A Perfect Death

Book 13: DI Wesley Peterson

by Kate Ellis

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

When a woman is burned to death in Grandal Field in Devon, it seems like a case of mistaken identity. Until DI Wesley Peterson learns of a legend involving a French woman who burned to death there in the thirteenth century. And when he discovers that records of a previous excavation on the site have vanished, and that two archaeologists involved in that dig died in tragic circumstances, Wesley starts to investigate the possibility of a link between the legend and recent events. But edging closer to the truth brings unexpected danger to Wesley. For the truth echoes a story of twisted love and obsession from many centuries ago - a truth that someone wants to keep hidden, whatever the cost…

Release date: January 6, 2011

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 269

Sample

‘This is the place.’


Something in those whispered words made the young woman shudder.

‘Some people would call it a place of execution but I call it a place of purification.’

‘You’re scaring me,’ she whispered. She had come this far to learn the truth and she wasn’t going to give up now, even though
all her senses were screaming that something wasn’t right.


Her companion was moving fast, leaning slightly with the weight of the holdall. Not for the first time she wondered what was
in it. They had almost reached the hedgerow at the end of the field and she could just see the river through the gaps in the
trees, oily dark, swelling and shifting in the moonlight.


She could hear the water lapping drowsily against the shore but the sound of her companion’s voice in the darkness ahead broke
the river’s sleepy spell. ‘It happened around here.’


‘What did?’

‘Her execution. This is where she was burned to death.’


Suddenly she knew that going there had been a dreadful mistake. But it was too late now for escape. Her companion had begun
to walk towards her, determined and mechanical. And in that lonely spot there was nobody around to hear her scream.


It hadn’t rained for ten days and the ground was tinder dry. Perfect kindling for a fire, she thought with terrifying foresight.
She felt a sharp blow to the side of her head and stumbled, stunned and helpless, to the ground, grabbing at her attacker’s
clothing. Then she felt her arms being pinned roughly behind her back and something being wound around her wrists: something
hard, a strap or a belt. Finding a sudden strength, she tried to lash out but another blow landed and everything went dark.


As the cold liquid splashed about her some of it landed on her face and brought her back to consciousness for a few moments.
She coughed with the stench. Now she knew what the holdall had contained. Petrol.


There was a sound like rushing wind as the vapour caught alight and when the flames began to lick at her limbs her body jerked
with shock as agony overwhelmed her.


Her screams died away on the salty air. And through the flames she could just make out her executioner’s face, masked with
a grubby handkerchief to block out the heat and the stench of burning flesh, as the fire consumed her like a voracious animal.


Then came the silence. The silence of the dead.

Legends. All we have is legends. But in every legend there is a grain – or perhaps more than a grain – of truth.

I first read the story in a book of Devon tales. I took little notice back then but, when I began to help Yves with his work,
I remembered that story and began to delve further.

The legend of the burning girl – or the burning bride – had been recorded over the years by various local storytellers and
historians. A lord, so the story goes, went to the Crusades and returned with a bride he’d rescued from the flames as she
was about to be burned as a heretic. The only crusade that appears to fit is that in the Languedoc against the Albigensians,
as there are no accounts of anyone actually being burned for heresy during the campaigns in the Middle East.

Legends. How they confuse and mislead. And yet I am sure I’m getting near the truth. I even know the name of the burning girl.
Jeanne de Minerve. Jeanne the Heretic. I sympathise with Jeanne because I too am a heretic of sorts: a seeker after truth
who won’t be fobbed off with what I’m told.

(From papers found in the possession of ProfessorYves Demancour)

Wesley and Pam Peterson had no idea that they were being watched as they sat at the restaurant table. The watcher sat in the
shadows of the Calvary Garden smoking a cigarette on the stone steps of the central cross while, somewhere on the other side
of the square, the small, dark haired singer – a devotee of Edith Piaf – assured her audience that she regretted nothing,
her voice quivering with passion.


Pam raised her hand and pushed her straight brown hair off her face before looking round. It seemed that every cobble of the
ancient Place Marcou was utilised, crammed with the tables and chairs of a dozen rival restaurants, and the strings of lights
around the square gave the place a festive look as an army of waiters in black T-shirts scurried around with trays held high.


