The House of Eyes

Book 20: DI Wesley Peterson

by Kate Ellis

Genres: Police Procedurals

Synopsis

When Darren Hatman reports his daughter Leanne missing, DI Wesley Peterson isn't too concerned. However, Darren's claim that a photographer has been stalking her soon changes Wesley's opinion. Leanne works at Eyecliffe Castle, now converted into a luxury hotel. When Darren is found murdered in the grounds, the police fear that Leanne has met a similar fate. Meanwhile, archaeologist Neil Watson, recently returned from an excavation in Sicily, makes a disturbing discovery nearby and surprises Wesley with the news that, while in Sicily, he met Leanne's alleged stalker. With Eyecliffe Castle becoming the scene of another death, Wesley suspects a connection between the recent crimes, the disappearance of two girls in the 1950s and a mysterious Sicilian ruin called the House of Eyes.

Release date: February 4, 2016

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

The infant reclines in his large new pram, shiny and black as a royal Rolls Royce and sturdy as a tank cutting through a battlefield. The sheets in the pram are pristine white and the soft blanket covering the small, precious body is blue, slightly paler than the sky. Blue for a boy.

The wide brown eyes stare at the dancing leaves above, watching the jewels of sunlight filter through the apple tree’s blossom-filled branches. He kicks his chubby legs and chuckles. Fed, changed and warm, all is right in his narrow little world.

But a serpent crawls in his tiny Eden. A malevolence crouching in the outhouse, hidden behind the half-open green-painted door. The malevolence has been watching from its vantage point. It has seen his plump mother in her faded cross-over apron place him lovingly in the fresh air to sleep while she gets on with her household chores.

She thinks he’s safe. The house is in the centre of the village and there are no strangers around at this time of year. She hears a tractor chugging hypnotically in a nearby field and the gentle lowing of cattle. This is Devon; a place of nature and spring sunlight. There is no evil here.

The malevolence has a large basket, big enough to accommodate a small baby. It is essential to act before the infant becomes more aware of his surroundings. Before he learns to give names to the trees and the people around him. Before he is able to betray what is happening.

The malevolence pushes open the outhouse door and emerges from its hiding place, sneaking swiftly, crouching out of view of the sparkling windows. There is no sign of the mother. She is indoors. She will soon come out to check on her offspring but in the meantime the malevolence is free to do its work. It rushes to the pram and the infant fixes his large eyes on the unfamiliar face and gives a toothless smile.

But the malevolence is unmoved. Its heart cannot be touched by sentimentality. Sentimentality has been the ruin of the human race. Soft hearts stand in the way of progress.

It plucks the infant from his resting place, holding him gently so that he won’t cry and alert his mother to what is happening. He is placed in the basket, covered by the blue blanket and carried away. By the time the malevolence has reached the lane, the child is perfectly quiet, soothed by the movement.

Soon the infant will serve a greater purpose. Soon he will know nothing but silence.

Richard D’Arles, his journal

Volume the Second

September 1786

When I embarked upon this journey it was my avowed intention to write in this journal every day. However, after recording my observations on the medieval treasures of the Low Countries and the beauties and cultural wonders of France in my first volume, now completed, posterity has sadly been denied any further account of our travels.

So now I begin this second volume with a brief mention of the considerable discomfort we experienced as we traversed the Alps. With the necessity to dismantle our carriage and find servants to carry our baggage, writing proved impossible and when we sojourned in Venice and Florence, the sights and spectacles of those remarkable cities and the solace of good society stilled my pen for a while.

Now that we have reached Naples, I am moved to take up my pen again. The demands of society are not so great here. Besides, there are certain matters that disturb me and setting them down will, I hope, help to make all clear in my mind.

The constable sat with his pen poised over the form. He was overweight and balding, nearing retirement, and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. It was spring. Why couldn’t they turn the bloody heating off?

‘How long has Leanne been missing?’

The man sitting in front of him was pushing fifty. Close-cropped hair with no hint of grey; leather jacket and gold chain: Jack-the-lad type unwilling to let go of his long-lost youth. The constable had seen his kind many times before in the course of his long and undistinguished career.

