The Chapel of Bones (Wesley Peterson #30)

Chapter 1

Beasts. Large beasts, small beasts. Fierce beasts, gentle beasts. Beasts slithering on the ground, beasts flying in the air with mighty beating wings.

Dr Aleric Donnal’s heart rate increased as he turned the pages with great care. This was no ancient parchment work of art, only a facsimile borrowed from the archives, but the impact of the original was still unmistakable.

The monastic artist, some nameless brother lost to posterity, had clearly never seen an elephant or a lion in his life, and the result was faintly comic.

It was the mythical beasts that really held the power: the griffin, the two-headed serpent sprung from gorgons’ blood, the fire-breathing dragon and the seductive siren; it was these that looked real and dangerous.

The images had been created by a man whose experience of life and nature must have been limited, but as he was drawing these legendary creatures, his imagination must have soared.

Donnal couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever encountered real wickedness in the course of his sheltered existence.

It was time to go. He put the book carefully into his briefcase, intending to return it later if he had time. In the meantime, he wanted to look at the strange carvings he’d been told about. It was something he couldn’t resist.

But as he left the cottage, closing the front door carefully behind him and giving it a little push to make sure it was locked, in his usual fastidious way, he suddenly felt reluctant to begin his journey.

Maybe it was the thought of the malevolence the medieval artist had captured in some of the book’s illustrations.

Or maybe he felt a tiny bat-squeak of fear. A small sense of danger. Even of evil.

Fifteen years later

‘Hang on. What’s that?’ Darren Wolsey, twenty-two years old and pleased to be working out in the fresh Devon air, flapped his hands, a signal for his colleague to silence his chainsaw.

‘It’s only some old stones. We’ve no time to be messing about,’ said George Watts, who was usually a man of few words. He was in his early forties and there was a determined look on his weather-beaten face. He was there to take down trees, not to bother about some long-forgotten garden feature.

But Darren was the gaffer’s son, so in the great scheme of things, it was his call. ‘It looks like a wall. Or at least a bit of one.’

‘Ignore it. We’re being paid to get rid of these trees, so let’s get on with it. Lady of the house says they’re blocking out her light.’ George tutted. ‘And we can’t have that, can we. And don’t forget we’ve got that other job booked over in Whiteley. Your dad won’t be pleased if we turn up late.’

Darren knew George was right. He looked at the stones that had emerged from the red soil once the tree roots had been torn up, and resigned himself to the inevitable.

George was about to restart the chainsaw when a high-pitched voice called out from a few yards away. ‘Tea?’

‘Thanks, Mrs J. You’re a life-saver,’ said Darren as the woman appeared through the trees. ‘Just what we needed.’

She approached cautiously, picking her way over the uneven earth. She was bearing a wooden tray with two bone-china mugs perched beside a plate filled with neatly arranged biscuits. She set the tray down on the ground as though she was offering food to some fearsome beast, then scurried away.

‘Nice of her to remember us, seeing as she’s got that builder in as well,’ said Darren.

George grunted something he couldn’t quite make out.

Once the tea was finished, they were about to put their ear defenders back in place and continue work when they heard a sound coming from the direction of the house. A loud, piercing scream; a shriek of sheer terror.

‘What the hell was that? Sounds like someone’s being murdered.’

‘Whatever it is, it’s none of our business,’ said George, firing up the chainsaw again. They’d wasted enough time already.

It was late September. Most of the summer tourists had departed, apart from those whose children had flown the nest or were too young to be tied by the school holidays; a largely law-abiding demographic.

The seasonal crime wave of holiday-let burglaries, pickpockets and drunken behaviour outside the riverside pubs appeared to be over for another year, only to be replaced by what was in DI Wesley Peterson’s opinion a crueller, nastier crime.

In recent weeks there had been a spate of thefts targeting pedigree dogs, followed by demands for money: two thousand pounds for the animals’ safe return.

‘Still no progress on these dognappings?’ Wesley asked as he perched on the edge of DS Rachel Tracey’s desk.

He noticed that the dark shadows beneath her eyes had almost vanished, and he put that down to her fourteen-month-old son, Freddie, sleeping through the night.

As well as her demanding job as a detective sergeant, Rachel led a busy home life helping to run her husband’s farm.

However, coming from a farming family herself, presumably she was used to the relentless lifestyle.

She looked up and shook her head. ‘Trouble is, we don’t hear what’s happened until the dogs have been returned safe and well.

The owners are told “no police”, and they don’t dare take the risk in case anything nasty happens to their beloved pooch.

By the time we get to know, the bastards are long gone, and let’s face it, the victims aren’t going to talk.

’ She smiled. ‘Isn’t there an Agatha Christie book called Dumb Witness?

That’s what we’ve got here. At least the dogs appear to have been well treated. ’

‘That’s something, I suppose.’ Wesley had a dog himself – not that Sherlock, his rescue mutt of uncertain parentage, was likely to tempt the criminals – but he could imagine the owners’ pain. A dog was a member of the family – and to some people, their pet was everything.

He was about to return to his own desk when he heard the DCI’s voice calling for attention, and when he looked up, he saw him standing at the door of his glass-fronted office, hands on hips and shirt stretching dangerously over his abdomen.

‘Listen up, everyone,’ Gerry Heffernan shouted in his unmistakable Liverpool accent. ‘There’s been a call from a lady in Neston. Her builders just found a body in her house. Place is being renovated and he came across it when they knocked a wall down.’

‘Does it look recent, sir?’ DC Rob Carter had his hand up like a schoolboy asking to be excused.

Wesley was pleased to see an eager look on his face.

When Rob had first transferred to CID from uniform, he’d been bubbling with ambition and enthusiasm.

But all that changed after the death of his partner, Harry, over a year ago, when he’d appeared to lose his appetite for the job – and for life.

His recovery from grief had been slow, but recently Wesley had detected signs of the old Rob making a welcome return.

‘All I’ve been told is that a body’s been found.’ Gerry looked straight at Wesley. ‘Come on, Wes. I’ve asked a forensic team to go over there to seal off the site, and I suppose we should join them and find out what we’re dealing with.’

Wesley hooked his jacket off the back of his chair and followed the DCI out. He was determined to catch the individuals who’d caused such grief and worry to the dog owners of south Devon. But the discovery of a human body trumped the search for the dognappers. At least for the moment.