The Flesh Tailor

Book 14: DI Wesley Peterson

by Kate Ellis

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

When Dr James Dalcott is shot dead it looks very much like an execution. And as DI Wesley Peterson begins piecing together his life, he finds that the well-liked doctor has been harbouring dramatic family secrets. Meanwhile, archaeologist Neil Watson has discovered a number of skeletons in nearby Tailors Court that bear marks of dissection and might be linked to tales of body snatching. But when Neil finds the bones of a child buried with a 1930s coin, the investigation takes a sinister turn. Who were the children evacuated to Tailors Court during World War II? And where are they now? When a link is established between the evacuees and Dr Dalcott's death, Wesley is faced with his most challenging case yet.

Release date: January 6, 2011

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 255

Sample

November. The month of the dead. The month of remembrance and funerals.


Dr James Dalcott had no idea why these things flashed through his mind as he picked up the keys to his new Lexus and looked
in the mirror. Perhaps it was the miserable weather outside. Or perhaps his recent discoveries about his family had awakened
the demons in his head.


He had decided against wearing a suit and opted for an open-necked shirt and linen jacket. After all, it was only a casual
dinner with a colleague and her husband. And he wouldn’t have thought that Dr Maritia Fitzgerald was the formal type at all.


He studied his reflection. His face was round, tending towards plumpness and, from the slight strain on his waistband as he’d
fastened his trousers, he knew he was doing precisely what he instructed his patients not to do – he was putting on weight.
Ever since Roz left him, he’d been living on junk food and drinking more than the government’s recommended limit. Fine example
he was to the sick and malingering of Neston.


After brushing an imaginary speck off his jacket James picked up the carrier bag containing a bottle of decent Cabernet Shiraz
and a box of Belgian chocolates – his offerings towards the evening’s entertainment. Although he hardly liked to admit it to himself, he’d rather fancied Maritia
when they’d first started working together: she was an attractive, intelligent woman and her West Indian background lent her
an exoticism rare in their part of the world. But a colleague newly married to a local vicar is hardly a suitable candidate
for dalliance. He’d have to content himself with Evonne, although he regarded her more as a friend than a lover and his instincts
told him that there wasn’t much future in the relationship. And besides, he still couldn’t banish Roz completely from his
mind.


James glanced in the mirror again and ran his fingers through his receding fair hair, aware that the strain he’d been under
since the break-up of his marriage was starting to show on his face. Once he’d discovered what had happened to his father
he knew he had to carry on until he’d uncovered the whole truth but when he’d tried to share it with Roz, she hadn’t wanted
to hear about what she called ‘his obsession’. And yet it was something he couldn’t help. Not many people had a skeleton like
that in the family cupboard – a grim and terrible set of bones, too horrible to reveal to the world.


It was time to go. James had been brought up to believe that being late was inconsiderate to your hosts. He could hear the
rain tapping on the glass in the front door. It was a bad night. November weather, chill and damp. There were times when he
wished he’d taken up that job offer in Australia after medical school. But it was too late now. He was stuck with a lifetime
of English winters, and a waiting room full of sneezing patients, he thought with a shiver as he pulled on his coat.


He was just about to unlock the front door when he saw a dark human shape behind the frosted glass. He hesitated for a moment,
wondering who the visitor could be. Then the doorbell rang, loud and insistent, shattering the silence of the hallway.


When James opened the door he was faced with a tall figure standing hunched in the darkness, hands in pockets, face in shadow.

‘I’m so sorry. I’m just on my way out.’

The figure began to move forward and James instinctively backed away, clutching the carrier bag to his chest like a defensive
shield. Then he felt the hard metal of the revolver, cold against his forehead, and he held his breath. He’d encountered death
before in many guises: peaceful, agonising, messy; sometimes welcome, sometimes railed against. But this time he knew it would
be different because the death in question would be his own.


The assassin took a step back, taking aim, and James could only whisper the word ‘please’ before the revolver was fired and
the whole world exploded.


James Dalcott’s body jerked and twisted as the bullet entered his brain. Then he fell back and his fingers lost their grip
on the carrier bag. The bottle inside smashed as it hit the floor and the red wine oozed slowly out of the bag across the
polished wood like a slick of fresh blood.


