Wesley spoke softly. 'Surely it would have been better to have come forward, if you had nothing to hide.'

John shuffled nervously in his seat. Wesley had seen his type before: salesmen flashing down the motorway coc.o.o.ned in the company car; the loud chuckles over business lunches; wife number two (preferably blonde); the drink problem; the 'mid-life crisis'. But as one who had himself experienced prejudice, he told himself firmly that he mustn't let it cloud his judgement now.

Heffernan took another tack. 'When did you last see Karen?'

'Seventeenth September. I know 'cause I had to travel to Birmingham that day. Stayed overnight.'

'Tell us about it.'

'Oh s.h.i.t, I might as well tell you. We had a row that night. She wanted to go for some modelling job. I don't mind her doing a bit here and there but this meant her going abroad.'

'Why didn't you want her to go?'

'I just didn't.'

'n.o.body to wash your shirts?' the inspector threw in mischievously.

John gave him a look and Heffernan regretted his flippancy. There was a long pause before John broke the silence.

'I was scared she was getting sick of me. I could feel it. She'd started getting more modelling work, and then this travelling abroad ...'

Wesley nodded. He understood. 'Did she get much modelling work?'

'Yeah, she wasn't doing too badly. Catalogues, mainly stockings, tights, trousers. She had good legs. So when she said she was meeting this man in Tradmouth and she might be ...'

Heffernan sat up. 'What man?'

'She was meeting him in Tradmouth. He'd arranged this job.'

'Did she tell you his name?'

'No. I don't know anything about him.'

'So you don't know how he contacted her?'

'Could have been through the agency.'

'What agency?'

'Tradmouth Models. They used to get her work.'

'Tell me about them.' Wesley was interested.

'They're a small outfit, somewhere in Tradmouth, but don't ask me where. She never talked about it much. She didn't have to work, you know, I'd have paid for everything; but she liked the modelling. She liked to look good.'

'The flat's in her name. Why?'

'Everything is. Don't want the ex-wife to get her hands on anything, know what I mean?'

Wesley knew. He wondered how many enemies Karen had made in Devon. There was probably no love lost between her and the woman she replaced. 'So you can't tell me anything else about this agency or who she met at work?' John shook his head. 'Was she keen on this job, meeting this man?'

'I'll say. Gave herself the works. New hairdo, facial, leg waxing. Trip to Plymouth to buy some new clothes the lot.'

'Who did her hair?'

'Charlie ... Carl. He did her hair at the flat. He always did her hair. She doesn't ... didn't trust anyone else. He's my sister's ex-husband. We stayed mates when him and Claire broke up. He lent me the cottage. I couldn't stay in the flat when I knew she was dead. I had to get out ... get all my stuff out ...'

Heffernan watched as John's eyes filled with tears. 'I hope you catch the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who did this. I hope. ...' The tears came faster and John tried vainly to wipe away the mucus that glistened on his nose. Heffernan nodded to Wesley, who turned off the tape machine.

'Detective Sergeant Peterson terminating this interview at seventeen twenty hours.'

Heffernan handed John a crumpled handkerchief.

Rachel hadn't joined the police force to fill in forms any more than she had joined it to make cups of tea. It was with relief that she picked up the phone and heard Bob Naseby's voice on the other end summoning her downstairs to the front desk. A lady wanted to speak to her.

She ran lightly down the uncarpeted stairs, glad to be out of the office. When she reached the front desk Bob pointed out a young woman, sitting on the padded bench, her face bearing the stoic expression of a patient waiting to see the dentist.

'Her name's Denise Wellthorne,' Bob whispered confidentially, 'She asked to see you.'

'Did she say what it was about?'

'You'd best go and see, my luvver.'

The woman looked more nervous as Rachel approached. She was young with blonde curls and a noticeable suntan. Rachel introduced herself and waited expectantly.

'I'm a hairdresser,' the woman blurted out. 'I work at Chez Danielle down by the market. I've been away Tenerife.'

'Very nice.' Rachel smiled to put Denise at her ease.

'When I got back to work this morning they said you'd been round asking about a blonde lady who had a cut on the seventeenth.'

Rachel started to take interest.

'Well, I did a lady's hair on the seventeenth. She came in without an appointment, just for a cut and blow. I've been away, you see. I didn't know. And it was lunch-time so I was the only one in ...' She stopped gabbling and looked at Rachel enquiringly.