‘Two weeks.’

‘And you’re only just reporting it?’

‘She’s nineteen. Independent. You know what they’re like at that age.’

‘So what makes you think anything’s wrong?’

‘My ex rang to say she’d missed her birthday. I’ve never known her to miss her mum’s birthday before.’

The constable wrote something on the form in neat, square letters.

‘I’ll need your details, sir. Name?’

For a moment the man hesitated. ‘Darren Hatman. Three Riverview Way, Tradmouth. You are going to start a search, aren’t you?’

‘I’ll pass the details on to our Missing Persons Unit,’ said the constable. He sounded anxious to hand the responsibility to someone else. Hatman looked crestfallen, as though he’d expected him to assemble a team there and then to scour the surrounding countryside for his missing daughter.

The worried father rose from his seat and glowered at the officer. ‘Pass it on? I don’t think you’re taking this seriously. I want to speak to someone in charge. I want to speak to a detective.’

The constable could hear the rising anger in the man’s voice and he shifted back in his chair, eyeing the panic button.

‘All in good time, sir. There are procedures…’

‘Sod procedures. My little girl’s missing. And there’s something else you should know. She’s got a stalker.’

The constable made a note of it and promised he’d make sure it was followed up.

 

Dr Neil Watson had been digging in the sandy trench for half an hour and now he stood up to stretch his back. His hair was damp with sweat, as was his T-shirt, and he took off his hat to fan himself, more used to digging in the Devon rain than the Sicilian sun. He could see the dog lying in the shade of an olive tree, apparently without a care in his canine world. Apart from a brief sojourn in Virginia, Neil had spent most of his archaeological career in the UK, and he’d never before worked on a site where stray dogs were accepted as a fact of life. But many things were different in Sicily.

Theresa, the post-grad student from Palermo University who was digging beside him, looked across and smiled. ‘Our dogs surprise you?’

She was olive-skinned, slender and beautiful, her only blemish being a nose that was a little too long for classical perfection. Her English was fluent, putting his attempts at Italian to shame.

‘Archimedes just lies there and watches what’s going on. I’ve never come across such a polite dog on a dig before.’ He had named the dog on his first day there; it had seemed appropriate, Archimedes being one of the island’s most famous former residents.

‘One of the guides who works here says they’re not stray dogs, they’re free dogs. The temples are their home.’

‘I’ve seen him feeding them,’ said Neil. ‘Looks like it’s not only us Brits who are a nation of animal lovers.’

Theresa flashed him another smile, as though she took his observation as a compliment, and he squatted down again. In spite of the heat he wanted to carry on. This was an irresistible opportunity to get stuck in to some real classical archaeology after so many years directing excavations in Devon.

He still wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to wangle a fortnight digging in the Valley of the Temples, supposedly supervising a group of students from his old university, but somehow he’d done it through his professional contacts. Sunshine and Greek remains: what could be better for a jaded archaeologist who’d spent the winter buried in desk-based assessments and paperwork? However, he’d soon be back in England, taking charge of the community dig near Neston where his partner, Lucy, was already working.

A deep English voice suddenly interrupted his thoughts of home.

‘Found anything interesting?’

The newcomer had stepped through the flimsy safety barrier erected to separate the dig from the wandering tourists, and was standing a little too close to the edge of the trench for Neil’s liking. Dressed in black from head to toe, he was in his thirties, with piercing blue eyes and dark hair tied back in a ponytail. He had the look of an athlete who’d stopped training some time ago, lithe but beginning to expand a little around the middle, and there was a controlled watchfulness about him, as though he was viewing the diggers as specimens under a microscope, which Neil found a little disconcerting.

The man lifted his camera, a heavy, professional model with an elaborate lens. He never seemed to go anywhere without a suitcase full of expensive photographic equipment. ‘What did you say this temple’s called?’

‘The temple of Olympian Zeus. Fifth century BC,’ Neil answered before turning his attention to the section of temple wall emerging from the earth.

