The Flesh Tailor (41 page)

There was a pause before Gerry spoke again. ‘I saw Rach going into the Tradmouth Arms last night. She was with that bloke
from Gorfleet Farm.’

Wesley said nothing. Somehow he wasn’t in the mood for station gossip.

‘What about Roz Dalcott?’ Gerry asked.

‘They’ve taken her off to the hospital to be on the safe side but the doc doesn’t think there’s any damage to her or the baby.’

There had been a trio of ambulances parked outside the cottage. Now just one remained. As the life of Marie Shallech – alias
Charlie Haslem – had been pronounced extinct, there was no particular urgency.

‘Did he mean to shoot himself, do you think?’ Gerry said quietly.

Wesley thought for a few moments before answering. ‘I suppose she knew when she was beaten.’

‘She? Wasn’t her real name Charlie Haslem?’

‘Yes. But she’d become Marie in more than name. Gender reassignment they call it.’

Gerry grunted. ‘I had a call from Sandra Ackerley while you were out. Her mum’s been in touch. They’re travelling back home
tomorrow.’

‘Good. Wonder how she’ll take the news about Charlie? This all began when they were evacuated together.’

‘If you ask me, Wes, it began when he saw his family blown to pieces. He was just one more casualty of war.’ He stood up and
stretched, his mouth opening slowly in a wide yawn. ‘Let’s get back to the incident room. You ready for a celebratory drink?’

Wesley nodded, trying to summon some enthusiasm and failing. ‘I’d better let Pam know I’ll be late.’

Gerry began to walk towards the car and Wesley followed. He looked back at the cottage and felt rather numb. James Dalcott
was dead and Nuala Johns was in hospital but he’d bow to tradition as usual and drink to the successful solving of the case.
He took out his mobile phone and rang his home number.

Pam said it was fine. She’d see him later. But he could detect the disappointment behind the words. She’d had a hard day,
she said – Christmas preparations at school. He made sympathetic noises and rang off.

‘Look, Gerry, do you mind if I give the pub a miss?’

Gerry looked like a child whose friend had refused to come out to play. ‘Well, I won’t be staying long. Just going to show
my face and get off. Joyce has got a hotpot in the oven,’ he added coyly. ‘Come on, you look as though you need a pint.’

Wesley nodded. Sometimes it was easier to follow the crowd.

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

There’s something that’s been on my mind for all those years. Something dreadful. I told Pat, of course, and asked her advice
and she said that, in the circumstances, it would do me good to get it off my chest. When I recorded my reminiscences for
the library there were things I felt I couldn’t say. How could I let anyone know that I took part in something so terrible?
Anyway, I’ve had a word with the people in the library and they said I could arrange for this part of my reminiscences not
to be published even after my death. I said I wanted the transcript to go straight to Sandra, she’ll just have to live with
what I did like I’ve had to all these years.

The letter from Sandra Ackerley arrived with an avalanche of Christmas cards on the 23rd December. Since
the post arrived after he’d gone to work, Wesley found it propped up on the hall table when he got home.

Pam gave him a passing greeting as she rushed in and out of the kitchen. He was just hanging up his coat when Neil appeared
at the living-room door.

‘I thought you were going up to Somerset for Christmas?’ Wesley said.

‘Tomorrow. After three days my folks get sick of my slovenly ways and chuck me out so I leave it till the last minute. Pam’s
invited me to dinner,’ he said with a grin.

‘I’d better give her a hand,’ Wesley said half-heartedly.

‘I’ve already offered. She says it’s all under control.’

They went into the living room where the children were watching cartoons on the TV, sitting on the floor, transfixed by the
bright moving images on the screen. Wesley flopped down in an armchair.

‘I’ve got some news,’ Neil said.

‘What’s that?’ Wesley played with the envelope in his hand, studying the postmark. Orpington. Who did he know in Orpington?

‘Remember Tony and Jill Persimmon from Tailors Court?’

‘What about them?’

‘Well, the article Nuala Johns did for one of the nationals stirred up a lot of interest so they’ve decided to open part
of the place to the public – especially the wall paintings and the attic.’ He grinned modestly. ‘They’ve asked me to help
them with the historical side – the story of Simon Garchard and all that. They’re going to mount an exhibition in one of the
outbuildings with artefacts found around the place and there’s going to be a lot about Elizabethan medicine and Garchard’s
body snatching and
all that. They’re getting some grant from a heritage body and –’

‘Have you heard from Nuala?’

‘Can’t get away from the woman.’

‘She had a narrow escape.’

Neil snorted. ‘She’s bloody indestructible if you ask me.’

He turned his attention to the frenetic cartoon on the TV and Wesley began to slit the envelope open. There were several sheets
of paper inside and he spread them out in front of him. A short handwritten note told him that the sender was Sandra Ackerley.

