The Death Season

Book 19: DI Wesley Peterson

by Kate Ellis

Genres: Police Procedurals

Synopsis

When DI Wesley Peterson is summoned to investigate a killing, he assumes that it is a routine case. But soon dark secrets start to emerge from the victim's past…Meanwhile, archaeologist Neil Watson is pulled from the historic Paradise Court to a ruined village from World War One. Even with the help of the attractive and enigmatic Lucy, Neil cannot shake the feeling that something is missing from his explorations: a cryptic clue that might have been lost when Sandrock tumbled into the sea many years ago. As more victims fall prey to a faceless killer, Wesley sees the investigation affecting him more personally than ever before. And when his family becomes a target, Wesley has no time to lose…

Release date: January 1, 2015

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

 

He gasps for every breath, bobbing to the surface of the salty water like a cork then sinking again, towed under by an unseen force. Death is close. He can almost hear it whispering: ‘I want you. You can’t escape me now.’

This is the end. His head is on some violent fairground ride and he tastes vomit in his mouth, vomit and salt. He tries to cry out. He tries to pray. He tries to save himself by paddling his weakening limbs in a semblance of swimming but every effort makes it worse. He shouldn’t have gone into the sea after drinking in the bar but he’s always been one to follow stronger and more determined natures.

He closes his eyes, tempted to yield to the inevitable. Now he’s losing the fight he feels strangely peaceful. He wants it to be over. Drifting towards oblivion, he feels a sudden pain. Somebody is grabbing him roughly, bruising his flesh, yanking his neck. Another body is beneath him, moving strongly and rhythmically. He gasps for breath as a bright light dazzles his eyes and he realises his head is now above the water, supported by something or someone unseen.

He feels himself being hauled onto the hot, gritty sand and he’s half aware of people crowding round him. Like a large fish landed by some boastful fisherman, he is the centre of attention.

He groans, closing his eyes tightly against the brilliant sun, and when he opens them again he is cocooned in a towel. Then he hears a voice, familiar yet unfamiliar.

‘Are you OK now?’

It is a voice he recognises. An English voice. It belongs to the boy he was drinking with earlier, sharing a beer in the taverna beside the beach.

‘What happened?’ Chris hears himself asking in a voice that doesn’t seem to be his own.

‘You got into trouble. Probably too much beer. I had to pull you out.’

Chris hauls himself into a sitting position and puts his head in his hands. He still feels sick but better… so much better.

‘You could do with a drink. Hair of the dog.’

‘I’ll get it.’ Chris tries to struggle to his feet but sinks back again. On the third attempt he succeeds and the other boy supports him as he staggers to the bar. They look like a pair of cartoon drunks but Chris senses that his companion is completely sober.

Chris’s hands shake as he finds his waterproof wallet and gives his rescuer the money to buy the drinks.

‘Did you know that if someone saves you from drowning you belong to them from then on?’

Chris looks at the boy and realises that he is deadly serious. From now on his life will no longer be his own.

 

Cold. Whatever the season it is always cold in the little attic room I share with Daisy here at Sandton House. Even in this glorious summer weather the place has a chill about it, and whenever the wind blows it howls around the house like a creature in torment. 

Daisy says a maid once hanged herself in here; tied a twisted sheet to the exposed beam, stood on the old wooden chair in the corner, and jumped. Daisy says that on a windy night you can still hear her body swinging to and fro but I know that it’s only the creaking of the big oak tree outside the window. Daisy is a liar and I tell her so but she still wears that smug smirk on her face as if she has a secret known only to herself. 

Only I am the one with a secret, a secret so momentous, so precious, that I have nursed it to myself. There have been times when I’ve longed to share it with somebody – even with Daisy; pinch-faced, spiteful little Daisy with her sharp, angular limbs and her chest flat as a boy’s – but I know I must stay silent until the time is right. From now on, I must be careful not to undress in front of Daisy and I must always keep to my side of the bed we share. I do not want her to see my growing belly, not until all is settled and Alfred keeps his promise to me. Then I will lord it over her. How I long to see her face when she realises that I am going to be her mistress; that she will have to serve me and call me madam. 