‘How was the pudding?’ There was a note of anxiety in Wesley’s voice.

Pam patted her stomach, took a long sip of red wine and slumped back in her seat with a blissful smile on her face.

Wesley leaned forward. ‘What do you fancy doing now?’ He hesitated for a second, looking into her eyes. ‘Early night?’

Her hand came to rest on his. ‘Sounds good.’ Then the smile turned into an apologetic grin. ‘Mind you, I’ve eaten far too
much, so how about a quick walk round the walls first, eh?’


‘OK. If you want,’ said Wesley with an understanding smile. A romantic walk before returning to the hotel was fine by him.

It was dusk but the air was still comfortably warm. For a precious week Wesley and Pam had had the freedom to do as they pleased without jobs or children to consider. At first,
having lost the habit of spontaneity, they had hesitated to make the most of it, like caged birds suddenly shown an open door
to the outside world. It had taken two days in the Languedoc sun with no decisions to make, apart from which restaurant to
choose, before they began to relax and enjoy the old walled city of Carcassonne.


As soon as the bill was settled, they stood up, their chairs scraping on the cobbles. Pam slipped her hand into Wesley’s and
as they strolled out of the square the singer moved on to “Chanson d’Amour”.


‘This is the life,’ he heard Pam mutter to no one in particular as they started to weave their way through the narrow streets
hand in hand, past the tables of what seemed like a thousand restaurants. When they reached the paved square in front of the
cathedral of Saint Nazaire, they rested on a stone bench for a few leisurely minutes, staring up at the leering gargoyles,
before wandering on towards the walls.


Once they had passed through the shadowy gateways of the Tour Saint Nazaire, they found themselves on the wide gravel path
between the concentric walls. Wesley squeezed Pam’s hand and she smiled up at him. Before the holiday she’d seemed a little
preoccupied, as though there’d been something on her mind … something she was reluctant to share with him. But that might have
been his imagination. She might have just been tired after a long term of teaching.


Although it was quieter here between the walls than in Carcassonne’s bustling streets and squares, a lot of tourists were still out and about taking the evening air. But, once
they had passed the Porte Narbonnaise, they suddenly found themselves alone watching the swifts and bats swooping and wheeling
between the towers in their nightly show of prowess. Wesley felt Pam’s hand slip around his waist and he was overwhelmed by
a sudden wave of happiness. This really was the life – reality could wait.


Then a sudden sound made him turn his head and he thought he caught a glimpse of something in the corner of his retina: a
slight movement in the shadows of a doorway leading into one of the outer towers, which was topped by a cone of slates. But
he told himself that it was probably his imagination. A place like this, with its history of sieges and bloody battles, was
bound to retain echoes of suffering in its warm, glowing stones. That was how ghost stories began.


As they strolled on, Pam stopped every now and then to shake the sandy gravel out of her sandals. They passed a French couple
with two young children trotting obediently by their mother’s side and Wesley saw Pam shoot them an envious look. If Michael
had been there with them he would have been asking constant questions and Amelia would have been whining about some imagined
discomfort. But tonight this wasn’t their problem. The children were back in Devon with Wesley’s sister. And the world of
police and crime couldn’t touch them. Not even Gerry Heffernan’s influence could stretch this far.


It was growing darker as they reached the Porte de Rodez and the towers around them glowed golden in the newly lit floodlights.


Pam broke away from her husband and climbed the steps up to the parapet walk, where she paused to stare out over the Ville
Basse, Carcassonne’s newer, sprawling city spread out below them like a sea of twinkling lights. Wesley stood at the foot
of the steps feeling content and slightly tipsy with the wine he’d had at dinner. Perfectly at peace with the world. And totally
unaware that something was about to shatter his leisurely idyll.


‘Wesley.’

A man’s voice spoke his name almost in a whisper and Wesley’s heart began to beat a little faster as the tranquil spell was
suddenly broken. He swung round and saw a tall figure standing a few yards away but in the deep shadows cast by the city walls
he found it hard to make out the newcomer’s features.


‘Wesley Peterson? It is you, isn’t it?’