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


Things were getting worse in London so my mum decided to send me away. It must have been hard for her but she kept saying
it was for the best. They told us we were going to Devon but I was only nine and I thought it must be just outside London
somewhere. My mum told me not to complain and that whatever happened I had to grin and bear it. Dad was away in the army and
she just wanted me to be safe.

We were put on the train with labels tied to our clothes and one of the grown-ups told me not to lose the label because if
I did I’d never see my family again. I held onto that label for dear life, I can tell you, and when we reached the station
at Neston the cardboard was all damp and the ink had started to run. I cried because I was scared that nobody would be able to read it and I’d be lost forever
in all those green fields I’d seen out of the train window. I was from the East End of London and I’d never seen countryside
before. It seemed so big and frightening with all those lonely farms and woods where terrible things probably happened. If
you got lost there I reckoned you could never find your way home.

When I got off the train with all the other evacuees at Neston Station, I was scared out of my wits. I knew that whatever
was coming, however awful, I had to grin and bear it. But if I’d known then what I was going to find at Tailors Court, I think
I would have stayed in London and risked the bombs.

Dr Maritia Fitzgerald looked at the oven in despair. She was sure she could smell burning.

‘We can’t wait for him.’ Her husband, Mark, stood in the doorway. He had ditched his dog collar for the evening and he looked
annoyed.


Maritia knew Mark was right. James was an hour late. Of course he might have encountered an emergency but he hadn’t called
to let them know and she knew for a fact that he wasn’t on duty that night.


There were eight for dinner – seven without James Dalcott. There was the retired senior partner at the practice, Dr Keith
Graham, who acted as occasional locum and made himself generally useful – some people could never face the wastelands of retirement.
His wife, Honor, was a thin fidgety woman wearing a cloud of bright chiffon and an impatient scowl, who worked as an events
officer for Tradington Hall Arts Centre. The Grahams had turned up late, the reason unspecified. But from the strained look on Keith’s face, Maritia suspected a marital tiff.


Then there was Evonne Arlis, the practice nurse, a mature blonde of large proportions who had already disappeared twice into
the garden for a sly cigarette. Evonne had been invited as company for James Dalcott because Maritia knew they got on well
but now she was staring miserably at the empty seat opposite.


As the new senior partner hadn’t been able to make it because of his daughter’s school play, and the other doctor was away
for a second honeymoon in the Maldives, Maritia had invited her brother and his wife to make up the numbers. Wesley was bound
to keep the conversation flowing – police work was a subject that fascinated everybody, she’d reasoned. But as she brought
the food to the table, she noticed with horror that her guests were sitting in awkward silence. She caught the eye of her
sister-in-law, Pam, who seemed to understand immediately.


‘It must be interesting working at Tradington Hall,’ Maritia heard Pam say to Honor Graham in a determinedly cheerful voice.
‘I teach year six at Tradmouth Primary and I’m always trying to encourage an interest in the arts. Do you work much with local
schools?’


Maritia couldn’t quite make out the reply as she was hurrying from the room to fetch the potatoes but it seemed to be rather
terse. Honor Graham was a difficult woman at the best of times and James Dalcott’s absence seemed to have dampened everyone’s
spirits.


As she finally sat down and invited everyone to help themselves to vegetables, she saw Keith Graham lean across the table,
serving spoon hovering in midair, and look Wesley in the eye. ‘So why is crime becoming so bad around here? There have been two break-ins at the surgery this year and Honor had her car radio stolen, didn’t you, dear?’


Honor, her mouth full of salmon, made a noise that sounded like a grunt.

Maritia froze and glanced at Mark who was sitting at the head of the table with an empty glass in his hand, his eyes half
closed, as though he was praying for a miracle.


‘I had my purse nicked in Tradmouth last year,’ Evonne piped up. She had taken a mobile phone from her handbag and was turning
it over and over in her fingers. ‘I’m going to give James another call,’ she said. ‘I hope he hasn’t had an accident. I told
him the other day that he drives too bloody fast and you know what some of these country roads are like.’


