The Mechanical Devil Read online

  ‘My wife’s far too distressed to be paraded in public like that,’ Ovorard snapped, as though she’d made an indecent suggestion.

  ‘I understand,’ Fitton said.

  There was an awkward silence before Wesley spoke again. ‘Does Jocasta know anyone with a motorbike?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ Ovorard answered before standing up. ‘I’ll see you all this evening then.’

  ‘Unless we find her in the meantime,’ Wesley said with an optimism he didn’t feel.

  ‘The appeal will take place in the conference room upstairs at five thirty.’ Fitton turned to Wesley ‘Don’t be late.’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘What did you make of Ovorard?’ Gerry asked as they made their way back to the CID office.

  ‘He might seem full of confidence but he’s worried sick. He’s used to being in control.’

  ‘Funny he didn’t want to involve his wife. Most mothers would be round here hammering our doors down if their kid went missing.’

  ‘He said she was too upset – which is understandable.’

  ‘I know, but something doesn’t feel right.’

  Wesley didn’t reply. He’d had the same feeling himself.

  ‘I’d better prepare for my big performance,’ Wesley said.

  ‘Break a leg, darling,’ Gerry said with a giggle, replacing his Liverpool accent with the plummy tones of an affected actor.

  Wesley groaned. He hated being the centre of attention but a girl was missing so he’d do his best, for her sake.

  It was a coffin and it most likely contained the remains of a child. The thought made Neil Watson feel slightly sick.

  He placed the box gently on the back seat of his car and as he drove to Exeter he was aware of its presence; the sad remnants of a little life cut short. He wasn’t a superstitious man – quite the opposite – but the sight of a child’s bones at an excavation got to him every time.

  Instead of taking it home and transferring it to the university the following morning, he made a detour and left it at the lab before returning to his flat. Now the box was no longer in his custody he felt more relaxed and while he made himself something to eat he turned on the TV news.

  When he heard the sound of a familiar voice pleading for anyone who knew anything about the whereabouts of a missing girl to contact the police as soon as possible, he abandoned his feeble attempt at cookery and returned to the TV. The concerned face of his old university friend, Wesley Peterson, filled the screen, so he sat down and turned up the volume.

  Belinda Crillow, newly returned from her evening run in the nearby lanes, sat alone in the neat front room of her cottage surrounded by photographs of the dead: parents; grandparents; cats she had owned and cared for over the years.

  She was forty-five – young by modern standards when sixty-year-olds regularly cavorted in nightclubs, or so the TV would have you believe. Whenever she looked in the mirror she saw an attractive woman with large eyes and shoulder-length brown hair, and her indifference to food coupled with her daily run meant that she was slim, verging on skinny. Someone – she couldn’t remember who – had once said that you can’t be too rich or too thin, although it didn’t make her feel any better

  She had little in common with her colleagues at the council offices and the last relationship she’d had with a man had ended three years ago when he’d left her for a former girlfriend. The friends she’d mixed with in earlier years now had their own lives and families, and her half-hearted attempts at online dating hadn’t been a success. That had been before the break-in eighteen months ago: before she’d returned to her flat in Tradmouth to find it ransacked and vandalised. The intruder had been more intent on destruction than theft and the violation had left her shaken and too terrified to return to the place that had once been her sanctuary.

  Determined that nothing like that would ever happen to her again, she’d moved to a cottage on the edge of a small hamlet a mile and a half out of town. Nobody visited her these days but, even so, she still kept her home spotless, cleaning each evening when she returned from work; polishing and hoovering until there was nothing more to be done after she’d eaten, washed up and tidied away.

  The TV helped to break the silence of her life; that and the radio she put on first thing in the morning while she was getting ready for work. The voices were company, the only company she had when she wasn’t in the office. Now her tasks were done she rearranged her carefully positioned cushions and made herself comfortable on the sofa to watch the news, which she found strangely comforting. The reports of mayhem in the world outside made the cottage feel like a safe haven.

  The local news had just started and one of the headlines caught her attention: a missing girl – the daughter of an MP. Her photograph flashed up on the screen; a girl with pouting lips and the careless beauty of youth. Belinda thought she could see contempt in her eyes; maybe even cruelty.

  Then the girl’s image was replaced by that of the officer dealing with the case and Belinda shuffled forward in her seat, her heart thumping. It was him – the good-looking black detective inspector she’d met after the break-in when the certainties of her life had been shattered. He had been patient and sympathetic, taking his time to reassure her – unlike some of his colleagues – and his caring manner had imprinted itself on her memory; the only bright thing in a dark time. He’d been the only one who’d seemed to understand how she was feeling – that it wasn’t just a matter of property but of her very existence.

