Deadly remains, p.8
Deadly Remains, page 8
Before he began to walk back towards the village, Wesley had a word with the CSIs and asked whether anything had been found in the grave beside the bones.
‘We found the remains of what looks like a catapult. And some buttons that haven’t rotted away,’ the CSI said, scratching his head. ‘Skull seems to be intact, so we can rule out a blunt instrument as the cause of death.’
‘I’d like Dr Bowman to take a look. I’ll arrange that.’
He rang Colin’s number and was told that he was busy conducting a post-mortem, so he left a message. Then he called Gerry to ask for an update. The news was that there was no news. As he made his way past the dig, he saw the girl he assumed was Harriet watching him. After a few moments she whispered something to Michael, who looked up from his work and gave him a smile that warmed his paternal heart.
13
The sun was shining when Wesley set off for the manor house. Michael was happily occupied, the landscape was breathtakingly beautiful and the officers from the Met would soon send through information that would result in Barry Brown’s murderer being brought to justice. Just for a moment he felt optimistic.
He stopped at the car to change his footwear; muddy Wellingtons were hardly suitable attire for calling at a manor house. Then he walked on through the village. Most of the pretty pastel cottages were terraced and their front doors opened straight onto the main street. At the end of the street stood a small white-walled village hall next to a lychgate guarding the winding tombstone-lined path to the church porch. Exploring old churches was one of Wesley’s secret pleasures, but this time he resisted the temptation. He was supposed to be working.
The manor house stood at the end of a narrow lane to the right of the lychgate. It was a low granite building with mullioned windows and a date carved above the porch. 1670. The reign of King Charles II.
He tugged at the bell pull, wondering if the door would be answered by a butler who would try to steer him round to the tradesmen’s entrance. But it was Ralph Gornay himself who opened the heavy oak door, a golden Labrador by his side. His initial reaction to seeing Wesley was suspicion. But his expression changed once Wesley had introduced himself and shown his ID.
‘How can I help you, Detective Inspector?’
‘I don’t know whether you’re aware that human remains have been found near the site of the archaeological dig.’
The man had been stroking his dog, but his hand suddenly froze. ‘Human remains?’
‘They appear to belong to a child aged around ten. I understand you expressed reservations about the dig taking place during a meeting at the village hall.’
‘Dartmoor’s a precious environment. Any excavation might disturb wildlife. Besides, I considered the excavation a little . . . disrespectful.’
‘I understand that nobody actually died in the aeroplane.’
Gornay shook his head. ‘Even so, the pilot passed away shortly after the crash. Another young man who gave his life for our freedom. In my opinion, that site should be respected.’
The explanation didn’t sound convincing, so Wesley carried on. ‘You asked the archaeologist in charge whether they’d found any bones. Was respect your only concern? Or did you know that human remains were buried up there? Remains that had nothing to do with the plane crash?’
The colour drained from the man’s face and there was a lengthy silence, as though he was making a decision. After a while, he said, ‘You’d better come through to the drawing room.’
‘Do you live here alone?’ Wesley asked as he followed him into the house.
‘Yes. Although a woman from the next village comes in a couple of times a week to clean, and my daughter visits quite often,’ Gornay added, his expression softening at the mention of his child. ‘I inherited this house from my father. He lived to a ripe old age – ten years off making his century, to use a cricketing term. You a cricket fan, Inspector?’
‘My grandfather used to take me to the Queen’s Park Oval in Trinidad when I visited him as a child,’ Wesley said, hoping the subject would help him to build a rapport with the man.
‘How wonderful,’ said Gornay with a faraway look in his eye, as though he was imagining the sun-drenched scene. He invited Wesley to take a seat, then drew a deep breath. ‘I have a confession to make. It’s probably time I got it off my chest. But where to start?’
‘Why don’t you start at the beginning,’ said Wesley.
‘Very well. My family have lived in this house for generations. There are a lot of Gornays buried in the parish church, and we’ve always been regarded as the lords of the manor, although nowadays deference is a thing of the past, of course. I was a rebellious young man, and I left home in my teens to build a life in London. I never came back to see my father because when I left he swore he’d never speak to me again. However, we had a sort of uncomfortable reconciliation when his eyesight faded and he developed dementia, which meant he was too ill to manage by himself. I came back to live here, thinking the move would be temporary, but when he passed away nine years ago, I ended up taking the place over and leaving my London life behind.’
Wesley nodded, but he didn’t interrupt, knowing there was more to come.
‘I’m divorced and my daughter stayed with her mother, so I rattle around this old place on my own. Pity.’ Gornay gave a rueful smile. ‘My late mother used to enjoy the role of lady of the manor, you know. Organising the village fete and arranging the church flowers and all that. Not that I remember much about her. She died when I was fifteen, a couple of years before I left for London.’
Wesley wished he’d come to the point. He guessed the man was glad of someone to talk to, but he wasn’t there to provide a sympathetic ear. ‘You said you had a confession to make.’
Gornay let out a sigh. ‘Now that the remains have finally been found, the truth might as well come out. After all, he isn’t here to take the consequences.’
