Chapter 21
During her break between seeing patients at work, Dr Maritia Fitzgerald made a unilateral decision.
The matter of the ransom had been on her mind, and she couldn’t help playing the worst scenario over and over in her head.
If the dog thieves caught sight of Mark noting down the number of their vehicle, they might well decide to take their revenge, putting the whole family in danger.
And there was no way she was going to let him take that risk.
He’d received a call from the Waltons just before she’d set off for work, telling him that the dognappers had phoned them first thing and the drop was to be that night. Same time. Same place.
She needed advice and there was one person who could give it: her brother. She took out her phone and selected his number. Wesley would know what to do. But there was no answer, so she left a message.
Gerry had assumed that the job of tracing Sue Potter’s troublesome former neighbour would be easy, but it was taking a frustratingly long time.
One of the galleries they’d contacted remembered him – or rather his whisky-scented breath.
He’d been unpleasant to a young female member of their staff, so they’d decided to have nothing more to do with him.
It hadn’t been a difficult decision because his paintings didn’t sell particularly well.
Eventually they had more luck with the letting agency who’d rented him the cottage in Belsham on a short lease. The man hadn’t been a model tenant, leaving the place in quite a state. At least the agency was able to give them a full name – Jim Baker – and provide a forwarding address in Morbay.
‘We should send someone round there,’ said Wesley, leaning on Gerry’s desk.
‘It’s not far away and I’d like to see this character for myself.’ Gerry shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
‘Sure your back’s up to it?’
‘Course it is, Wes. Stop fussing about like a mother hen, will you.’
‘My sister said you should see a physio.’
‘No need. I’m fine. Let’s get off to Morbay. Nobody from the university’s got back to us yet, but we can pay them a visit while we’re there.’
‘I think Timothy Fontescue-Burns and his commune is our most promising line of enquiry. But it’s not proving easy to track down who lived there. Even so, I think we should make that one of our priorities. If Donnal’s body was walled up while Fontescue-Burns owned the place . . .’
‘Which was May 2011 to his death in 2017.’
‘And going by the date he borrowed that book, Aleric Donnal probably died between the sixth and the twenty-seventh of May 2011.’ He thought for a moment.
‘But if Fontescue-Burns didn’t take the place over until later that May, Donnal could have been killed before he moved in.
Pete Wolsey found the briefcase under the stairs while he was working for Fontescue-Burns.
Think about it, Gerry. If Timothy was the killer, would he be so relaxed about letting the builder walk away with it? ’
The suggestion grabbed Gerry’s attention. ‘You might have a point, Wes. Maybe we should widen the search. Have we managed to find out who was living at the house before Fontescue-Burns?’
‘Not yet. But there must be a record somewhere.’ Wesley hesitated. ‘It’s just a thought, but I wonder whether Jim Baker had any connection with Sycamore House.’ He checked the time. ‘Let’s set off for Morbay in half an hour.’
‘I can’t wait to see this Jim character. I’ll take my handcuffs,’ the DCI said with a wicked grin.
When Wesley returned to his desk, he found an email from Professor Dupont in his inbox.
He read it carefully. According to the professor, Aleric Donnal had been researching Henry VII’s years of exile in Brittany, but he was also interested in the use of mythical beasts in medieval imagery.
He had returned to Devon in 2010 to take up a post in Morbay, where he was intending to conduct research into the use of animal imagery in medieval ecclesiastical architecture.
There were fine examples of carved misericords in Exeter Cathedral and Devon’s ancient parish churches, along with some impressive gargoyles and grotesques.
Donnal had told Professor Dupont that he was planning to publish a book on the subject once his research was completed.
Wesley’s phone rang and he saw his sister’s name on the caller display. For a few moments he was tempted to ignore it, but he knew she’d keep trying. Maritia had always been a determined woman.
She came straight to the point. ‘Your colleague Trish’s parents came to see Mark yesterday.’
She went on to explain the situation, and Wesley felt disappointed that Trish hadn’t trusted him enough to share the information – unless her parents, fearful for their pet’s safety, had kept her in the dark too.
‘The drop’s tonight,’ Maritia continued. ‘More instructions to follow. Mark has started fancying himself as the Great Detective.’
‘You don’t mean he’s after my job?’ said Wesley with a laugh.
‘I mean he intends to be there keeping watch when those dognappers pick up the money. I told him not to take any risks.’
‘Quite right. Leave it with me,’ he said, looking at the paperwork that had piled up on his desk and suddenly feeling overwhelmed.
He was tempted to ask Gerry’s advice, but he needed to speak to Trish first. Perhaps her parents wouldn’t want the police to launch an operation that might put their precious pet at risk.