Wesley held his breath as the figure stepped forward: a man around his own age wearing faded jeans, a washed-out black T-shirt
and a tattered ethnic scarf around his neck. His mousy hair was long and in his left hand he carried a guitar case.


‘You don’t recognise me, do you, mate?’

Wesley stared at the half-familiar face – at the freckled snub nose and the wide mouth fixed in a semi-permanent crooked smile
– and long-distant memories of his early days at university gradually began to stir in his brain. ‘It’s not Ian, is it? Ian
Rowe?’


The man’s smile widened and suddenly Wesley knew he was right. But Rowe looked different: thinner and more careworn. The Ian Rowe he’d known back at university was well
built, verging on the plump, with a penchant for bright shirts and partying. That Ian Rowe had dropped out of his archaeology
course at the end of his second year after failing his exams. And the detective in Wesley couldn’t help wondering what had
happened to him in the intervening years. And how he came to be here in the south of France just as he and Pam were having
a cosy few days à deux.


He nodded towards Pam, who was standing on the ramparts, watching them with curiosity. ‘I recognise your girlfriend … wasn’t
she at …?’


‘Yeah. Pam was studying English. And we’re married.’

‘How very grown up,’ Rowe said with a hint of bitterness. ‘But you always were grown up, weren’t you, Wesley Peterson?

Wesley didn’t answer. He caught a whiff of cigarette smoke and stepped back. Somehow he didn’t want to prolong this conversation.
It had brought a stain of reality to their Gallic fantasy.


But Rowe wasn’t going to let him escape that easily. ‘Ever hear from that Neil you used to hang round with?’

‘Yes, I see him quite often. He’s working for the Devon County Archaeological Unit.’

A bitter sneer twisted Rowe’s mouth. ‘What about you?’

Wesley hesitated for a second. ‘I joined the police. I’m a detective inspector in Tradmouth.’ He harboured the uncharitable hope that the revelation might discourage further conversation. Some instinct told him that Rowe’s
life since university might not always have been lived on the right side of the law.


He was rather surprised when the man’s lips curled upwards into a knowing smile. ‘I did know about your surprising choice
of career, as a matter of fact.’


‘How?’

‘Someone told me when I was back in England a while ago.’

‘Who?’

Rowe shrugged. ‘Can’t remember. I spotted you earlier in the Place Marcou. Almost like fate, I suppose.’

The way he said the words made Wesley feel a little uneasy. ‘You followed us?’

‘Well, I couldn’t let the opportunity pass, could I? Tradmouth. That’s near Morbay, isn’t it?’

‘Morbay’s on our patch, yes.’ He glanced in Pam’s direction; she was coming down the steps, heading towards them.

Rowe suddenly grasped Wesley’s arm. ‘Look, I need a bit of advice. Someone I know could be in a bit of bother. I’m worried
about her and when I saw you I thought …’


‘Wes, are you going to be long?’ he heard Pam say pointedly.

But Rowe seemed to take her words as encouragement. ‘Why don’t you introduce us?’

Wesley turned to Pam. ‘Pam, this is Ian Rowe. He was on my course.’

‘Failed his exams and dropped out. Nice to see you, Pam.’


Pam blustered, as though she feared she’d misread the situation. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise you were … Are you on holiday or …?’

‘Sadly not. Got a job washing up in the Auberge de la Cité. Just temporary while I look for something better.’

‘Do you get back to England much?’ she said. Wesley guessed that the question was motivated by a mixture of politeness and
curiosity.


Rowe’s expression clouded. ‘Not much. In fact I haven’t been back since my mum died six months back.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Pam rapidly rearranged her features into a mask of sympathy.

‘Don’t worry, Pam. One of those things.’ Rowe looked at his watch. ‘Shit,’ he said under his breath. ‘If I don’t get a move
on, I’ll be late for my shift.’ He turned to Wesley. ‘Look, Wes, can we meet up tomorrow?’


Wesley glanced at Pam. His instincts told him that he might be treading on dangerous ground if he agreed to any disruption
to their holiday plans. But her expression was neutral.


‘We’re going to the tournament but we’ve nothing else planned,’ he heard himself saying. He was becoming rather intrigued
by Ian Rowe. He wanted to know what had brought him there … and why he was so anxious to obtain his advice.


