'Looks like it.'

'So how did he come by the injuries?'

'Now that's where I did a bit of detective work.' He chuckled. 'Don't worry ... I'm not going to apply to join CID at my time of life.'

'Go on,' Wesley prompted. Dan was an amiable man, one of the old school, and his retirement do when Chief Superintendent Nutter would present him with the requisite clock/garden tools/television set was booked for later in the year. He and Heffernan knew from experience that Dan preferred pleasant chit-chat to stating the bare facts. He wasn't a man to be rushed.

'Well, it turns out that I overheard a mate of Andy's saying that Pinney had dropped some food or threw it more like and Andy had to mop it up. Do you get my meaning?' He almost winked. 'Mop. Water. Slippy floor.'

Gerry Heffernan's smile started small at first then widened to a Ches.h.i.+re cat grin. 'Pinney fell on the slippy floor and thought the chance of getting one up on Steve was too good to miss.'

'And n.o.body thought to check the sequence of events till now.' Wesley tried to keep the reproach out of his voice. Maybe if the victim hadn't been Steve who wasn't exactly popular in some quarters, the enquiries would have been more a.s.siduous.

'We've been rather busy,' Dan said righteously. 'There's a lot of villainy about, you know. Now summer's coming and there're more yachts to nick from and tourists' cars to break into. All the records were there ready if there was an official investigation. I'd not had time to examine them, that's all.'

'I know, Dan. I'm not blaming you,' Wesley said quickly. 'It's just a pity Andy never thought to put two and two together.'

Gerry Heffernan thanked Dan profusely as he left and when they were alone he scratched his head. 'I suppose we'd better let the nutter know. At least we'll have another body to help with the investigation.'

'Who's going to confront Pinney? I think he'll tell the truth once he knows he's been rumbled.'

Wesley's mobile began to ring. He answered it and, after a short, monosyllabic conversation, he ended the call and frowned.

'Trish wants to meet me. She says she's got some new information about Charles Marrick something she doesn't want to discuss over the phone.'

Heffernan raised his eyebrows. 'You get going then, Wes. And while you're out I'll have a word with our Mr Pinney ... and this time his brief'll be miles away.' He thought for a moment. 'No. On second thoughts, I want his brief there. I want him to realise what a slippery little liar his ill.u.s.trious client really is.'

Wesley left him to it and drove out to Rhode, wondering what Trish Walton's new information could be.

Neil Watson needed help. He'd called Annabel at the County Archives first thing that morning to ask her if she could dig out any more about Veland Abbey something that would prove once and for all in writing that Stow Barton was the place where the monks had been sent to be bled and enjoy a spot of rest and relaxation. Annabel said she'd do her best and he knew she'd be true to her word.

He had allocated trenches to the more experienced diggers first thing that morning before giving the four students starting the dig that week their introductory talk and health and safety briefing. The diggers' staggered breaks would start soon and the site office would be used for refreshments, but until then, Neil had a few minutes to catch up on his paperwork. He sat down at the makes.h.i.+ft desk a plank supported by two milk crates and began to sort through some geophysics printouts and aerial photographs of the site that showed quite clearly where the manor house walls had once stood.

The trenches they'd opened were yielding good finds mostly high-status medieval stuff with a smattering of Tudor green pottery which dated from the time Veland Abbey was dissolved by Henry VIII. Normally he'd have been pleased as a pig in muck if a dig was going this well but he felt uneasy. Perhaps it was the letters. Or perhaps it was the pit filled with the dark deposit that might be blood probably was blood if it was a seyney house. And if it was the seyney house, his letter writer had got it spot on. And this thought unsettled him.

He looked up and saw Lenny standing in the doorway. He was wearing his Indiana Jones hat as usual and he was staring at Neil as though he was in some sort of trance.

Neil forced himself to smile. 'Hi, Lenny. What can I do for you?' he asked with as much bonhomie as he could muster ... which wasn't much.

Lenny took a step into the room, the sound of his muddy boots thudding on the hard packed floor. 'Have the tests come back yet?'

'What tests?' Neil knew very well what he meant but he wasn't going to make it easy for him.

'That pit. It's blood. I told you it was a ritual site.'

'As soon as I hear anything from the lab, I'll let you know,' Neil said smoothly. 'Found anything in your trench so far this morning?'