  She heard a sound that seemed to come from outside; a scraping as though someone was at the back door. She froze, suddenly fearful. What if someone was out there? What if her ordeal was about to start all over again?

  5

  As soon as Pam Peterson had welcomed Wesley home with an absent-minded kiss on the cheek, the cat Moriarty appeared in the hall demanding food. Their son, Michael, was supposed to have fed the animal but, being in the grip of adolescence, his former reliability had vanished beneath a sea of surging hormones. Pam sighed and made for the kitchen with the cat in hot pursuit, rubbing up against her ankles in an impressive display of cupboard love.

  ‘Did you see the press conference on the local news?’ There was a hint of anxiety in Wesley’s voice, like an actor awaiting the critics’ reviews after a daunting first night.

  ‘You came over well,’ Pam assured him. ‘Just the right blend of concern and professionalism. Any news of the girl yet?’

  ‘No, but it’s early days.’

  Wesley watched his wife as she dished out the food, unable to shake off the unease he’d felt about her health since she was diagnosed with breast cancer in the spring. Her treatment had been successful but the episode had left Wesley with a nagging awareness of the fragility of life. Before joining the police he’d studied archaeology at university and he’d come across medieval depictions of the Wheel of Fortune – the people of the Middle Ages had known only too well that fickle fate can change everything in an instant.

  After they’d eaten Wesley and Pam relaxed on the sofa together. Today had been one of her days back at work, teaching at the local primary school, and the fear that she was doing too much too soon weighed on Wesley’s mind.

  ‘I suppose this missing girl case means you’ll be working late?’ she said as Wesley took a sip of the red wine he’d just poured for himself.

  ‘Can’t be sure but we’re hoping she’ll turn up soon.’ He hesitated. ‘Although she hasn’t used her phone or bank card since she was last seen.’

  ‘It’s hard to separate girls her age from their phones, so that is worrying.’

  Before Wesley could reply the doorbell rang three times. The visitor, whoever it was, sounded impatient and Wesley hurried off to answer the door. A minute later he returned, followed by a woman with long black hair, dyed to conceal the grey. She wore a blue velvet coat over a long skirt and her flowing scarves concealed a figure she was constantly trying to keep under some sort of control.

  ‘It
’s your mother,’ Wesley announced with patient resignation as Della Stannard flopped down beside her daughter in the space Wesley had just vacated.

  ‘She can see that, Wesley. Any wine going?’

  Wesley had heard Pam describe Della as a force of nature, amongst other things, and he knew there was no getting rid of her once she’d made up her mind to stay. After he had filled a glass for Della he topped Pam’s up, knowing she’d need it to deaden the impact of her mother’s unexpected arrival.

  ‘I saw you on the TV news,’ she said to Wesley once she’d taken a large gulp of wine. ‘You could have sounded more assertive but, other than that, you didn’t do too badly.’

  Wesley thanked her for the half-hearted compliment and waited for her to come to the point of her visit.

  ‘I’ve come to do you a favour, Pam,’ she began. ‘I’ve met this man through the internet. He’s called Ben and he’s not bad-looking – got a good head of hair and all his own teeth, which is an important consideration when you get to my age.’ She looked downwards like a coy young girl, something Wesley found disconcerting. ‘He’s very charming.’

  ‘So are a high proportion of serial killers,’ said Wesley.

  Della ignored him as though she hadn’t heard.

  ‘So what’s the favour,’ said Pam warily.

  ‘I asked Ben to go with me to a residential course on Dartmoor,’ Della continued. ‘I booked us both in for a week… starting tomorrow.’

  ‘What kind of course?’

  ‘Motivational. How to change your life and discover your inner power.’

  He saw Pam roll her eyes. ‘Right.’

  ‘Anyway, Ben called to say he couldn’t make it so there’s a spare place going and I wondered if you’d like to come.’ She looked at Pam expectantly. ‘It’s highly recommended.’

  ‘And highly expensive?’

  ‘I’ve already paid so it won’t cost you a penny.’

  ‘You actually paid for this Ben?’

  Della’s face reddened. ‘Well, if you’re worried that I’m spending your inheritance…’ She took another swig of wine.

  ‘Tell us more about the course,’ said Wesley, a natural smoother of waters. Della had lived alone since the death of Pam’s father and Wesley sensed a deep desire for company behind all the bluster and frenetic activity. Sometimes he thought he understood her more than Pam did.

  ‘It’s at Princebury Hall up on Dartmoor. The man who runs it’s called Xander Southwark. He served time in jail for fraud, but then he turned his life around.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Pam muttered under her breath. Wesley gave her arm a nudge.