On the other hand, with the Waltons’ co-operation, they might be able to catch the dognappers once Bella was home safe and well.
This was something that required serious thought.
Wesley was so busy with the murder case that he didn’t have a chance to speak to Trish in private about her parents’ situation.
Gerry was anxious to follow the Jim Baker lead and he didn’t want to waste time, so they set off for Morbay, taking the car ferry across the river; a pleasant, scenic journey but a frustratingly slow one.
Baker’s name had been fed into the police computer, but he had no convictions, something Wesley found rather surprising.
The forwarding address provided by the letting agency turned out to be a flat in a shabby nineteenth-century terraced house with moss-stained stucco walls.
It was in the worst part of town; the haunt of unfortunate benefit claimants and the poorer cohort of students.
Not the ideal environment for an ambitious artist, Wesley thought as they approached, especially after the relatively attractive and bucolic surroundings of Belsham.
Baker had blotted his copybook there, but maybe here, his behaviour wouldn’t be viewed as so objectionable.
A bank of stained plastic bells had been placed beside the flaking front door. The names were faded and indecipherable, so Gerry chose one at random. When there was no response, he pressed another. This time they were in luck. A pale, tired-looking girl with a pinched, elfin face opened the door.
‘Jim moved out a few months back,’ she said once they’d explained why they were there. ‘Had a fight with the bloke on the top floor. I’m glad he’s gone, to tell you the truth. Just feel sorry for whoever lives next door to him now.’
Wesley took a deep breath. It was time to ask the question. ‘Do you know where he moved to?’
‘Yeah. He left the address with me in case he got any post.’ She gave a bitter smile. ‘Like I’m his bloody servant. If anything does come for him, it’ll go in the bin.’
‘Or you could save it and give it to us,’ said Gerry, handing her his card. ‘Now, have you got that address?’
She nodded as though she liked the idea of landing Jim in trouble with the police, then disappeared into the shadows of the house, returning a few minutes later with an envelope with an address scribbled on the back.
‘East Burrington. That’s where that zoo is – the one in the leaflets found in Donnal’s briefcase and Sue Potter’s bin,’ Wesley said as they walked back to the car.
‘In that case, do you fancy a visit to the zoo? I’ll buy you an ice cream.’
‘What about the university?’
‘It’ll still be there when we get back.’
The developer who’d been obliged to allow the excavation on the site of his new housing development had been growing impatient, and as the archaeologist in charge, Neil had appeased him with assurances that they were almost finished, apart from the inevitable paperwork and site report.
He felt a pang of conscience about leaving these dull routine aspects to Dave, while he followed up the more exciting possibilities at Sycamore House.
But he told himself that his second in command would soon be in a position to join him there.
The Sycamore House dig was progressing well, with a small team of postgrad students recruited from the university, plus Helen Jones, whose enthusiasm for the dig didn’t appear to have waned as he’d suspected it would.
‘Neil,’ a tinkling voice called over. He turned round and saw Helen waving to him, trowel in hand. She looked muddy but happy.
‘Hi, Helen, can I help?’
‘No. I just wanted to tell you something. I was out and about last night – I’ve been so busy trying to get the house straight that I haven’t really had much of a chance to explore the grounds yet.
I never realised there was so much land, and the woods are far more extensive than I thought.
Anyway I walked into the trees after you’d gone, and there’s something I think you should see. ’
‘Why don’t you show me?’ said Neil.
She climbed out of the trench and led the way into the area of woodland nearby.
It was a place Neil was intending to investigate once they’d made more progress with what he was now absolutely certain was a chapel associated with Neston’s Augustinian priory.
Annabel had come across old documents suggesting that there was also a holy well, although so far they’d found no evidence of this.
As he followed Helen into the trees, she turned her head as though she wanted to make sure he was still there. ‘It’s just over here.’
She stopped by a bank, a steep rise in the ground blanketed with a thick layer of ivy. ‘In here. I think there are stones underneath the ivy.’
She stood back while he attempted to push the vegetation to one side.
It was tough and seemed determined not to move; to keep whatever secret it was hiding.
But Neil’s heart began to beat a little faster.
Under the ivy he could see what looked like a small green mound, but there were certainly stones there so he suspected it was some sort of structure.
He turned to Helen. ‘This looks interesting. I’ll get someone over to help chop the ivy back, then we can see what we’re dealing with.’
‘Think it could have anything to do with that . . . man the builders found in the house?’
It seemed a strange question to ask. But Neil could tell the possibility was making her anxious. ‘Why would you think that?’
She shook her head. ‘No reason.’