‘
Dear Inspector Peterson. I’m sorry to tell you that my mother passed away suddenly a week ago
,’ she began. ‘
I’m enclosing the remaining transcripts that she made for the local library together with one section that she asked not to
be released until after her death. I’m sending it to your home address because I want the information it contains to stay
between ourselves. I trust this will be helpful to you
.’

Wesley began to read with interest. Pat was mentioned often in these new pages – previously he’d only read accounts of the
time before she arrived in Devon – as was Charlie’s departure and the arrival of the Americans in South Devon to rehearse
the D-Day landings. But it was the final page that made the chatter of the TV recede into the background. He held his breath
as he read it.

I’d seen the old paintings on the wall in Miles’s room. Belle took me in there and showed me – dared me to look. If it had
just stopped there it would have been all right but Belle had to push things further as usual. Her cousin Charlie was really
strange. He had blond curls and he looked like an angel but he’d seen terrible things which had affected his mind. That’s
why what Belle did was so awful. One day me and Charlie and Belle were down by the river and one of the village children –
a weedy little lad called Victor – turned up
and wanted to play with us. Anyway, he got into trouble when we were swimming and he drowned. Charlie was with him but I didn’t
really see what happened. Then Belle said why didn’t we take him to one of the outhouses at Tailors Court that was never used.
We’d seen the attic where Miles used to cut open the animals and we knew there were knives in there so Belle borrowed some
of them; Miles was out at the time so he didn’t know. Charlie was scared but Belle started teasing him and calling him names.
She took the lead and the rest of us followed. Even me. She got Charlie to hold the knife and cut Victor open but as soon
as he saw what he’d done he began to shake and then he started to sob and said he couldn’t do it any more. He said Victor
looked like his mum – I didn’t know what he meant but later someone said he’d found his mum and dad’s bodies blown to pieces.

Anyway, Belle said she’d tell everyone he killed Victor – she said she’d seen him do it and Charlie seemed to believe it himself.
Somehow she managed to convince him that Victor hadn’t drowned and that somehow he was responsible so that he’d do as he was
told. I’m sure he hadn’t killed Victor any more than I had. But Belle was so convincing. She was the strong one. She’d made
Charlie cut Victor open and I’m so ashamed that I ran away instead of standing up to her. And when Ugly Esther found Charlie
with Victor’s body and thought the worst, she got Miles to bury him and clear up and had Charlie sent away.

Belle said she’d thrown Charlie’s toy car into the grave which was cruel because Charlie loved that car – it was the only
thing he’d brought from home to remind him of his dead family. But I still never said anything because Belle had drawn me
in. She had this way of making people do what she wanted. I heard from the police that she was murdered back in the 1950s
and they say Charlie did it so it looks like he got his own back at last. But an innocent man was hanged for her murder and
they say Charlie killed that doctor who
was going to tell the police what he’d done. Maybe if I’d spoken out none of it would have happened. I don’t know.

I’ve lived with the shame of not saying anything for all these years and it feels good to write it all down. It’s like a burden’s
been lifted from my shoulders.

By the time anyone reads this, I’ll be dead. What is it they say? For evil to succeed all it takes is for good people to do
nothing. I could have told someone and put a stop to Belle Haslem’s nasty little tricks once and for all. But I didn’t. I
just hope people don’t think too badly of me.

‘What’s that you’re reading?’

Neil’s voice brought him back to the present.

But before he could think up a suitable answer, he heard Pam’s voice calling from the kitchen. ‘Wes, can you come and give
us a hand?’

He stood up and stuffed the papers in his pocket. It was almost Christmas. Pam always liked to light a real fire at Christmas;
perhaps it was best if Mabel’s confession went up in smoke.

Roz Dalcott looked down at the sleeping baby and felt an unaccustomed and shocking wave of love. Little Simon had been born
with perfect timing on Christmas Day: it had been an easy birth which rather surprised Roz after all the trauma she’d endured
during her pregnancy.

Harry had just left the ward, very much the proud father. However, as she gazed down on her son she felt a flutter of panic.
He was the image of James. But she’d feared he might be. She’d done the calculations, keeping her conclusions from Harry in
the hope that it might all go away. After all, she’d only slept with James once at the relevant time – in a rash moment of
nostalgia for what they’d once had together – whereas she and Harry had been in the throes of fresh infatuation.

She put the baby carefully in the plastic cot next to her bed, thinking of everything James had discovered about his family.
She closed her eyes and saw the shocking image
that had haunted her since that night – Marie standing there with that cropped hair and hideous make-up. Marie pointing the
gun at her belly. Marie who had been James’s mother’s cousin.

Perhaps there was bad blood in that family, she thought as she touched the cheek of the sleeping child who looked so like
James in repose. And bad blood passed from generation to generation.

She lay back on her pillow, staring at the fluorescent light above. The child was Harry’s, she told herself. Harry’s. Nobody
else’s.