'We've identified the dead woman and we've traced the person who did her hair. But thanks for coming in anyway. If I want to talk to you again, I'll get in touch.'

Denise Wellthorne gushed out her name, address and phone number and tottered out on her high heels.

'If only all hairdressers were as public-spirited,' Rachel commented cryptically to Bob before she disappeared upstairs.

'We can't hold him much longer without charging him.'

'Come off it, Wesley, we do know the rules down here, you know.'

'I don't think he did it, sir.'

'Put money on that, would you?'

Wesley shrugged his shoulders. Gut feelings were hard to put into words.

'We'll get an extension. We need more time. I'll tell the super. How did you get on with your skeleton, by the way? More work for us, is it?'

'Dr Bowman says it's murder, sir.'

Heffernan looked up sharply. 'Then why the h.e.l.l didn't you say? We'll have to get-'

'Don't panic, sir. It happened about four hundred years ago.'

'Thank G.o.d for that. As if we didn't have enough to deal with here. You'd best get back to our friend Fielding. We don't want him getting lonely, do we?'

Wesley nodded and returned to the interview room, where John was devouring a sandwich hungrily.

'You all right?'

John nodded. His solicitor, a balding man with the face of a middle-aged goat, scowled and looked at his watch ostentatiously.

'Can I see her?'

Wesley raised his eyebrows. 'See who?'

'Karen.' The reply was almost a whisper. 'I'd like to see her.'

Wesley sat down. 'Well, she's a bit ... it's not very ...'

'Please.'

'I'll see what I can do.'

Wesley nodded to the bored-looking constable in the corner and left the interview room in search of his boss. He found him in his office with a ham sandwich smuggled from the canteen.

'It's being arranged. Another thirty-six hours.'

'Fielding wants to see the body.'

'Not a pretty sight.'

'If he killed her, he'll know that already. What about this man she was supposed to meet?'

'Rachel's been on to the model agency she used. They say the man's a photographer, a Maurice Brun. It was arranged through the agency and he uses their models quite regularly. All seems to be above board. Rachel's trying to trace this Maurice bloke at the address the agency gave her but she's not had much luck. The agency reckon he could still be abroad. Do you think Fielding's ready for another little chat?'

Ready or not, John Fielding had no choice. The tape machine whirred into action and Heffernan resumed the questioning, this time on different lines.

'What happened to the child?'

John looked genuinely perplexed. 'What child?'

'She had a child recently, within the last couple of years. What happened to it?'

'She never had a child. Who told you she had?'

'The post-mortem showed ...'

'Well, it's wrong. Karen never had a baby. They must have got it wrong.'

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other.

Heffernan spoke. 'I believe you've asked to see the body, Mr Fielding?'

Chapter 14.

Master Mellyn hath begun the work upon the staircase. A new consignment of wool hath come into my warehouse so I must move the leather to the cellar which, thank the Lord, is good and dry.

Elizabeth is well and is a good wife to me once more. But I still think upon Jennet. I do try not to see her about the house. That is the best way.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,

25 May 1623

The smell of formaldehyde spoke to Wesley of unspeakable things. Standing behind John Fielding, he looked away as the attendant gently removed the sheet from the corpse's battered face. He was quite unprepared when Fielding took a step back, nearly knocking him off balance, and vomited onto the floor.

Taking John firmly by the arm, Wesley steered him from the room to join the uniformed constable waiting outside.

John gasped, eyes disbelieving, like one who had seen a glimpse of h.e.l.l. 'I never thought ... oh my G.o.d ... oh my G.o.d ...'

'Take him back to the station, will you.'

The constable nodded and took John's arm to steady him as he staggered away down the corridor.

Dr Bowman was an easy man to find. He greeted Wesley with a cheery smile and an amiable enquiry as to how the sergeant was settling down in Tradmouth. It was a full five minutes before Wesley had a chance to broach the subject of skeletons and murder.

'Almost definitely asphyxiation. I've done the relevant tests. Of course, we can't tell very much after four hundred-odd years, and we can't get the culprit banged to rights, can we.' He laughed at his witticism. 'She was female, early twenties. She'd given birth to a child at some stage; the pubic tubercle was present. It's a spur of bone that grows to support the uterus during pregnancy.'