Page 63 of The Chapel of Bones

‘Even after what your builder found in that wall? I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to.’

She shook her head. ‘That thing’s been taken away. It’s not there any more, so it doesn’t bother me.’ She hesitated. ‘Look, Neil, will you come back to the house with me – have a drink?’

He wasn’t sure whether he detected a suggestion of something else behind her words. But to be on the safe side, he made an excuse. He needed to get back to his fiancée. He found himself emphasising the word.

As he watched her leave, he wondered why the place meant so much to her.

38

The following morning, they made the early start Gerry had planned. By the time they left for the mortuary, the CID office was buzzing with activity. Suzy Porter was still demanding police protection. Gerry had sent Trish over to explain the situation and assure her that they’d given the author of the anonymous emails a warning. She’d returned to the office looking drained after her encounter. Another dead end. There seemed to be a lot of them.

After Gerry’s morning briefing, the two men walked to Tradmouth Hospital. Unusually, Gerry didn’t have much to say for himself as they made their way along the embankment by the river. It wasn’t long since they’d last made the journey, and Wesley found himself hoping it wouldn’t happen again soon. He couldn’t shake off the fear that there was some sort of serial killer with a medieval fixation around, and he’d worked with Gerry long enough to sense that he was thinking the same.

The sun was shining and there was a gentle breeze, so the yachts were out in force on the river, making the most of the good weather before autumn set in. It wasn’t the day to be inside a mortuary, breathing in the smell of disinfectant and formaldehyde, but they had no choice.

Wesley knew this particular post-mortem was bound to be even grimmer than usual. When he’d seen what the big cats had done to Dale Gadson, he’d felt sick. His parents had wanted him to follow them into the medical profession. But he’d known even as a teenager he wouldn’t have the stomach for it.

He stood beside Gerry during the procedure, hoping nobody would notice that he kept his eyes averted, staring at a steel trolley in the corner as though it contained something truly fascinating. However, he was able to listen to Colin’s commentary. The pathologist sounded more subdued than usual as he worked. It was a nasty one.

When he had finished, Colin gave his verdict. ‘The lions certainly did some damage, but I’m afraid you won’t be able to arrest them for murder. This poor man was dead before he was put into the enclosure. It hasn’t been easy to ascertain the actual cause of death, but I’ve seen evidence of asphyxia.’

‘You mean he was strangled?’ said Gerry, as though he found it hard to believe.

‘Indeed. And I think the killer used the lions as a handy way of covering his tracks.’

Wesley nodded. ‘The victim will be covered in lion DNA. Not much trace left of anything else. I noticed a wheelbarrow near the scene. It could have been used to transport the victim to the enclosure.’

‘Forensics are going over the whole place, so we should soon know,’ said Gerry.

The DCI was unusually quiet on the walk back to the station. Wesley had nursed a hope that Gadson’s death had been accidental; a careless miscalculation after he’d had a few drinks, perhaps. But Colin’s verdict had changed all that.

There was one person they needed to speak to as a matter of urgency. All patrols were still on the lookout for Jim Baker. He had access to the zoo and he’d also argued with Sue Potter, which meant he had a link to both cases, although they hadn’t yet been able to connect him to Aleric Donnal.

‘We mustn’t forget Ethelred Bingley’s daughter,’ Wesley said when they reached the station entrance. ‘When she was contacted yesterday to change the appointment, she said she’dbe in all day today. We’ve got a lot to sort out, so do you want to send Trish and Rob?’

Gerry shook his head vigorously. ‘No way. After what we’ve just seen, I need some fresh air. A distraction.’

‘OK, a drive across Dartmoor to Lofton Hall it is then.’ Wesley felt quite relieved that Gerry had made the suggestion. ‘Bingley’s daughter works for the Heritage Trust. Wonder if Neil knows her.’

‘We can ask her when we get there.’ The DCI checked the time. ‘We’d better tell everyone where we’re going. And what Colin said. And there might be news from the CSIs at the zoo. They may have found some clue in Gadson’s house or office as to why he wanted to speak to us so urgently.’ He sighed. ‘Pity we didn’t go round there right away when he called. He might still be alive.’

‘We couldn’t have known, Gerry. Don’t blame yourself.’

‘I can’t help it. He said he had something important to tell us and we went swanning off home thinking it’d keep till the morning. Of course I feel guilty. Maybe I’m getting past it. Maybe it’s time I hung up my handcuffs.’

‘Nonsense. Of course you’re not past it.’

Wesley tried to sound reassuring, but Gerry’s words had sent a chill through him. There was an unfamiliar look of despondency on the DCI’s chubby face, and he suspected that nothing he could say would make any difference. ‘Come on, Gerry, let’s get up to the incident room, then we’ll pick up the car.’

Neil wouldn’t have admitted it to anybody, but he felt inclined to avoid Helen Jones that day. He’d spent the previous night with Annabel, eating pizza, drinking wine and talking about the discovery of the holy well.

At one time he’d felt awkward when Annabel spoke about her classy friends and their activities, which included riding to hounds and attending charity balls, and he’d feared that their social differences would eventually come between them. But over the years Annabel had become more involved in her work and their mutual interest in history had brought them closer together. She still had friends and contacts in that other gilded world, but now she appeared to have abandoned the social whirl and exchanged it for Neil and his passion for the past. There were times when he couldn’t believe his luck.

He was working on the well with a couple of the postgrad students, uncovering more of the masonry around the base, when he heard a voice calling his name. ‘Neil, can I have a word?’

He stopped scraping away at an earth-caked stone and looked round, his heart beating fast. Helen Jones was standing there looking at him. She wore a low-cut top and tight jeans; hardly an ideal outfit for digging. He saw that her clothes were remarkably clean. She’d been helping out at the chapel site most days, but clearly today excavation wasn’t on the agenda.

‘Hi, Helen,’ he said, straightening up. ‘What can I do for you?’