‘Who isn’t?’
‘My father. Before he passed away, he made a deathbed confession, though it was one I’d rather not have heard.’
He fell silent, as though he was contemplating how much to divulge.
‘You were saying, Mr Gornay?’ Wesley prompted.
‘Ralph, please. My father wasn’t a nice man, Inspector. He did a lot of bad things in his life, but this particular dark deed had been on his conscience for many years, and he said he needed to get it off his chest. In the late 1950s, when I was very small, he caught a boy in the grounds, probably scrumping apples as the local children sometimes did. He had his shotgun with him and he fired in the boy’s direction. He swore he’d just intended to frighten the lad off, although I wasn’t sure whether to believe him.’
He paused for a few moments, then began to speak again, lowering his voice as though what he was about to say was so dreadful it hurt him to utter it.
‘My father said the boy changed direction unexpectedly and ran straight into his line of fire. He saw him fall over, and when he went to him, he found the lad was dead. He said it was an accident, but he didn’t want the servants to know what had happened, so he carried him into the garden shed. The gardener was away at the time, so he knew nobody would be going in there for several days.’
‘He didn’t get help?’
‘He claimed he panicked.’
‘Do you know who the boy was?’
‘His name was Norman. His father was a labourer on one of the tenant farms nearby and his mother cleaned for us occasionally. I don’t think I ever knew his surname. The boy was known in the village as a bit of a rascal, and it was assumed that he’d run away from home. Either that or he’d fallen into a disused mine shaft – or even wandered into a bog. People don’t realise how treacherous Dartmoor can be.’
Wesley was about to say that he knew because The Hound of the Baskervilles had been one of his favourite childhood reads. But the comment seemed flippant, so he stayed silent.
‘Needless to say, there was a big search for him,’ Gornay continued. ‘The whole village, including my father, turned out, but of course it was futile. Then the following night my father went out and buried the body near the Sheep. That’s the big boulder not far from the site of the air crash; they call it that because of its shape. My father never told anybody what happened until the very end, when he made his confession to me.’
Wesley wondered how on earth the man could have joined in the search and acted normally, knowing what had really happened. But he’d heard that generation and social class had been adept at hiding their true feelings; the British stiff upper lip that people sometimes talked about. Either that or he’d been so emotionally cold that the terrible event had had little impact on him.
‘A pile of stones was found on the grave, as though someone had marked the spot,’ he said.
Ralph Gornay raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? I didn’t put them there, and I’m sure nobody else knew about it, so perhaps my father had some feelings after all.’ The words sounded bitter. ‘In a way, it’s a relief the child has been found. I was dreading the archaeologists coming across him. That’s the true reason I raised objections at the meeting. But now it’s happened, I suppose everything can come out in the open. Closure, they call it, don’t they.’
‘Why didn’t you tell the police after your father died?’
Ralph hesitated. ‘As I said, he’d developed dementia and was on some pretty strong medication before his death, so to be honest with you, I wasn’t sure it was true. If he’d been having delusions, I would have been wasting police time, wouldn’t I.’ He swallowed hard. ‘And I confess to feeling a little ashamed too. It was easier to ignore it and let sleeping dogs lie. But now that the situation has changed, I’ll co-operate in any way I can.’
‘Did you try to dig at the grave site?’
‘Of course not.’ He sounded horrified at the suggestion.
‘Somebody’s been digging there recently. And it wasn’t the archaeologists.’
Gornay shook his head. ‘It certainly wasn’t me. All I knew was what my father told me. He said he’d buried the child somewhere near the Sheep, but he didn’t specify the exact location.’
‘Are the boy’s family still around?’
‘I understand they moved away after he disappeared, and I’m afraid I’ve no idea what happened to them. The parents are probably dead by now, of course.’
‘Did he have any brothers or sisters?’
‘I seem to remember he had a younger brother, but I can’t recall his name. It was a long time ago.’
‘If there are any relatives, they should be found and informed if possible.’
‘I understand, but I would ask you to be discreet. My father’s dead, but something like this can leave a stain on a family. And I do have a daughter.’
‘I’m not a great believer in the sins of the fathers being visited upon the children,’ said Wesley softly. It was time to ask the question he’d been wanting to ask since his arrival. ‘There’s something else I’d like to speak to you about.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A man called Barry Brown may have come to Moor Barton to ask questions about the air crash. He was an author and had been commissioned to write a book about it.’
Gornay’s eyes lit up with recognition. ‘Yes, he called here, but I couldn’t tell him anything. I have his card somewhere.’ He stood up and walked over to the bureau in the far corner of the room. After a few moments, he returned and handed Wesley a business card belonging to Barry Brown, freelance author and journalist.
‘What can you tell me about Mr Brown’s visit?’
‘He turned up out of the blue last Friday afternoon, just after I’d eaten lunch. A frozen meal for one, I’m afraid,’ Gornay added with a note of sadness. ‘He said he was an author and was interested in the history of the village. He seemed a nice enough chap, so I invited him in. I asked him how he’d got my name and he just said he wanted to interview people who had roots in Moor Barton and he thought the manor house would be a good place to start.’