  ‘It’s all in the brochure. I haven’t met him yet but I’ve heard he’s inspirational.’ She looked at her daughter hopefully. ‘Are you interested in coming with me?’

  Pam shook her head. ‘Sorry, I’ll be working. Then there’s the kids and…’

  ‘Your loss,’ Della said, holding out her glass for a refill. ‘I’ll just have to go on my own.’

  Wesley knew Della was reluctant to acknowledge that she’d now reached the age when, should she have the misfortune to be mown down by a bus, she’d be described in newspaper reports as ‘a pensioner’. He suspected she wanted to visit Princebury Hall to inject some excitement into her life, but her new man’s no-show had changed all that. She hadn’t been able to hide her disappointment when Pam passed up the chance to take his place and he guessed the refusal had hurt her more than she’d admit.

  ‘Be careful,’ he said, not quite sure why he’d chosen those particular words.

  The red Mercedes was parked in the lay-by as though its occupants had stepped out to take in the view. Tourists weren’t usually out this early unless they were the outdoors type, Dan Noakes thought as he climbed down from his battered Land Rover to open the gate in the drystone wall first thing the next morning. Dan’s family had kept sheep here for over 100 years and as he was on his way to the village shop, he thought he might as well pull in and walk through Manor Field to check on his woolly charges.

  The sheep were in the top field so he hadn’t had cause to come this way for a few days and as he steered the Land Rover into the field he studied the grass, assessing its grazing potential. He shut the gate behind him and his border collie jumped down from the passenger seat.

  But instead of awaiting his master’s instructions the dog hared off to the right, stopped behind the wall that separated the field from the road and barked urgently. Dan knew something was wrong and he assumed one of the sheep had wandered into Manor Field and got itself into trouble. Sheep weren’t the most sensible of creatures.

  He shouted to the dog to leave whatever it was alone and the dog obeyed, standing guard over his find, still barking the alert.

  ‘What is it, lad?’ the farmer said as he trudged nearer. The dog stopped barking and stood panting, satisfied he’d done his duty.

  The woman lay on the grass behind the wall, staring at the sky, but her eyes, pecked by crows, were now black holes sunk in the pale oval of her face. Her arms lay neatly by her sides and the farmer’s first thought was that someone had taken the trouble to arrange her like that; almost a respectful laying out.

  He took his mobile phone from his pocket but before he could check for a signal, the dog dashed off again, skidded to a halt by the section of old wall further up the field, and resumed his barking.

  A feeling of dread slowed Dan’s steps as he trudged over to investigate and when he reached the dog he saw a bearded man lying on his back beside the ruin, hidden from view of the road. His eyes too were gone and the bullet wound in his forehead resembled a third eye, hollow and bloody. Dan stared at the second corpse for a while, wondering if he was in the middle of a nightmare. But he could feel the breeze on his face and smell the damp earth so he knew this was real. When he checked his phone there was no signal so he stumbled back to the Land Rover, waited for the dog to leap up beside him, and headed for the village, his foot down on the accelerator as far as it would go.

  Wesley had only just arrived at the police station when the news came in. Two people had been found dead in suspicious circumstances on Dartmoor, just outside a village called Lower Torworthy. The scene had been sealed off and the CSIs and Dr Bowman, the Home Office pathologist, were on their way.

  Gerry emerged from his office, scratching his head. A girl was missing – a girl with a high-profile father at that – so a pair of unexplained deaths was something they could do without.

  Wesley knew there was a possibility they had to consider. ‘Could the female be Jocasta Ovorard?’

  Gerry shook his head. It was the first thing he’d asked when he’d taken the call. ‘The dead woman’s a lot older. Probably in her early forties.’

  ‘Cause of death?’ Wesley asked as Gerry reached for his coat.

  ‘The farmer who called it in says they were shot.’

  ‘Double suicide?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Anything come in overnight on Jocasta?’

  ‘Lots of sightings – all being followed up. Your appeal’s brought all the cranks and attention-seekers out of the woodwork as usual.’

  Wesley suddenly felt guilty that he hadn’t arrived earlier, even though since Pam’s illness Gerry had told him he needn’t come in before he’d helped her get the kids ready in the morning. But if Jocasta Ovorard didn’t turn up soon and the shootings up on Dartmoor proved to be murder, all that would have to change.

  6

  The field was cordoned off with blue-and-white police tape and Wesley and Gerry were given the customary crime-scene suits to wear to prevent contamination of any evidence. Gerry always said he felt like a snowman in his and Wesley said nothing to contradict him.