‘Yes, I think you should try him again.’ Maritia was concerned about James too. His absence was out of character.

As Evonne left the table to make her call, Maritia saw that Keith was still looking expectantly at Wesley, as though he had
the power single-handedly to bring law and order to the streets.


Wesley helped himself to another potato and gave Keith an apologetic smile. ‘Neston would have dealt with your break-ins.
I take it there hasn’t been an arrest?’


Keith Graham suddenly looked a little embarrassed. ‘They did get somebody as a matter of fact. Young drug addict. But he was
let off with a slap on the wrist as usual.’


‘Not my department, I’m afraid,’ said Wesley. ‘I just catch them and hand them over to the courts.’

Keith leaned forward. ‘That’s the trouble. When you catch them the courts can’t do anything.’

Maritia opened her mouth to speak. The last thing she wanted was for Keith Graham to get controversial at the dinner table. But before she could change the subject Evonne returned
with a worried look on her face.


‘Still no answer. I wonder if someone should go round to his house … just to check that he’s all right. He could be ill or
… I’m still under the limit.’ She turned to Maritia. ‘Look, I’m sorry to be so rude but I think I’ll drive round there and
…’


Maritia glanced at her husband as he stood up.

‘Would you like me to go with you, Evonne? It’s a filthy night and I don’t like to think of you …’

That was Mark all over, Maritia thought with a sigh. Wesley was allowed time off, as was she. But a vicar is never off duty.

Evonne looked relieved, as though a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. She was a nervous driver and most of the people
at the table knew it. ‘Oh thank you, Mark. That’s so good of you. Are you sure you don’t mind?’


Maritia saw Mark take a deep breath and force out a smile. ‘Hopefully we won’t be long.’

‘At least finish your dinner first,’ she said pointedly.

Mark looked at Evonne who gave a little nod. As soon as he sat down again and began to tackle the food on his plate, shovelling
it into his mouth as though he sensed Evonne’s anxiety and wanted to be off, Wesley’s mobile phone began to ring. He rose
from his seat and made for Belsham Vicarage’s spacious hallway, pressing the phone to his ear.


When he re-entered the dining room all eyes were on him.

‘I’m really sorry, I have to go.’

Maritia saw a flash of annoyance pass over Pam’s face, there for a second then hidden carefully. She leaned forward and put
her hand on her sister-in-law’s arm and Pam gave her a martyred look.


‘What is it?’ Maritia asked.

There was a pause as Wesley weighed up how much to reveal. ‘There’s been an incident. I’m needed, I’m afraid. The dinner was
great, honestly. Just sorry I’ve got to go.’


‘I’ll see Pam home then,’ said Mark, surveying his empty plate and earning himself a grateful look from his brother-in-law.

Maritia followed Wesley out and after he’d gone, pulling up the hood of his coat against the November drizzle, she stood for
a while, quite still in the hall before fixing a smile to her face and returning to her guests.


Wesley would never have admitted it to his sister but he was rather relieved to escape from her dinner party. He’d never liked
having to make polite conversation with people he hardly knew and probably wouldn’t choose to mix with if he did.


He’d thought it best not to tell Maritia that, according to DCI Gerry Heffernan, the victim was a middle-aged doctor – he’d
learned that much from the neighbours who’d found the body: with her colleague’s unexplained absence, he hadn’t wanted to
worry her. Then he suddenly remembered that Mark had agreed to drive the worried Evonne to Dr Dalcott’s address. The last
thing he wanted was for them to turn up at a crime scene.


He found the house on the northern fringes of the village of Tradington and parked next to a high bare hedgerow that shielded
the wide lane from the rolling fields beyond. On the other side of the lane stood a row of three neat, cob-walled cottages fronted by deep gardens and, as he emerged
from the car, he saw Gerry walking towards him down the path of the middle cottage. Gerry, a large middle-aged Liverpudlian,
was usually ready with a quip but there was a solemn expression on his chubby face.


‘Hi, Gerry,’ he called out. ‘Have we got a name for the victim?’

‘Yeah. It’s a Dr James Dalcott, local GP. The neighbours in that cottage identified him.’ He pointed at the small cottage
to the left of the victim’s, the one with the lights blazing in the windows.