Until then I do not want any whisper of my secret to reach the ears of Mrs Stevens. I would not have the fat housekeeper with her pig face and her watchful eyes know of my condition before Alfred does. 

Alfred is away at present visiting his aunt at Paradise Court, her fine estate near the town of Neston. The first time I missed that which curses womankind each month, I did not tell him because I was unsure. But now I am certain and I know I must break the news on his return. When we lay together in the great oak bed in his chamber he swore to make me his wife if I was good to him. I must not doubt his sincerity. I must not doubt that he loves me in spite of the difference in our stations. He has been raised as a gentleman. A man of his word. 

And so I keep my secret, cling to it as many cling to faith. What grows within me shall raise me high. Alfred has sworn it. 

 

Paulette closed the lid of the old chest freezer in the outhouse and stood back to examine it. There was rust on the base where it met the damp concrete floor and sometimes, when she lay awake at night listening to the sounds of the countryside, she worried that the seals were showing signs of black mould. If the freezer stopped working at some point she’d have to make other plans.

She heard a tap on the window and jumped. But when she turned she could see it was only a branch of the apple tree, laden with mummified fruit, brushing the filthy glass like a skeletal hand. Tap, tap-tap. For a moment she’d thought they’d found out and come for her. But how could they? She’d done nothing to make anybody suspicious.

She switched off the light – a single, cobwebbed bulb drooping forlornly from the bare rafters – and flicked on the torch. It was time to return to the cottage for a well-earned malt whisky, something she’d developed a taste for ever since she’d helped herself to some at one of the houses where she’d worked. The first time was out of curiosity – just to see what the fuss was about – then it became a habit. Of course she’d topped up the bottles with water to avoid detection. She’d always been careful about things like that.

After locking the outhouse door she made her way back to the cottage, hugging her long black cardigan around her body as she picked her way through the fallen apples that had rotted to pulp on the ground. The wind was getting up now, each gust seizing the half-bare branches of the surrounding trees and shaking them like a petulant child. But she hardly noticed because she had other things on her mind.

There was the freezer, of course: her own private dilemma; her box of secrets. And she had another secret: one so precious, so potentially lucrative, that it would soon solve all her problems.

She’d bided her time for a while and now she was collecting her payment. However, she had one big regret. She’d kept in contact with Merlin since their chance meeting and, eager to regain his attention, she’d yielded to the temptation to show off and shared her secret. Look what I can do. Look what I’ve become. How was she to know he’d come to claim a share?

 

Chief Superintendent Noreen Fitton was a determined woman. Tall and angular with fine brown hair cut severely short, she exuded an air of capability. DI Wesley Peterson suspected that his boss DCI Gerry Heffernan was scared of her, even though in private he called her ‘Aunty Noreen’ as if that homely title would render her harmless. It was the first time he’d known Gerry to be frightened of anybody who wasn’t carrying a gun.

When she’d summoned Gerry to her well-appointed lair first thing that Thursday morning, he’d left the CID office with the reluctance of a schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s study for smoking behind the bike sheds. Things hadn’t been easy for Gerry since he’d been shot during the arrest of a killer back in May and Wesley knew he was frustrated with his own frailty. Gerry Heffernan wasn’t the type of man who took reminders of mortality well.

Wesley gazed out of the window at the view across the river. Tradmouth’s tourist season was more or less over, leaving only a few hardy retired souls still bent on conquering the South West Coastal Path. But today the rain fell in horizontal sheets and the wind raged outside, setting the grey river churning and the brown palm fronds rustling on the waterfront. It wasn’t a good day for walking – or much else for that matter – and Wesley was glad he was indoors.

Things had been unusually quiet for the past few weeks. Only a spate of break-ins at isolated dwellings had shattered Wesley’s cherished illusion that all the local criminals had declared a strike or, better still, seen the error of their ways and decided to go straight. The burglar had so far targeted five empty second homes, leaving no clue to his identity. Gerry, the eternal optimist, reckoned his luck was bound to run out soon.