‘The tournament finishes at three thirty sharp so I’ll meet you afterwards in the Place Saint Nazaire. In front of the cathedral. OK?’ Rowe said quickly, leaving no room for objections.
‘Look, I’ve really got to go.’


He turned and ran up the steps, disappearing beneath the arch of the Porte de Rodez. Wesley and Pam stood there for a few
moments in silence.


‘Well, he certainly seems worried about something,’ Pam said softly as they began to walk back towards the hotel.

‘Apparently someone told him I’d joined the police and now he wants my advice – don’t ask me what about.’ He decided not to
mention that Rowe had followed them from the Place Marcou, waiting for an opportunity to get him alone.


‘Are you going to meet him?’

‘Not if you don’t want me to,’ Wesley said quickly.

Pam gave the matter some thought. ‘I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to find out what’s bothering him.’ She smiled and took
his hand. ‘Now how about that early night you mentioned?’


DCI Gerry Heffernan glanced at the calendar on his office wall. Three more days and Wesley would return. The sun would shine
in the heavens, all crime in South Devon would cease and muggers would start helping old ladies across the road without pinching
their pensions. Or, failing that, he would have an extra pair of hands to rely on. DS Rachel Tracey was doing a fair job of
filling in during Wesley’s absence but Gerry was a creature of habit and, to him, things just weren’t the same without his
DI.


He sat at his desk playing with his pen, wondering why he’d been landed with this problem first thing on a Wednesday morning,
just when CID was short handed. But he tried to convince himself that he was being unduly pessimistic. Someone setting themselves
alight in a field might well be a particularly unpleasant case of suicide – not something that need occupy CID’s resources
for too long.


He began to read the report on his desk. Just outside Queenswear a farmer, unable to sleep for worrying about falling milk
prices, had looked out of an upstairs window and spotted the blaze shortly after midnight. But the firemen who’d answered
his call had been in for a shock. The fire was in a field that had recently been sold off by the farmer to be used for new
housing and, when the flames were extinguished, the firemen made a grim discovery – the burned remains of a human body.


The first police officer on the scene had been sick. And then he had the presence of mind to call in the scene of crime team.
With a deep sigh, Gerry stood up and strolled out into the CID office. His eyes were drawn to the window. The first floor
of the police station afforded a good view of the river and, as it was a fine summer’s day, the yachts were out there already,
enjoying the sunshine and the excellent sailing conditions. Gerry felt a twinge of envy. He’d much rather be sailing round
the headland on the Rosie May on a morning like this than standing in a field looking at some poor bugger’s charred remains.


He saw that Rachel Tracey was waiting for him, her blonde hair tied back in a businesslike ponytail and her handbag slung over her shoulder, ready for the off. She had a keen
expression on her face, like a border collie who’d just spotted a straggling herd of sheep badly in need of rounding up. She
looked as if she was eager to examine the burned corpse in the field even if her boss wasn’t.


‘You all right there, Rach?’ The question was rhetorical. He could see for himself that Rachel was all right. She was taking
to the role of acting detective inspector like a seagull to a chimney pot. When Wesley returned from holiday, she would be
a detective sergeant again. But Gerry was reluctant to press too hard for her promotion as he didn’t want to lose Rachel to
uniform … or, worse still, traffic. She was a valuable asset – a jewel to be prized and kept away from the avaricious eyes
of others. Besides, Gerry was used to her and he liked what he knew.


Rachel drove as usual – Gerry Heffernan saved his navigational skills for the water and, besides, Rachel, having been brought
up on a local farm, knew the area as only a native can. Gerry, originally from Liverpool, had married a local girl but he
still considered himself an outsider, even after twenty-six years in Tradmouth. Rachel’s family, however, had farmed the Devon
land for centuries and she steered the car down single-track lanes with a confidence that made her boss turn pale. He sat
in the passenger seat, enjoying the trip over the river on the clanking car ferry, but when they reached dry land he closed
his eyes tight. Wesley’s driving, he thought to himself, was far more cautious.