‘What about the neighbours on the other side?’

‘No answer and no lights on. Must be out. We’ll have a word when they get back.’

‘Cause of death?’

‘Shot through the head, poor bugger. Didn’t stand a chance.’ He stood there for a moment, shifting from foot to foot on the
muddy ground in an effort to keep warm.


‘Look, Gerry, I’ll have to make a phone call. I’ve just been at my sister’s. James Dalcott’s one of the partners in her practice
– he was supposed to be there for dinner but he never turned up.’


‘Well, now we know why,’ said Gerry as he turned to face the house. The floodlights had arrived, lighting the area of the
crime scene through a fine veil of drizzle while the white-clad Forensic team darted to and fro in their well-rehearsed choreography
like figures on a stage.


The victim’s house was fairly large for a cottage and double fronted, unlike its smaller neighbours. All the lights were on
and the front door stood open, giving the place a welcoming look.


Wesley pulled out his phone and called his sister’s number. It wasn’t easy to break the news over the phone and he didn’t
have time to go into explanations. That could come later. Maritia sounded shocked and she kept asking him if he was sure it
was James, as though she found the whole horrifying scenario hard to believe.


But it was the news that Mark and Evonne had already set out for Tradington that made his heart sink. He tried Mark’s number
but he was put straight through to voice mail. He called Maritia again to get Evonne’s number but again he had no luck, which
meant he would have to hang about on the fringes of the scene and turn them away tactfully when they arrived. And that wouldn’t
be the end of the matter for Evonne. As she’d obviously known James Dalcott well, they’d need to talk to her. Just as they’d
need to talk to Maritia and all his other colleagues. Murder sends ripples out into the lives of everyone connected with the
victim – Wesley had learned that very early on in his police career.


‘Come on, Wes. Let’s go and have a look.’ Gerry handed him a crime scene suit to put on over his clothes. Gerry had already
struggled into his and was standing there looking like a thawing snowman.


Just as Wesley was about to explain about Evonne’s anticipated arrival, Mark’s car appeared, slowing down before gliding to
a halt. As soon as it stopped, Evonne leaped from the passenger seat.


Wesley wasn’t quick enough to stop her and even the officer acting as crime scene manager, stationed at the gate with his
clip board logging the comings and goings, was helpless in the face of her determined dash for the front door. Wesley heard
shouts of ‘Oi, you can’t go in there,’ but Evonne ignored them as she headed for her target.


She was screaming now. ‘James. James.’ And Wesley could only watch as she burst into the crime scene, depositing fingerprints
and DNA everywhere before being held back by a well-built constable, the only one who’d managed to halt her progress towards
the body on the ground.


He was suddenly aware of his brother-in-law, Mark, standing beside him, muttering an expletive that would have shocked some
of his older parishioners. ‘Well, I knew she was worried about him but … Want me to take her back?’


‘Got it in one.’

‘Might be best if she stayed the night with us, after a few stiff brandies.’

‘Thanks. We’ll speak to her tomorrow when she’s had a chance to calm down.’

‘Maritia’ll look after her. Give her something to help her sleep if necessary.’

The well-built constable was leading her towards them. She was sobbing and he was muttering clichés of comfort into her ears.
The officer looked relieved when Mark took charge with professional efficiency.


Once Mark’s car had disappeared from sight, Gerry sidled up. ‘Who was that screaming bird your brother-in-law had in tow?’
he asked.


Wesley told him as he donned his crime scene suit. ‘She’s staying with my sister tonight – we’ll go and have a word first
thing. Now let’s see what we’ve got here.’


As they began to walk towards the lights Wesley’s eyes were fixed on the open front door. The body of Dr James Dalcott was lying in the middle of the hallway and as Wesley drew nearer he could see the neat, blackened bullet wound in
the centre of the dead man’s forehead. A halo of red liquid spread across the parquet floor around the body as blood from
the exit wound blended with red wine seeping from the plastic carrier bag the victim must have dropped when he died. Wine
for the dinner party – wine Wesley himself had been intended to drink. James Dalcott’s eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.
He looked startled. But then if he was accosted unexpectedly on his way out of the house, death must have come as a considerable
surprise.