Wesley glanced at DS Rachel Tracey who was sitting, deep in paperwork, at her desk. Rachel’s recent loss of weight had sharpened her features and her fine blond hair was now cut in a short bob. A few months ago she’d worn it long and Wesley had preferred it that way. But he knew it was none of his business. Because of the extra duties she’d taken on in Gerry’s absence, her wedding had been postponed until the following spring but she hadn’t spoken of it in his hearing recently and he hadn’t dared to inquire. When he’d mentioned it tentatively to her house-mate, DC Trish Walton, she’d said that she knew as much as he did, raising her eyebrows as she spoke, as though there was something she wasn’t telling him. Then she’d changed the subject.

Gerry’s return interrupted his ruminations. There was a preoccupied look on the DCI’s face as he walked in carrying an armful of files, as if he was contemplating some insurmountable problem. He too was looking thinner these days, although some might have said that was a good thing.

Wesley followed him into his glass-fronted office and as Gerry dumped the files on his desk Wesley saw him wince with pain. His face, once plump and round, topped by a thatch of grizzled hair, now looked drawn.

‘How did you get on?’

Gerry harrumphed and slumped back in his seat. ‘When she called me into her office like a naughty housemaid who’d been caught supping the master’s best claret, I was convinced she wanted to put me out to grass using this shooting business as an excuse.’

Wesley opened his mouth to protest but Gerry carried on before he could get a word in.

‘I know I haven’t been pulling my weight recently.’

‘Come on, Gerry, you’ve been doing as much as you can. It’s no big deal being put on light duties after what you’ve been through.’

Gerry was a good copper who had a natural rapport with people, the law-abiding and the not-so-law-abiding. Besides, if he wasn’t there, Wesley would miss his company and his wisdom. When he’d arrived in Tradmouth, the first black detective in the area freshly transferred from the Metropolitan Police’s Art and Antiques Unit, Gerry had accepted and valued him right away. And although the two men came from very different backgrounds – Gerry from Liverpool and the Merchant Navy and Wesley from public school and university – they’d become good friends over the years.

‘What exactly did CS Fitton say?’

Gerry gave a sad smile, showing the gap between his front teeth. He’d once told Wesley it was a sign of good luck; certainly he had been lucky to survive the shooting.

‘Well, she didn’t mention the words “early retirement”, which came as a relief. In fact, as things are fairly quiet at the moment, she asked me to have a look at a few cold cases for her before she gives them to the team over at Neston. She said she’d value my opinion.’

‘Paul says there’s a new lead on these break-ins so if we clear that up, I might be able to give you a hand.’

Gerry raised his head, suddenly hopeful. ‘What’s the new lead?’

‘A dark van was spotted at the scene of the last one.’

Gerry rolled his eyes. ‘A dark van? Couldn’t he do better than that? Like a registration number?’

‘You can’t have everything.’

Gerry stared at the files on his desk and frowned. ‘I once heard someone say that when you’re given a cold case it means you aren’t up to handling a hot one.’

Wesley knew the boss liked to overdramatise at times and this was one of them. ‘That’s nonsense and you know it.’

Gerry began to open the files, one after another, giving the contents a perfunctory examination before pushing it to one side. ‘There’s all sorts here. Unsolved murders. Armed robberies. I don’t know where to start. Aunty Noreen said I was to go through them and choose a couple that interest me – see what I mean about her giving me something to keep me quiet?’ He sighed. ‘They’re doing DNA reviews on them and all.’

‘Well, that might produce something useful.’

‘Mmm. Why don’t you get on with searching for your dark van?’

Wesley left him to it, wishing there was something he could say that would cheer him up.

 

Magdalena parked the trolley and knocked on the door of room 352.

‘Housekeeping.’

She stood quite still for a while and listened. Sometimes she would hear sounds of frantic activity and a breathless ‘Just a minute,’ but all she heard here was a heavy silence. She knocked again, just to be sure, and when there was no reply she took her pass key from her overall pocket and opened the door.