When they’d first met a few days ago the photographer had introduced himself as Barney Yelland and told him that he was over in Sicily taking photographs for a book he was working on – In the Footsteps of the Grand Tourists. It was to be a coffee table book of photographs, he’d said, confessing rather sheepishly that someone else was writing the text. The publisher who’d commissioned it had insisted that it would be a sure-fire commercial success. Sicily, with its magnificent classical ruins and rich history, was the final stop on his list of destinations.

Their conversation had rarely ventured into the realm of the personal but when Neil had asked whereabouts in England Yelland came from, he was surprised when the answer was South Devon. Neil himself had spent much of his working life in that area and when he’d mentioned this, the photographer had shown a polite but distant interest. Assuming Yelland was alone in a strange land, Neil had felt obliged to invite his compatriot to join the diggers at the trattoria in Agrigento they frequented each evening. Yelland had turned up a couple of times, sitting quietly, paying particular attention to one of the more beautiful female students but never speaking to her, almost as if he was appreciating a work of art in a gallery.

During one of their conversations, Neil had learned that Yelland was staying with a friend who taught English in Agrigento. However, the friend’s name was never mentioned and it was clear the photographer preferred to talk about work rather than personal matters. But this didn’t bother Neil and he became quite interested in what Yelland had to say about the Grand Tour, learning so much that, were he to be questioned on the subject, he probably wouldn’t disgrace himself.

He resumed work, conscious of Yelland’s snapping lens, and after a few minutes of silence the photographer spoke again. ‘I’m going out to photograph a medieval site this afternoon. It’s a place with a bit of a reputation. I’ve heard the locals keep away from it. Thought you might fancy coming with me if you can get away.’

Neil looked up, suddenly curious. ‘Where is it?’

A hopeful expression appeared on Yelland’s face, as if he was eager for the company… or maybe anxious not to go there alone. ‘Just outside Naro. It’s a small fortress dating to the first half of the thirteenth century. It’s called the House of Eyes but I’m not sure why.’ There was a pause. ‘They say bad things happened there.’

‘I can’t leave the dig or I’d come with you.’

Yelland looked disappointed. ‘Of course.’

‘When are you going back to Devon?’

Neil told him.

‘We’re probably on the same flight. Mind if I hitch a lift to the airport with your group?’

‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’

Yelland took another batch of photographs before walking away.

 

DCI Gerry Heffernan entered the building. A couple of weeks ago the weather had been unseasonably balmy; now though there was a chill in the spring air so his hands were thrust into the pockets of his aging anorak. But the warmth of the police station hit him as soon as he crossed the threshold so he discarded his coat and muttered a complaint about the heat.

DI Wesley Peterson, walking beside him, was slightly taller and considerably slimmer with dark skin and intelligent brown eyes. He saw that Gerry was staring at a man who’d just emerged from the side door leading to the interview suite. The man wore a leather jacket in spite of the warmth and was accompanied by a plump, middle-aged constable. When he noticed Gerry he came to an abrupt halt, as if he’d spotted something alarming in his path.

Gerry stopped too and Wesley almost cannoned into him.

A wide smile spread across the DCI’s face. ‘Well if it isn’t my old friend Darren Hatman,’ he said in the distinctive Liverpool accent he’d never lost, despite all his years in Devon. ‘Good to see you again, Darren. How’s tricks? You’ve been very quiet since that post office job in Plymouth. Not taken early retirement, have you?’ He looked the man up and down. ‘I hope it’s my lucky day and you’ve come to turn yourself in.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Wes, this is Darren Hatman. Getaway driver of this and many other parishes. Darren, I don’t think you’ve met DI Peterson.’

For a second the man looked as if he was tempted to push past Gerry and make his escape, but he stood his ground. ‘Plymouth was ten years ago and I haven’t put a foot wrong since. I’m a respectable builder now. Got my own business.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

Wesley Peterson sensed Hatman’s impatience, as though Gerry was obstructing him on some important mission and he was longing to knock him out of the way. Then he saw a look of relief pass across Hatman’s face. And something else. Hope perhaps?

‘I need help, Mr Heffernan. My little girl’s gone missing.’