When they came to a sudden halt Gerry’s eyes flicked open. The fields here rolled into one another, the green landscape undulating
like a swelling sea, punctuated by copses, ancient hedgerows and the occasional mellow house or agricultural building. It
was rich land with lush grass and red, fertile soil. A herd of Jersey cows grazed studiously in the field beyond the gate.


‘Grandal Farm. This is the place,’ Rachel said.

‘Where is everyone?’

Rachel didn’t answer for a few seconds. Then she started the engine and drove further up the lane. Around the bend a patrol
car and Dr Colin Bowman’s Volvo squatted in a wide passing place. Rachel said nothing. Never, in all the time Gerry had known
her, had she ever admitted she was wrong.


‘Here goes,’ Gerry Heffernan mumbled as he extricated his bulky body from his seat belt and climbed out of the car.

He could see a group of people in the distance, mostly clad in white overalls. They were crowded near a small copse of trees
at the far end of the field. There was a bright flash from the photographer’s camera as they approached and Gerry could make
out the pathologist, Colin Bowman, at the centre of the group, stooping over something on the ground. Gerry had an ominous
feeling that he was about to see something frightful. He bit his lip and carried on, fixing a smile of greeting to his lips.
But he noticed that Rachel’s expression was serious, as though she knew exactly what was coming.


He walked over the uneven surface of the newly mown field ahead of Rachel and, as he approached, Colin Bowman moved forward
to greet him, his body shielding the thing on the ground from view.


‘Gerry, good to see you,’ he said.

‘What’s the story then?’ Gerry had just caught a fleeting glimpse of something blackened and twisted lying there on the ground
and suddenly he didn’t feel in the mood for Colin’s usual social chit-chat.


‘I’m afraid it’s a nasty one, Gerry,’ said Colin. ‘But I’ll be able to tell you more when I’ve had a proper look back at the
mortuary.’


‘Could it be suicide?’

Colin shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

Gerry hesitated. ‘I assume the poor bugger was dead when he was set alight?’

‘I rather suspect it’s a she actually but it’s not easy to

tell.’ Colin sighed, deep in thought. ‘I’ll have to check the lungs to see whether any smoke was inhaled but …’

Gerry sensed there was something Colin was keeping back. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

Colin was silent for a few moments. ‘The arms aren’t in the classic pugilistic position so there’s a possibility that she
was tied up before being burned alive. The SOCOs have found the charred remains of a buckle so it’s possible that her arms
were secured by a belt or … However, I won’t be able to say for sure until …’


‘So it looks like we’ve got a murder on our hands?’

Colin Bowman looked at him, suddenly solemn. ‘Yes. And it’s a particularly nasty one.’

*

Pam was smiling as the tournament came to a close. Recently smiles had been rare, Wesley thought as he put his arm around
her shoulders. The mounted knights rode past acknowledging the cheers of the crowd, but as the horses’ hoofs clattered on
the hard ground a mobile phone in the row began to ring, returning them rudely to the twenty-first century.


They walked out of the arena hand in hand, following the other chattering spectators. They had five minutes before their appointment
with Ian Rowe and the Place Saint Nazaire was only round the corner so they strolled slowly, enjoying the warmth of the sun.


‘Perhaps he’ll be able to recommend somewhere for dinner tonight,’ Pam said hopefully. Wesley didn’t reply. He guessed the
last thing on Ian Rowe’s mind would be small talk and restaurant recommendations. And, from what he remembered of Rowe during
his time at university, he wasn’t the sort he’d choose to pass the time of day with on a precious holiday either. He’d listen
to whatever Rowe had to say then he’d make his excuses.


The Place Saint Nazaire was busy but they spotted Rowe right away. He was waiting for them, sitting on the stone bench Wesley
and Pam had occupied briefly the night before, strumming a guitar, the instrument case open on the ground in front of him.
Wesley could see some coins in the guitar case.


They fought their way past camera-wielding tourists and a party of pubescent French schoolchildren, alternately chattering
and making a massive effort to appear cool in front of their peers. As Wesley drew closer to Rowe, he could hear him singing – something by the Beatles. “Yesterday”. Somehow the song seemed appropriate. Rowe’s voice was pleasant – not good enough for a professional performance, perhaps,
but easy to listen to and in tune. Wesley felt in his pocket and pulled out a euro coin, then he stood for a while listening,
just out of Rowe’s line of vision.