‘Wesley, Gerry, come in.’ Dr Colin Bowman, the Home Office pathologist, had been leaning over the body but he straightened
himself up when he saw them. ‘Bad business,’ he said with a solemn shake of the head. ‘I only saw him last week at one of
our medical dinners. Nice chap.’


Wesley felt the DCI give him a nudge in the ribs. ‘Wes was due to have dinner with him tonight, weren’t you, Wes? Only he
never showed up.’


Colin looked Wesley in the eye. ‘I didn’t realise you knew him, Wesley.’

‘My sister works – worked – with him. I’d never actually met him but she invited us all round for a meal. Did you know him
well?’ He asked the question in the hope that Colin might have picked up on a bit of medical gossip on his travels.


But Colin shook his head. ‘To be honest I didn’t. I know he’s separated from his wife but apart from that …’ Colin stared
down at the body for a few seconds. ‘Mind you, I can’t imagine what he could have done to deserve this. The gun was fired
at close range – two feet away at the most. Whoever did this must have looked him in the eye when he pointed the gun and pulled the trigger. Killed in cold blood
– that’s my guess, gentlemen.’


‘Thanks, Colin,’ Gerry said. ‘So we’re looking for a professional? A hit man?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. But I don’t think we’re looking for someone who acted in the heat of the moment.’

Wesley stepped away from the group huddled around the body and began to wander round the hallway, taking in his surroundings.
There was no sign of forced entry, which either meant Dalcott let his killer in or the killer had been waiting there when
he opened the door to leave the house, laden with the carrier bag containing the wine. He looked at the body again and saw
a bunch of keys lying in the pool of wine and blood, dropped when the victim fell. He’d been on his way out all right, looking
forward to – or maybe dreading – a congenial social evening with colleagues, when he met his brutal end.


He caught Gerry’s eye. ‘I’d like a word with the neighbours who found him. Coming?’

Gerry nodded. ‘Nothing much we can do here. We’ll leave Colin to it. When can you do the PM?’

‘Tomorrow afternoon suit you?’ Colin replied.

The crime scene team bustled around performing their mysterious tasks, taking little notice of the two detectives as they
made their way outside, shedding their protective suits at the gate. It would hardly do to conduct serious interviews, Gerry
observed, in oversized Babygros.


The neighbours who’d found the body lived in the house to the right of Dalcott’s. A wooden gate led to a well-kept garden,
neatened, pruned and swept for the winter. An old but immaculate Morris Minor sat in the driveway and a welcoming light glowed behind russet curtains. Wesley
led the way and rang the doorbell.


The front door opened almost immediately, as though the householders had been waiting in the hall for their arrival. Standing
there was a couple, probably in their mid-seventies. He was average height with an unusually smooth face, snow-white hair
and a hand-knitted sweater; she was more than a foot shorter with a round face topped by steel-grey curls and a sweater identical
to her husband’s. It didn’t take several years of experience in CID to tell Wesley that this pair included knitting and gardening
in their list of hobbies and pastimes.


They looked at him expectantly and his instincts told him he’d struck gold. This was a retired couple with time on their hands:
if anyone knew about the day-to-day life of James Dalcott, it would be them.


The detectives were invited in and provided with tea. Wesley guessed that the couple – who introduced themselves and Len and
Ruby Wetherall – were rather enjoying themselves in their own way. Things had probably never been so exciting in that small
South Devon village since the War.


Wesley saw Gerry give him a small nod. It was up to him to start the questions. ‘Can you tell us what happened?’ he began.

It was Ruby who answered, leaning forward as if she was about to share a confidence. ‘Gave us the shock of our lives, it did.
I’m still shaking … feel.’ She extended a hand to Wesley who dutifully touched the sleeve of her sweater. He couldn’t detect
any shaking of the limb but he nodded in agreement.


‘So how did you know something was wrong?’ he prompted, trying to steer the interview towards the hard facts.


‘We arrived home in the car, didn’t we, Len?’

Len hesitated for a moment before nodding his head.