Gerry frowned. ‘I didn’t know you had a little girl. You’ve kept that one quiet.’

‘My Leanne’s nineteen now. Her mum’s not heard from her for a couple of weeks, not even on her birthday. It’s not like Leanne to miss her mum’s birthday.’

‘What about you?’ Wesley asked. ‘When did you last see her?’

‘About three weeks ago. She’s been busy.’

‘Girls her age go off all the time,’ said Gerry, a note of sympathy in his voice. He had a daughter himself. ‘She’s probably off with some spotty boyfriend.’

Hatman shook his head. ‘She was going out with a lad but they finished a few months ago. She made it quite clear to him that he wasn’t wanted and he’s been off the scene for a while. This just isn’t like her.’

When Gerry didn’t answer Wesley took the initiative. ‘Have you tried her friends? Her work colleagues?’

‘I’m not fucking stupid.’

‘It’s just that nine times out of ten missing people turn up safe and sound.’

Hatman put his face close to Wesley’s. ‘She could be anywhere. He could have taken her and be doing God knows what…’

‘He? Who are you talking about?’

‘That bloody photographer. He’s been stalking her. You should be pulling him in.’

‘In that case, I think we should have a proper word,’ said Wesley, taking the man by the elbow and steering him back in the direction of the interview suite.

I have so far failed to set out certain facts concerning my expedition. I travel with my cousin, Uriah, and our cicerone, the Reverend Micah Joules. We call Joules our ‘bear-leader’ as is the custom and my father has entrusted him with my welfare and education while we are abroad.

Joules is a rotund little man with a bald pate and a shiny face made luminous by the southern sun. Without his thick spectacles he can see little and misses much. He is curate of St Peter’s at Turling Fitwell and, as the living of the church is in my family’s gift, he could not refuse my father’s request that he should accompany me on my travels. Yet he performs his duties with a good nature of which I confess I sometimes take advantage.

Joules has a fascination for the antiquities we encounter at each turn in this glorious country. I myself spend much time studying the art of the masters while my cousin, Uriah, pursues more dubious activities. Joules is quite unaware of this as he is one of nature’s innocents. I suspect that even I do not see all.

‘What are we doing about Darren Hatman’s daughter?’ Wesley Peterson sat on the chair in Gerry’s glass-fronted office watching the DCI go through the papers that had arrived on his cluttered desk that morning. He saw him pick up each one and scan it with a grunt. Some he pushed to one side in the rough direction of his in-tray, others he scrunched up and aimed at the bin in the corner with a look of disgust on his chubby face. Soon the carpet was littered with balls of paper and Wesley, who had always been inclined to neatness and order, absent-mindedly picked them up and deposited them at their intended destination.

He had followed Gerry into the office after the morning briefing, curious to know what he thought about Hatman’s complaint of the previous afternoon. The mention of a stalker had sounded alarm bells in his head and he had lain awake worrying about it before eventually getting to sleep at three in the morning. His wife, Pam, often warned him about becoming too involved. But how would he feel if his daughter, Amelia, was to go missing one day in the future? What would he do if a stalker was targeting her? Hatman might be an apparently reformed criminal but that didn’t mean he didn’t love his daughter. Yesterday his instinct had been to follow up the report of Leanne Hatman’s disappearance immediately although Gerry, who appeared to know Hatman pretty well, had said it could wait till the morning.

‘If she doesn’t turn up I’ll send someone over to have a word with her work colleagues. Who knows, she’s probably off somewhere having a good time.’

‘What about this stalker?’ said Wesley.

‘According to Darren, he’s a photographer who put big ideas in her head and wouldn’t leave her alone, but it’s all a bit vague.’

‘The mother might know more. We should have a word with her. And we can trace Leanne’s mobile usage and see if she’s used her credit or debit cards.’

‘Hold on, Wes. Let’s make sure she’s missing first. I’ve known Hatman a lot longer than you have and he’s always been inclined to panic.’ He grinned, showing the gap between his front teeth he’d always claimed was lucky. ‘If he’s telling the truth about abandoning his life of crime, I reckon I know the reason why.’