Magdalena had been brought up in her native Poland to remember her manners and her instinctive reaction was to apologise to the man in the chair by the window and tell him she’d come back later. But something about his absolute stillness wasn’t right. She hovered by the door for a few moments and said a tentative, ‘Excuse me.’ When there was still no reaction she crept slowly towards the window where the man was sitting upright in a leather tub chair next to a low round table bearing an empty plate scattered with crumbs, probably the remains of a room-service sandwich. Next to the plate was a half-empty bottle of whisky and a tumbler stained with crusted amber liquid.

Magdalena forced herself to look at the man. He was probably in his sixties with thick, well-cut, steel-grey hair, suntanned flesh and slightly sagging jowls. A good-looking man for his age. A man who’d taken care of himself.

His striped shirt was open at the neck and there was a large dark patch on his pale chinos where his bladder had emptied. He wore no shoes and Magdalena noticed that one of his toes peeped out through a small hole in his left sock. She thought he looked slightly unreal, like a waxwork.

She stared at him for a while, willing him to wake up, watching anxiously for any movement of his chest that would tell her he was still breathing, even though she knew that life had left his body and he would never wake again.

She backed away nervously as if she half expected him to open his eyes, stand up and come after her. Then she went over to the bed, still made up neatly and obviously unslept in, and fumbled for the bedside telephone with trembling hands, unwilling to take her eyes off the dead man. Her heart was pounding as she connected with Reception and when a female voice answered she managed to gasp the words: ‘The man in three five two. He’s dead.’

 

Mrs Stevens has found me out. She has been watching me for days now and this morning, after I’d finished mopping the tiled floor in the front hall, she caught me vomiting into the sluice. She called me to her parlour and sat watching like a great bombazine-clad spider while I stood captive in her web. I did not bow my head. I am not ashamed. There is no shame in love. 

She asked me to name the father but I would not. Alfred is still with his aunt at Paradise Court, aiding her on some legal matter. His aunt has a daughter, his cousin; a girl around my own age, I understand. But I must not entertain envious thoughts. I am his and he is mine. And yet when I serve Alfred’s mother at table and she treats me as a barely human automaton whose purpose is only to serve her needs, small doubts buzz into my heart like flies loose in a pantry. He has been absent three full weeks now but when I recall his sweet and loving words to me, I know that he will never betray me. 

Mrs Stevens addresses me as Rose but I tell her I wish to be called by my real name of Martha. Mrs Toncliffe likes to give her maidservants the names of flowers but from now on I shall insist on Martha. I am no wilting flower. I am the mother of her grandchild. 

 

The wind had died down overnight and the October sun was attempting to appear from behind the low white clouds.

‘The weather forecast’s good for today so I’d like to make a start,’ said the director, a shaven-headed man in his forties whose slightly bulging eyes made him look permanently startled. He wore a Berghaus fleece and skin-tight jeans and he held a clipboard which he used to shield his eyes as he gazed up at the sky like someone expecting divine guidance.

Dr Neil Watson of the County Archaeological Unit stood a little way off with his colleagues. Ever since the filming of Ultra Dig had begun the previous day, there had been a lot of waiting around and very little digging. When he’d been asked to take part in the series as a visiting expert, he’d questioned the wisdom of choosing the lost village of Sandrock as the subject for the first programme. As politely as he could, he had pointed out to the producer that the site was downright dangerous, especially with the season of autumn gales approaching. In February 1918 many of the houses in the small fishing village perched on a cliff five miles along the coast from Tradmouth had toppled into the sea during a violent storm, leaving only a handful of structures still standing, including the remains of the small and ancient church that had once been the focus of the abandoned community.

The director had been undaunted by warnings that archaeologists and volunteers might be risking their lives clambering over precarious ruins barred from public access by prominent warning signs. He wanted jeopardy and seemed to use the word as a mantra. Jeopardy kept the viewers watching and that’s why he’d chosen to film in October when the weather was unpredictable. Neil never thought he’d ever utter the words ‘health and safety’ but there was a first time for everything.

Eventually a compromise had been reached. The excavation would concentrate on the church, the building furthest away from the cliff edge. Everybody, apart from the director, had been relieved. ‘Let’s get going,’ he said.