‘Then Len said he’d seen James’s door was wide open so he wandered over to have a look. You hear about all these burglars
nowadays, don’t you? We thought … Well, he thought he’d better just make sure everything was all right, didn’t you, dear?’


‘So you went up to the front door?’ Gerry asked.

‘That’s right,’ said Len. ‘He was just lying there. He had a bag of shopping or something and some liquid was spilled all
over the floor. I thought he’d had a heart attack at first. Then I noticed the … his head.’


Wesley saw Ruby shudder with vicarious horror.

‘Then we called the ambulance and we asked for the police too,’ she said. ‘It didn’t look right, did it, Len?’

‘No, it didn’t look right,’ Len Wetherall echoed quietly.

‘Did you notice the door was open, Mrs Wetherall?’ Wesley asked innocently.

She shook her head. ‘Can’t say I did. When we pulled up I was too busy searching for my key, wasn’t I, Len? I thought I’d
lost it.’


‘And had you?’

‘No. I found it at the bottom of my handbag.’

‘When you arrived home did either of you see anybody hanging around? Or anything unusual, apart from Dr Dalcott’s door being
open?’ Wesley looked from one to the other but Ruby and Len shook their heads in unison.


‘Can’t say we did,’ said Len.

‘No, can’t say we did,’ Ruby echoed.

Wesley took a sip of tea. It was hot, strong and welcome. He gave Ruby an encouraging smile. ‘What can you tell us about James?’


‘Oh, he was a very nice neighbour, wasn’t he, Len? Quiet. Friendly.’ She glanced at Gerry. ‘He was separated, of course. Roz,
his wife’s name is. And she’s a flighty piece.’


Wesley couldn’t help smiling to himself. It was a long time since he’d heard a woman described like that. The phrase somehow
seemed to belong to an earlier, more innocent age.


‘What did she do, love?’ Gerry asked, a look of rapt attention on his face.

‘Well, she left him for another man and now she lives in Tradmouth. And I heard she’s having a baby by this new man. She must
be forty if she’s a day. I ask you.’


Wesley caught Gerry’s eye. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know her address or the name of the man she lives with?’ No doubt the information
would be somewhere amongst Dalcott’s belongings but a bit of local intelligence would save a lot of time.


The couple looked at each other. ‘I don’t know,’ said Ruby. She looked disappointed at having to admit the limits of her knowledge.

‘Does she work?’

Ruby snorted. ‘Work? Her? Wouldn’t get her hands dirty, that one.’

Her husband opened his mouth to speak, giving his wife a nervous glance as though he was afraid to contradict her. ‘She does
work, actually,’ he said quietly. ‘When I went to the dentists in Tradmouth the other week I saw her in an art gallery in
the High Street.’


‘Which gallery was this?’ There were quite a few to choose from in Tradmouth High Street.


‘It’s the one with all those pictures of boats in the window.’

‘They’ve all got pictures of boats in the window,’ said Gerry with a hint of impatience.

‘It’s on the corner near the church. Quite a big place.’

Wesley saw Gerry’s face light up in triumph. ‘Trad Itions. That’s what it’s called. Daft name and daft prices. So you reckon
she works there, do you?’


Len nodded meekly. ‘I saw her sitting in there behind the counter but that’s all I can tell you.’

Wesley had the feeling that this particular avenue had been exhausted. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything at
all out of the ordinary.’


But the Wetheralls shook their heads, almost in unison.

‘Thanks, you’ve been a great help.’

‘We’re always happy to help the police, aren’t we, Len?’ Ruby said smugly.

As they left, Wesley noted the excitement in the woman’s eyes. But there are always some, so he’d heard, who enjoy a good
murder.


‘Better get home and get some sleep, Wes,’ Gerry said wearily. ‘Early start tomorrow.’

Wesley looked at his watch. Midnight already and the black van had just arrived to take James Dalcott on his journey to the
mortuary.


Eight o’clock on a Sunday morning was an hour Tony Persimmon hardly knew existed when he’d lived in London. At eight he would
have been asleep after a tough week working at the headquarters of Pharmitest International. He would have risen at eleven and read the Sunday papers over coffee and croissants. But those days were over.