‘What is it?’

‘He knocked an old lady over during his last job in Plymouth. She died a couple of weeks later in hospital.’

‘I presume he was convicted?’

‘Yeah. That was his last stretch inside. Nothing since.’

‘Probably gave him a jolt.’

Gerry nodded.

‘I’ll go and speak to the mother if you like,’ said Wesley.

‘OK. But if her daughter’s missing we’ve got to ask ourselves why the mum hasn’t reported it herself. Maybe she knows something Darren doesn’t.’ He picked up a file off his desk. ‘I’ve got a meeting with Aunty Noreen.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Crime statistics.’

Wesley smiled to himself as he left the room. The boss always referred to Chief Superintendent Noreen Fitton as Aunty Noreen, as though he hoped the cosy domestic title would diminish her fearsome authority. Discussing dry crime statistics in her well-appointed office on the floor above was hardly Gerry’s idea of bliss. In his opinion the fires of hell would be stoked with forms and paperwork.

As Wesley made his way back to his desk by the window, he heard DS Rachel Tracey calling his name. When he turned round he saw that she was standing up, waving a sheet of paper that he recognised as a Missing Persons Report.

‘This report. Leanne Hatman. She’s nineteen and not in any category that can be described as vulnerable. Why isn’t the Missing Persons Unit dealing with it?’

‘Because her father says she’s got a stalker,’ he replied, walking over to join her.

‘That’s not mentioned on the form.’ She sounded annoyed about the omission.

Wesley frowned. ‘Then it should be. The father spoke to the boss yesterday afternoon – they’re old acquaintances… professionally speaking.’

‘The dad’s a cop?’

Wesley shook his head. ‘Other side of the fence. Getaway driver – allegedly retired.’

He saw the disapproval on Rachel’s pale face. Her fine blonde hair was tied back today but over the past weeks she’d been experimenting with various styles for her forthcoming wedding. There had been a time when he’d thought it might not go ahead; that her doubts about the wisdom of commitment would prevail. Now the wedding juggernaut seemed to be on track again.

‘So we’re following it up?’

‘The boss reckons the father panics easily. Still, I’d like to pay her mother a visit and see what she has to say.’

A light of anticipation appeared in Rachel’s eyes. ‘Want me to come with you?’

‘I was planning to take Trish. Leanne Hatman works at Eyecliffe Castle and lives in the staff quarters so it might be helpful if you went up there to speak to her colleagues. See if anyone has any suggestions about where she might be – or knows anything about this stalker her dad mentioned.

‘Fine,’ she said, plucking her jacket from the back of her chair. ‘I’ll take Rob with me. He looks as if he could do with some fresh air.’

She nodded at a desk in the far corner of the room. A young man sat there typing something into the computer in front of him. He had a shock of fair hair and a look of frustrated boredom on his freckled face. Rachel took a step towards Wesley and whispered in his ear. ‘He’s like a caged animal when things are quiet. Always looking for things to do and making a nuisance of himself.’

‘Think he’s after your job?’

‘No, I think he’s after the boss’s.’

‘Nothing wrong with a bit of ambition.’

She didn’t answer. Instead she clamped her mouth shut as though she could say more on the subject but thought it unwise.

As Rachel was preparing for her visit to Eyecliffe Castle to speak to the missing girl’s colleagues, Wesley asked dark-haired, sensible DC Trish Walton to go with him to see Leanne Hatman’s mother. Trish seemed eager to get out of the office and escape her routine paperwork. Things had been quiet recently. Only a theft of farm machinery and a yacht reported missing from Tradmouth marina had clouded CID’s horizon. However, all that would change once the holiday season began in earnest.

Marion Hatman, Trish discovered after a few phone calls, worked in a café in an upmarket part of Morbay but today was her day off. It promised to be a fine day, contrary to the weatherman’s dire predictions Wesley had caught on breakfast TV before he’d left for work that morning, so he decided to take the car ferry over the River Trad. He loved the journey to the far bank of the river, chugging across the water, staring out at the yachts bobbing at anchor. During that all too brief crossing he always felt that he was in some liminal place between land and water where earthly problems melted away.