Neil looked at the archaeological team who’d started to drift off towards the church. There were fifteen in all, half of whom he’d worked with on past excavations, and several experienced volunteers, members of a local amateur archaeological society drafted in to provide extra manpower. He was scheduled to lead a dig at a Heritage Trust property near Neston in a couple of days’ time so he hoped everything would run smoothly at Sandrock. The deal was that he would only be needed for filming once a day to dispense his wisdom and analyse the previous day’s discoveries. He wouldn’t even have to get his hands dirty if he didn’t want to and the TV company was paying him more than he usually earned in a year. The director might be a pain who knew little or nothing about archaeology, but it was a temptation Neil hadn’t been able to resist. And besides, the ruined church looked interesting.

The site had already been surveyed and the geophysics results had been examined. The actual dig was being led by a woman who’d done a great deal of work up in the Orkneys. Her name was Lucy Zinara and, although he’d never met her before, he knew her by reputation and wondered what had lured her down to Devon, away from Orkney’s brochs, cairns and prehistoric monuments. No doubt he’d find out in due course.

Now the weather had improved it was time to get started and Neil hoped that the demands of filming wouldn’t interfere too much with the serious business of digging. He nodded to the director and began to make for the church, pushing open the gate that bore dire warnings of danger and was usually kept locked. The others had gone on ahead carrying their equipment – black buckets, kneeling pads, trowels, shovels and mattocks – with the camera crew bringing up the rear.

Neil was about to follow when the director grabbed his arm. ‘I need you and Lucy to do a piece to camera to explain what’s going on. We’ll start as soon as she arrives.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s been delayed.’ The man sounded peeved but as soon as the words had left his lips, Neil heard a female voice, slightly breathless and genuinely apologetic.

‘I’m so sorry. I got stuck behind a herd of cows.’

He looked round to see a woman hurrying towards him. She was in her early thirties, slightly built with short brown hair and a pleasant face devoid of make-up. She wore an old anorak and sturdy digging boots: appropriate clothing.

‘Lucy. So glad you’re here.’ There was a hint of sarcasm in the director’s voice and Neil saw Lucy’s cheeks redden. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Dr Neil Watson from the County Archaeological Unit. He’s acting as our archaeological consultant for the series.’

Lucy Zinara thrust out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you at last. I’ve heard of you, of course.’ She smiled as though she was genuinely pleased to meet him.

‘I’ve heard of you too. Interesting work you’ve been doing up in Orkney, I believe.’

He was pleased that he’d taken some trouble with his appearance that morning. He’d washed his shoulder-length mousy hair specially and scrubbed the soil from his finger nails. He was wearing the new combat jacket he’d bought to replace its disreputable predecessor and even his many-pocketed cargo pants were freshly laundered. He’d felt compelled to make an effort for the TV, and now Lucy was there he was glad he had.

‘Where are you planning to put in the trenches?’ he asked.

‘I thought we’d have four initially. The geophys results have shown some interesting anomalies. Let’s go and have a look.’ She smiled again.

As they walked towards the shoulder-height remains of the small porch that was once the entrance to the church, she began to chat. ‘I’ve been told that you’ll only be here part of the time.’

‘That’s right. I’m supervising another dig for the Heritage Trust near Neston and I’ll be flitting between the two sites.’

‘It’s Paradise Court, isn’t it?’

He was surprised and rather gratified that she’d done her homework. ‘That’s right. Know it?’

‘Actually I’ve got family links with the place.’

‘So you’re from round here?’

‘Originally.’

He waited for her to say more but she didn’t so Neil continued, filling the silence. ‘According to records, there was an earlier house on the site of Paradise Court and it looks as though part of its foundations might be in the walled garden. We’re also looking for an ice house we think is lost in the undergrowth. If you don’t find much here at Sandrock, you’re always welcome to give us a hand.’

‘You’re tempting me,’ she said with a gleam in her eye.

‘So what’s brought you back to Devon?’

