just been talking to my sister.’ He told the DCI what Maritia had told him about Adam Tey, leaving
nothing out.

‘So not everyone thought the sun shone out of the victim’s backside. We need to talk to this Adam Tey.’

‘Wesley. I didn’t expect …’ They turned to see a figure walking down the stairs. Evonne was clutching a red silk kimono around
her body protectively. Her hair was tousled and without make-up she looked considerably older than she’d done the night before.

Wesley looked up at her, concerned. ‘How are you feeling?’

Evonne yawned. ‘Not good.’

‘Are you up to answering some questions, love?’ Gerry asked with none of his usual bluntness.

Evonne hesitated for a moment. ‘I’ll have to do it sooner or later, won’t I? Might as well get it over and done with.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ said Gerry with an attempt at jollity. He turned to Trish. ‘How about a cup of tea, love? We all need
something to wake us up this time on a Sunday morning.’

At that moment Maritia emerged from the drawing room and directed Trish to the kitchen. Then she put her arm round Evonne’s
shoulders, led her back into the room and sat her down on the sofa. Evonne gave her a weak
smile of gratitude as she sat down beside her. It was clear to Wesley that his sister had appointed herself Evonne’s protector
for the duration of the interview.

‘Sorry, Maritia, I need a cigarette,’ Evonne said apologetically.

Maritia nodded and searched for something to serve as an ashtray, abandoning her habit of dispensing health advice in the
circumstances.

Wesley waited until Trish had handed round the tea before starting. By now Evonne seemed more relaxed and resigned to having
three police officers in the room. The fact that she’d met Wesley socially the night before probably helped matters.

‘So what was your relationship with James?’ he began gently.

‘We were … we were close.’

‘Lovers?’ He caught Gerry’s eye warningly. The last thing he wanted was for him to interrupt and shatter the atmosphere of
trust.

Evonne glanced at Maritia. Wesley, sensing that she might be more ready to open up if her colleague wasn’t there, asked his
sister if they could have some time alone. Maritia stood up, placing a comforting hand on Evonne’s shoulder and telling her
she’d only be upstairs getting dressed if she needed her. As she left the room, Evonne looked a little relieved.

Once Maritia had closed the door behind her, Gerry leaned forward. ‘I know this is difficult, love, but we need you to tell
us everything you know about James Dalcott.’

Evonne took a deep, shuddering breath and began. James was a caring man and a good doctor. She had always found him attractive
but it was only when James’s bitch of a
wife walked out on him for a younger man that their relationship gradually became more than professional. He wasn’t the sort
of man to play away from home – unlike a lot of men she’d met. However, there had been no talk of them moving in together.
They were more like two people on their own keeping each other company, she told them sadly. Wesley sensed that Evonne would
like to have taken the relationship a step further. Perhaps James had hung back. Perhaps he still loved his wife. It was something
they’d no doubt discover in the days and weeks to come.

Evonne repeated the story about Adam Tey’s halfhearted attempts at revenge. ‘But I swear he’s the only one who could have
anything against James,’ she said. ‘Everyone loved him. All his patients … everyone at the surgery. He wasn’t the kind of
man to have enemies.’ She suddenly sat up straight. ‘Adam Tey was upset but his girlfriend’s expecting again. If he’d been
going to do anything he would have acted before now … and he wouldn’t risk being arrested now Charleen’s pregnant again, would
he? It must be a case of mistaken identity.’

Wesley thought that Evonne had a point but he said nothing. ‘Is there anything else you can think of ? Anything unusual that’s
happened recently?’

Evonne shook her head. ‘No. Except that James has been a bit quiet over the past few weeks. Sort of preoccupied.’

‘What with?’ Gerry asked.

After considering the question for a few moments, Evonne answered. ‘When I asked him if anything was wrong he just said it
was family business. I assumed he meant Roz.’

Wesley was about to speak when he was interrupted by
the sound of his mobile phone. He really would have to get himself a less cheerful ring tone, he thought. A jolly salsa was
hardly appropriate during a murder enquiry. Slightly embarrassed, he excused himself and left the room to take the call.

DC Paul Johnson’s voice on the other end of the line was tentative and apologetic. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but we’ve had
a call from a householder near Tradington. I know you’re tied up with the Dalcott murder but I thought you ought to know …’

‘Know what?’

‘Someone turned up some bones while he was digging a trench for an electricity cable. He says they look human and would someone
come and have a look.’

Wesley stared ahead for a few moments. This was all he needed. ‘Is he sure they’re human?’

‘He sounded pretty sure. Said there appear to be two human skeletons in the trench.’

The words echoed in Wesley’s mind. Two human skeletons. A double murder. His heart began to beat faster. If two victims were
buried on the site there might be more.

He tried to tell himself that it was probably a couple of animals; that whoever had seen white bones against the dark earth
had panicked, thinking the worst. But the more he tried to convince himself that there was nothing to worry about, the more
his mind kept creating horrifying scenarios: going back over old missing person cases, the discovery of more bodies, blanket
press coverage. The terrifying prospect of a serial killer operating on their patch. But he was jumping the gun. Pam had always
accused him of being too pessimistic.