At first Trish sat silently in the passenger seat. Only when Wesley asked about Rachel’s wedding arrangements did she become animated. She and Rachel shared a rented cottage just outside Tradmouth, not far from the farm where Rachel had grown up so, inevitably, she was the person Rachel tended to confide in. By the time they’d reached Morbay, Wesley had learned that the dress was purchased, the flowers ordered and the hymns chosen. Not once did she mention Rachel’s fiancé, Nigel, almost as though the bridegroom was an afterthought, but she did chatter on about the difficulty of finding someone else to share the cottage once Rachel had moved out. When Wesley asked her about her own boyfriend, a dentist, her answer was evasive.

From Wesley’s experience of working in the area, he knew the genteel holiday resort of Morbay, ten miles from Tradmouth, concealed a dark underbelly beneath its smiling white villas and aspirational hotels. Away from the elegant seafront and its attractions stood the Winterham Estate, erected in the 1960s during the nadir of house building and shunned by anyone who could possibly afford to live elsewhere. There were areas of older housing too, converted into flats and bedsits: dusty streets of flaking stucco and overflowing wheelie bins in weed-filled front gardens. It was in one of these streets that Leanne Hatman’s mother lived in a two-bedroom flat that occupied the ground floor of a large terraced house.

The house’s sickly pink walls were stained with damp and moss and Wesley saw three unmatched cheap plastic doorbells beside the front door. The middle one dangled limply from the battered wood but fortunately the one with the name Hatman beneath it was still in place and working. When he pressed it, he heard a loud buzzing, as if a furious wasp was trapped in the hallway, and after half a minute the door opened to reveal a sharp-featured woman in a grey tracksuit. Her bottle-blonde hair was scraped back into an untidy knot and, as Wesley gazed upon her spreading waistline, he wondered why the most unfit people invariably chose to drape their bodies in sportswear. Perhaps they hoped that it would act like some magic spell and they’d wake up one morning with the physique of an Olympic athlete.

‘Mrs Hatman?’ he said, holding up his warrant card. ‘May we come in?’

She led the way into a dingy hall. To the left of a flight of uncarpeted stairs a door stood open and Wesley and Trish followed the woman into a neat and airy room. Everything was spotless and the fireplace wall was covered in bright floral wallpaper. This was her space, her refuge from the troubles of the world – and she looked as if she’d had a few of them in her time.

‘Is this about Darren?’

‘We’ve spoken to your ex-husband,’ Wesley said as he sat down, Trish taking her seat quietly in an armchair opposite. Her question had surprised him; he’d never before met the mother of a missing girl whose first thought wasn’t for her child. Perhaps Gerry had been right after all.

Mrs Hatman looked exasperated. ‘Look, as far as I know he’s put the past behind him. And he’s not my ex. We’re still married… officially. We’re just separated.’

It was time to come to the point. ‘Darren’s reported your daughter, Leanne, missing.’

It was hard to read her expression but Wesley guessed she wasn’t pleased. ‘That’s Darren all over. He still thinks she’s a little girl.’

‘So she’s not missing?’

‘Not as far as I know. I haven’t heard from her for a couple of weeks and she did miss my birthday, which isn’t like her at all, but…’

‘Do you know where she is?’ Trish asked. ‘We’d like to speak to her. Make sure she’s OK.’

‘She works at Eyecliffe Castle and lives in. Have you tried there?’

‘One of our colleagues has gone there to follow up your husband’s complaint. You’re not worried?’

A shadow briefly passed across her face. ‘She said she might have to go off to London at a moment’s notice. She’s had her portfolio done, you see. It’s her big chance.’

‘What is?’

‘Modelling. She’s been waiting to hear from one of the big agencies and if they’ve called to say they wanted her right away, she might not have had time to let me know.’

Wesley, seeing that her face had been transfigured with pride, couldn’t help asking himself what sort of daughter would neglect to make a quick call to her mother to share her moment of triumph. It didn’t add up. . .