burned to death in a field on the outskirts of Queenswear. According to Forensic someone poured petrol
on her and set her alight.’ He paused. ‘She was still alive when he did it. Colin thinks she was tied up.’
Wesley took a deep breath. ‘Any suspects?’
‘A few possibles. It was on the site of a proposed new development – they’re going to build houses there and our theory is
that the two things could be connected. The developer’s a bloke called Jon Bright. His receptionist’s gone missing and his
wife’s had anonymous letters threatening to burn her to death.’
‘Sounds straightforward then. All we have to do is find out who sent the letters.’
‘Oh, we know that already. It’s an organisation called the Pure Sons of the West. Ever heard of them?’
‘Can’t say I have. I take it they’ve been brought in?’
‘It’s on my list.’
‘Has the dead woman been identified?’
‘That’s the problem, Wes. At first we thought the victim might be this receptionist, Donna Grogen – her boyfriend’s one of
these Pure Sons of the West so there’s a connection. But, according to DNA tests, it’s not her.’
‘Definitely?’
‘Definitely. And Bright’s wife doesn’t seem particularly bothered by the death threats. Either that or she’s putting a brave
face on it. But I suspect she knows more than she’s telling us.’
Wesley was distracted by shouts of ‘daddy, daddy’ as Michael emerged from the kitchen and hurtled towards him with outstretched
arms.
Gerry heard the commotion. ‘You’d better go. How soon can you come in to work?’
Wesley cradled the telephone receiver in his shoulder as he allowed himself to be dragged along the hall. ‘First thing tomorrow
but I’ll have to square it with Pam. I’m supposed to be off for another couple of days, remember?’
‘I’m sure you can use your charms,’ the DCI said with a chuckle. ‘See you first thing in the morning then.’
Neil Watson hated files and paperwork. He hated having to deal with all that crisp white paper when all he really wanted to
do was scrape the earth away with a trowel to reveal hidden and wonderful things. Wonderful to him, at any rate – shards of
broken pottery and the remnants of a few old walls would mean nothing to most people.
He sat in his Exeter flat staring at the pile of yellowing reports on his old dining table and sighed. The dig at Grandal
Field was meant to start the next day but, as it was being treated as a crime scene, he hadn’t yet had permission from the
police. However, Wesley would be back home by now so he was sure it wouldn’t be aproblem. It was always an advantage to have friends in high – or not so high – places.
Thinking of Wesley reminded him of the text message he’d received from his friend a couple of days before. ‘Remember Ian Rowe.
Just met him here. Tell all when I get back.’
He remembered Ian Rowe all right. At university he had attended all the most drug-fuelled parties, hung around with a bunch
of posing losers and taken scant interest in the study of archaeology. He had messed about on training excavations and Neil
had always suspected that he’d only enrolled on the course because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. Neil had felt
a glow of self-righteous satisfaction when Rowe had failed his exams and been thrown off the course. Ian Rowe, in his opinion,
had got everything he deserved.
Nevertheless, he was curious about Wesley’s message. What, he wondered, had become of Rowe in the intervening years? Somehow
he didn’t expect it would be anything good.
He looked at his watch. Nine thirty. He might as well go through a few more files before he turned in for the night … just
to see if he could find any mention of the excavation on the Grandal Farm site in the 1980s.
Then suddenly he abandoned his files to search his battered bureau for his old address book. Professor Karl Maplin knew about
most of
on her and set her alight.’ He paused. ‘She was still alive when he did it. Colin thinks she was tied up.’
Wesley took a deep breath. ‘Any suspects?’
‘A few possibles. It was on the site of a proposed new development – they’re going to build houses there and our theory is
that the two things could be connected. The developer’s a bloke called Jon Bright. His receptionist’s gone missing and his
wife’s had anonymous letters threatening to burn her to death.’
‘Sounds straightforward then. All we have to do is find out who sent the letters.’
‘Oh, we know that already. It’s an organisation called the Pure Sons of the West. Ever heard of them?’
‘Can’t say I have. I take it they’ve been brought in?’
‘It’s on my list.’
‘Has the dead woman been identified?’
‘That’s the problem, Wes. At first we thought the victim might be this receptionist, Donna Grogen – her boyfriend’s one of
these Pure Sons of the West so there’s a connection. But, according to DNA tests, it’s not her.’
‘Definitely?’
‘Definitely. And Bright’s wife doesn’t seem particularly bothered by the death threats. Either that or she’s putting a brave
face on it. But I suspect she knows more than she’s telling us.’
Wesley was distracted by shouts of ‘daddy, daddy’ as Michael emerged from the kitchen and hurtled towards him with outstretched
arms.
Gerry heard the commotion. ‘You’d better go. How soon can you come in to work?’
Wesley cradled the telephone receiver in his shoulder as he allowed himself to be dragged along the hall. ‘First thing tomorrow
but I’ll have to square it with Pam. I’m supposed to be off for another couple of days, remember?’
‘I’m sure you can use your charms,’ the DCI said with a chuckle. ‘See you first thing in the morning then.’
Neil Watson hated files and paperwork. He hated having to deal with all that crisp white paper when all he really wanted to
do was scrape the earth away with a trowel to reveal hidden and wonderful things. Wonderful to him, at any rate – shards of
broken pottery and the remnants of a few old walls would mean nothing to most people.
He sat in his Exeter flat staring at the pile of yellowing reports on his old dining table and sighed. The dig at Grandal
Field was meant to start the next day but, as it was being treated as a crime scene, he hadn’t yet had permission from the
police. However, Wesley would be back home by now so he was sure it wouldn’t be aproblem. It was always an advantage to have friends in high – or not so high – places.
Thinking of Wesley reminded him of the text message he’d received from his friend a couple of days before. ‘Remember Ian Rowe.
Just met him here. Tell all when I get back.’
He remembered Ian Rowe all right. At university he had attended all the most drug-fuelled parties, hung around with a bunch
of posing losers and taken scant interest in the study of archaeology. He had messed about on training excavations and Neil
had always suspected that he’d only enrolled on the course because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. Neil had felt
a glow of self-righteous satisfaction when Rowe had failed his exams and been thrown off the course. Ian Rowe, in his opinion,
had got everything he deserved.
Nevertheless, he was curious about Wesley’s message. What, he wondered, had become of Rowe in the intervening years? Somehow
he didn’t expect it would be anything good.
He looked at his watch. Nine thirty. He might as well go through a few more files before he turned in for the night … just
to see if he could find any mention of the excavation on the Grandal Farm site in the 1980s.
Then suddenly he abandoned his files to search his battered bureau for his old address book. Professor Karl Maplin knew about
most of
Similar Books