‘My great-grandmother’s ill and my mother needs support. Her parents died when she was young and Clara brought her up so they’re close. Clara’s in a nursing home about a mile and a half away.’ She smiled. ‘She’s a tough old girl. She was a hundred in July.’

‘It’s a good age.’

She was about to answer when he heard the director’s voice calling her name.

‘Duty calls,’ she said, as she turned to go.

 

The constable from Morbay police station who’d been summoned to the Morbay Palace Hotel expected it to be a routine visit. The police have to be called to every sudden death, and only rarely do they discover anything other than a natural death. Or occasionally a suicide.

According to the hotel, the deceased was called Alan Buchanan and he had given a London address. The constable thought the man looked quite peaceful sitting there in the tub chair, almost as though he was taking a nap and would wake up any moment. But the doctor had been called and would be arriving any moment to pronounce life extinct.

The constable anticipated that his duties would be confined to identifying the deceased and arranging for his next of kin to be informed, but the motions had to be gone through so he began to search the room. The bedside drawers contained nothing apart from a Bible and a guide to the hotel’s facilities, and the wardrobe didn’t reveal much inside, only a linen jacket hanging limply on a wooden hanger, a couple of pairs of trousers, three newish shirts and a selection of clean socks and underwear on a side shelf. The dead man had travelled light.

In the pockets of the jacket he came across a leather wallet. He had just discovered sixty-five pounds in cash and two credit cards, one in the name of Alan Buchanan and another in the name of Andrew Stedley, when he heard a knock on the door. The doctor had arrived.

 

Dr Susan Cramer had been shown up to room 352 by the manager, who was doing his best imitation of an undertaker on duty. The man hovered by the door as though he intended to hang around during her examination of the dead man, but luckily the young PC in attendance ushered him out, making reassuring noises: They’d take the body away as soon as possible. There’d be no disruption to the life of the hotel. The other guests would be blissfully unaware that anything as unpleasant as a sudden death had taken place on the premises.

Once the manager had left Dr Cramer knelt by the body, feeling for a pulse on the neck, just in case. But the flesh was marble-cold. The man had been dead some time, probably since the previous night.

Her hand brushed the thick grey hair and, unexpectedly, her fingers came into contact with something that felt harder and rougher than a human scalp. It was a couple of seconds before she realised that it was webbing.

‘He’s wearing a wig,’ she said, lifting the hair then replacing it again quickly, reluctant to rob the dead man of his dignity.

‘I noticed something a bit funny, Doctor,’ the PC said nervously. He had a shock of fair hair and he reminded Dr Cramer of her younger son.

She stopped her examination and looked round. ‘Funny ha-ha or funny peculiar?’

The PC gave a sheepish grin. ‘Definitely peculiar. That drink on the table appears to have some sort of deposit in the bottom. And he had two credit cards on him, both in different names.’

‘Sounds suspicious. You should tell the police.’

She didn’t wait for him to think up an answer to her witticism before turning her attention to the glass. The lad was right: there was something peculiar.

She was wearing latex gloves so she had no hesitation in picking it up and sniffing it. All she could smell was whisky but there was certainly a crusted deposit at the bottom. There was no way she could dismiss this as a heart attack and send the body to the mortuary without further investigation.

After telling the PC to put a call in to CID, she looked up the number for the pathologist, Dr Colin Bowman. She wasn’t happy with this one at all.

 

Alfred is Mrs Toncliffe’s only son, sole heir to his late father, Colonel Toncliffe, who passed from this life a year ago, shortly before I came to Sandton House, and now lies in the family vault of the parish church with his forebears. I never met the colonel but all the servants speak well of him. They do not, however, speak well of Alfred but that is because they do not know him as I do. 

His mother, the lady I shall soon address as mother-in-law, is a tall, stately woman who reminds me of our gracious Queen Mary with her straight bearing and severe glances. Perhaps I shall be like that when I am mistress, all dignity and condescension. How my fortunes will rise when Alfred learns of our little joy, for I trust him to keep his word and marry me. He is a gentleman like his father before him. 

I am not so big yet that I cannot conceal my condition with my apron. Mrs Stevens says that the moment my shame – . . .