‘Has anyone gone to have a look?’

‘A patrol car’s attending the scene. We’re waiting to hear back from them but I thought you’d want to know. Just a moment,
that could be them now.’

While Paul took the other call, Wesley wondered whether to mention the matter to Gerry. But he decided to wait. The tall lanky
Paul, with his enthusiasm for athletics and Trish Walton, was a good officer but he was inclined to be rather cautious, even
pedantic. When he came off the phone, however, his voice was deadly serious.

‘Yes, that was the patrol, sir. The bones are definitely human and there appear to be two individuals in the grave. Uniform
are requesting a CID presence right away. And scientific support’s been called. They’ve requested an archaeologist too, sir
… to help with the digging. I think that friend of yours from the County Archaeological Unit has been called out.’

‘Fine,’ Wesley heard himself say. He hadn’t seen Neil Watson for a couple of weeks as he’d been up in Exeter catching up on
his post-excavation paperwork. ‘We’re in the middle of interviewing a witness in the Dalcott case but I’ll let the DCI know
about the development,’ he said.

‘How soon can you get down to Tailors Court? It’s just outside Tradington off the Neston road.’

Tradington again. James Dalcott had lived and died in Tradington. But there could hardly be a link to a pair of skeletons
in a field. It was just an unfortunate coincidence. Bad timing.

‘I’ll be over as soon as I can,’ Wesley said before ending the call.

DS Rachel Tracey had been given the job of breaking the news to Dalcott’s widow. Somehow she suspected that Mrs
Dalcott wouldn’t be a widow of the grieving variety. She had taken up with a younger man and abandoned her boring husband
so, who knows, Rachel thought, she might even welcome the tidings of James’s death. It would probably solve a lot of her problems.

She’d discovered Rosalind Dalcott’s new address from the owner of Trad Itions who’d received her call at seven-thirty that
morning. He hadn’t seemed pleased at being awoken at such an unearthly hour on a Sunday, especially as he told Rachel that
he’d been at a party and only arrived home at three in the morning. She sensed he had bitten his tongue, knowing that being
rude to a police officer isn’t usually advisable.

Rachel was surprised to learn that Roz Dalcott rented the flat above the shop where she worked. The place had been empty so
Roz had moved in there with her new partner which had been a satisfactory arrangement for everyone. They were no trouble,
paid some rent and kept an eye on the premises.

When Rachel arrived outside Trad Itions at nine o’clock it was raining and the streets were deserted. In November all but
the hardiest of tourists had scurried back to their own towns, leaving Tradmouth to its residents. The building that housed
the gallery was tall and half timbered, one of a row of similar late medieval dwellings saved from the attentions of overenthusiastic
town planners in the early part of the twentieth century by some good fortune which hadn’t extended to its neighbours opposite,
which had been replaced years ago by a block of uninspiring flats. Now the row, not far from St Margaret’s church, was regarded
as one of Tradmouth’s jewels. And Trad Itions stood in the
middle, a bright display of paintings and prints in its front window.

There was an old oak door beside the shop and Rachel pressed the entryphone button. Before long a disembodied male voice grunted
a greeting and as soon as she identified herself she heard a faint buzz. She pushed at the door and as she climbed the steep
narrow staircase a door at the top opened slowly to reveal a man wearing a thin woman’s dressing gown which strained across
his chest revealing an interesting array of tattoos and leaving little to Rachel’s imagination. She guessed he was in his
early thirties and he was tall with dark hair and a good-humoured mouth. And in spite of the fact that his hair was ruffled
and he hadn’t shaved, Rachel couldn’t help registering the fact that he was extremely attractive. For a second she stood there,
lost for words, before holding up her warrant card and asking if she could speak to Mrs Rosalind Dalcott.

‘What’s she done?’ he quipped as he stood aside to let Rachel in. As she brushed past him in the narrow doorway she could
feel the heat of his body. Had the proximity been deliberate, she wondered. He looked the sort of man who was confident about
his own sex appeal.

She entered the low-beamed living room and looked around. The place had character in abundance but she would have found the
oppressive dark wood panelling somewhat hard to live with. Suddenly a woman appeared at the door. She was in her forties and
perhaps she would have looked better later in the day, Rachel thought, once she had had a chance to plaster on some make-up.
But even then she probably wouldn’t have been able to hide the telltale signs of encroaching age: the jowls that had
just started to lose their firmness, the spider’s web of lines around the eyes, the plumpness around the middle of her body.
Her hair was blonde and shoulder length – one thing she could control with a simple visit to the hairdressers. She wore a
loose-fitting smock top over jeans and had the dishevelled look of someone who’d dressed in a hurry. Rachel’s inner bitch
wondered what her new man saw in her. Perhaps she had a sparkling personality.

Then Rachel suddenly realised that the baggy top concealed the fact that Roz Dalcott was pregnant – a mid-life baby.

‘Mrs Dalcott?’ Rachel said.

‘I suppose I still am, technically speaking. Why? What do you want?’ Her words were offhand, almost rude.