‘And what did you talk about?’
‘He asked me what I knew about the plane crash, but all I could tell him was that I’d heard the plane was the kind that used to drop spies behind enemy lines.’ He paused. ‘I’ve actually always wondered whether there was some mystery about that crash.’
‘Why’s that?’ Wesley asked, intrigued.
‘It was something I remember people saying when I was a child. There was talk of clandestine night-time missions, and some people said there’d been a cover-up because it was all hush-hush. Maybe the plane had been sabotaged, or it was carrying secret equipment. All sorts of things went on at that time, didn’t they, things they still don’t want people to know about. He asked me one thing I thought was unusual.’
‘What was that?’
‘He asked if I’d heard about a woman being aboard the plane and going missing, but I said I wasn’t aware of anything like that.’
‘You didn’t mention your father’s confession?’
Gornay looked puzzled. ‘Of course not. Why would I?’
‘I had to ask, that’s all,’ Wesley said with an apologetic smile. ‘No stone unturned and all that.’
‘Of course, Inspector, I understand, but as I’ve already said, I couldn’t even be sure my father was telling the truth. And it’s hardly something I’d have mentioned to a stranger.’
‘Did anybody else know about his confession?’
‘No. He and I were alone when he dropped his bombshell, and I mentioned it to no one.’
Wesley tried to hide his disappointment, telling himself that at least they’d solved the mystery of the child on the moor. But he suspected that Barry Brown’s murder was going to prove more difficult to crack.
‘Did Mr Brown ask anything else?
‘He asked about families who’d lived in the village in the 1940s and I told him that was before my time. I was a child of the fifties. But I did say that Moor Barton has changed beyond recognition since that time and most of the old families are long gone. I suggested a couple of people he might try but told him not to get his hopes up.’
‘Can you let me have the names you gave him?’
‘I couldn’t think of anyone apart from a family called Tallow; they’ve been here for generations. They have a smallholding just outside the village – a scruffy old place. I also suggested he try the vicar.’
Wesley checked the time. He needed to get back to Tradmouth, so that would have to be a job for another day.
Diary of Edith Tallow
Saturday 5 June 1943
There’s another dance at the base tonight. While I was helping with the sheep at Home Farm yesterday, Marie asked me whether I was going, but I told her that staying away two Saturdays in a row would make Bram suspicious. And sometimes he scares me. Marie said she understood, but I don’t see how she can.
When I got back from the farm yesterday, Bram’s mother, Dorcas, was waiting for me. When I was little, the story of Hansel and Gretel gave me nightmares, and the picture of the witch I had in my head looked just like my mother-in-law. There’s one cupboard in the corner she keeps locked, and when I asked Bram about it, he said it was her cupboard and nobody else was allowed to look in there. Not even him.
When I walked into the kitchen, I noticed the cupboard door was open, and I saw rows of bottles and jars lined up on the shelves inside. I only caught a glimpse before Dorcas shut it and dropped the key into her apron pocket, but I couldn’t help wondering what the bottles were for and why she never let anyone else touch them. Could the rumours be true about her poisoning people’s cattle and sheep? Can she really cast spells? Some people in the village say that bad things happen to those who cross her. They say she never sets foot in the church because she’s made a pact with the Devil. I used to think that was just superstitious nonsense, but I’m beginning to think there might be some truth behind it.
She often disappears into one of the outhouses for hours on end, and Bram says that’s where she makes her medicines and potions. He says she cooks up plants and other things in there, but I’ve never seen inside because she keeps that door locked too.
Bram says we have to plant more potatoes. Dig for victory, the government say. But the ground’s muddy and my hands are red and rough. I keep thinking of that nice American I met at the dance. Hank. But like my mother used to say, I’ve made my bed and now I have to lie in it.
14
Gerry Heffernan had never had much to do with celebrities. His cousin had once known somebody whose dad used to hang out with one of the Beatles, but that was as far as any tentative connection went. The cocky young DC he’d spoken to from the Met – or at least Gerry had formed the impression that he was young – had promised that the notebooks found in Brown’s Docklands flat would be delivered to them by courier the following morning. Gerry couldn’t wait to discover the identity of the individual the DC had referred to as a national treasure, and he knew the speculation would probably keep him awake all night as he went through the possible candidates in his head.
He’d had a call from Wesley to say that he might have identified the child whose bones had been found near Moor Barton. He’d also mentioned a development in the Barry Brown case and said he’d fill Gerry in as soon as he returned to the station. The DCI was frustrated by the delay. His late wife, Kathy, used to tell him that patience was a virtue, but he’d never been able to bring himself to believe her.
In the meantime, he occupied himself by going through witness statements from the Brown murder in the hope of spotting something that had been missed. But he was interrupted by his phone ringing. He picked it up and barked his name into the mouthpiece.
‘Another one? When? Where?’
When the call was ended, he dashed out into the main office and called for attention. ‘The Royal Family have struck again. This time they’ve turned over a jeweller’s in Neston. I’d better get over there.’ He looked at Rachel, who was sifting through a heap of paperwork. ‘Rach, are you coming?’