When the song was finished, the small audience of tourists started to drift away, some throwing coins which landed in the
guitar case with a succession of dull thuds. Wesley noticed that Rowe’s face looked gaunt in the bright sunlight, as though
he could do with a good meal.


‘Very good,’ he said with a smile as he threw the coin into the case. He sat down on the bench beside Rowe but Pam remained
standing, as though preparing to make a quick getaway. Wesley sensed she didn’t want to waste time and neither did he, so
he came straight to the point.


‘Last night you said you wanted some advice.’

Rowe looked round nervously, as though afraid of eavesdroppers. ‘Never had you down as a cop, Wesley Peterson. Do they give
you a hard time … being black?’


‘It’s been known … but that’s their problem, not mine. You said you were worried about a friend of yours.’ He could sense Pam
behind him, prickling with impatience.


Ian lowered his voice. ‘Yeah. She lives in Neston and works in Morbay so when I found out you were working near there …’

The sudden look of anxiety in Rowe’s eyes told Wesley that his worry was genuine.


‘Let’s just start at the beginning. Who is she and why are you worried about her?’

‘Her name’s Nadia Lucas. I met her when I dropped out of uni. I worked with her at Sir—’ He stopped in mid sentence. ‘But
that’s another story – I’m still sorting that one out,’ he added, slightly mysteriously. ‘Anyway, Nadia turned up over here
about eighteen months ago working for this professor at Toulouse University. Then about nine months ago he moved on to Morbay
Uni and Nadia went with him. Weird little bloke,’ Rowe added with an unpleasant grin.


‘So?’

‘I keep in touch with Nadia by phone and e-mail and recently she’s been going on about her mum’s death – really heavy stuff.
She says she’s getting close to the truth, whatever that is. I’ve been trying to contact her for the past few days but she
hasn’t replied. It’s not like her and I’m worried.’


‘She might have gone away. Her computer might be down; phone out of order.’

‘She would have said if she was going away and she works at Morbay University – plenty of computers there and they can’t all
be down. Like I said, it’s not like her.’


Wesley sighed. This had all the hallmarks of a wild goose chase. The woman was probably busy – or just sick of corresponding
with Ian Rowe.


‘I’m due to go back there myself soon – bit of personal business – but I thought you’d have ways of checking people out and … Off the record, like. Just to make sure she’s OK.’


Wesley took a deep breath. So far everything Rowe had said was irritatingly vague. Pam had wandered off and he could see that
she was making for the cathedral. She’d had enough. And Wesley knew how she felt. He had a creeping suspicion that this man
was wasting his time, disturbing his precious holiday when he didn’t even have any evidence to hand.


‘Tell you what, Ian, why don’t you get any relevant e-mails printed off and once I’m home I’ll make a few discreet enquiries
if I have time. Unless you have evidence that a crime’s been committed, that’s the best I can offer, I’m afraid. How well
do you know this Nadia?’ he asked, trying to keep the impatience he felt out of his voice. He scanned the square but there
was no sign of Pam. She was probably inside the cathedral now, he thought, and suddenly he wanted to be in there with her.


Rowe strummed a chord on his guitar, as though he needed time to consider his answer. ‘Pretty well. She was good to me when
I needed a bit of care and attention, so I reckon I owe her.’


‘And is she the sort to over-dramatise … to make things up?’

‘She has what they call “issues”. Her mum vanished when she was little and it was assumed she’d killed herself. She was brought
up by her dad but he died a couple of years ago – cancer. A while ago she told me she’d just found some letter hidden amongst
her dad’s belongings and she’s been going on about trying to find out what really happened to her mum ever since. Look, all I’m asking is that you make sure she’s OK.’


Wesley said nothing for a few seconds. Rowe sounded sincere. But perhaps he always sounded like that. Some of the best con
men he’d come across in the course of his career had been remarkably convincing.


‘So how come you’re here in France, Ian?’

‘I like it here. And the weather’s a whole lot better than in dear old England. Plenty of tourists. Plenty of work.’

‘What exactly have you be