'Only more oyster sh.e.l.ls. I think we should dig through all this medieval stuff and get back to the ...'

Neil stood up, raising himself to his full height. 'While I'm in charge, Lenny, we dig this site properly scientifically or not at all. If there's an earlier settlement, we'll find it sooner or later.'

'But I'm only booked in for another couple of weeks. What if ... ?'

Neil took a deep breath. 'The site diary will be on our website so you can keep up to date with any developments.' He spotted Diane in the doorway. 'Diane, come in,' he said eagerly. 'Lenny was just going back to his trench, weren't you, Lenny?'

Lenny took the hint and left slowly, reluctantly.

'Having problems?' Diane asked when he was out of earshot.

'Our Lenny's got his own agenda and monastic manor houses don't feature in it, I'm afraid. To him it's a bronze age ritual site ... probably a place of human sacrifice ... and he won't be told any different.'

A shadow pa.s.sed across Diane's face. 'Is it possible that he's right that the monastic complex was built on an earlier site?'

'The landscape work we've done doesn't suggest it. I reckon Lenny's just got a fixation.' He paused. 'With blood and sacrifice.'

Diane said nothing. She turned to go.

'It was good of you to drop by yesterday. I was at a bit of a loose end and ...' He was aware his words were clumsy but she turned round and gave him a shy smile.

'No trouble,' she said.

He had a sudden urge to confide in her but something stopped him. Perhaps he'd wait and see what happened. Maybe if he just played it cool the problem would go away. And Wesley had the letters the police were involved. Perhaps if the writer got to know that, it'd scare him off.

'I'd better get back,' Diane said, almost as though she wanted Neil to stop her ... to ask her to stay with him. But then he had the dig to think about.

'Okay,' he said. 'I promised Norman he could do some surveying. Will you ... ?'

She nodded and hurried away, Neil staring at her disappearing back.

Wesley had left DC Lee Parsons to go through the missing persons records: they needed a name for their skeleton in the woods. Male, probably aged between thirty and forty with a watch, trouser zip, an a.s.sortment of b.u.t.tons and a few fillings. He'd also told Lee to check out whether any of the guests at Sunacres Holiday Park had gone missing but he'd drawn a blank on that one. The park's owners had only been there five years and they claimed that nothing untoward had happened in that time. The previous owners were being traced but these things could take time.

Wesley enjoyed the drive out to Rhode, on the high winding road with the wide expanse of hazy sea down to his left. Charles Marrick probably hadn't appreciated all this beauty, Wesley thought to himself. By the sound of it, he'd been a greedy, self-centred man. Not the sort to count his blessings.

Trish Walton was waiting for him on the doorstep of Foxglove House. She was hopping from foot to foot like an excited child and her expression told him that she had some momentous information to share. As he opened the car door, she rushed towards him. 'Sorry I couldn't tell you over the phone but it's rather delicate.'

Trish led the way, walking down the drive, away from the house. Whatever she had to tell him, it would be something that shouldn't be overheard. He fell in by her side and they walked until they were out of sight of the upstairs windows, sheltered by the glowering rhododendrons, 'Well?' he said.

'Charlie Marrick was a rapist, sir. He raped his stepdaughter, Petronella.'

'You're sure about this?'

Trish looked annoyed. 'She wasn't lying. No way.'

Wesley made conciliatory noises. 'Sorry, Trish. I had to ask.'

Trish looked embarra.s.sed, suspecting she'd overreacted. But then she'd been with Petronella for the last few hours, in an atmosphere of heightened emotions, so it was hardly surprising. 'I'm sorry, sir. It's just that I've got to know her ... and I'm feeling angry that he could get away with ...'

'Well he didn't get away with it, did he? He's dead.' He paused, knowing he was about to say something that Trish wouldn't like. 'You realise this makes Petronella a suspect, don't you?'

'She was up in Bath at the time. She can't have had anything to do with it.'

'Has her alibi been checked?'

'She hasn't really got one. She said she was alone all day off work doing some Open University essay but ...'

'She had a good reason for wanting Marrick dead.' He sighed. 'In common with a lot of people, I should imagine. What about the other thing ... Annette Marrick's relations.h.i.+p with Fabrice Colbert? Has Annette said anything?'

'She told me she'd had an affair with him quite boastful she was. They used to meet here when Charlie was at work. They used the bedroom.'

Wesley smiled. 'By the way, he's not French you know. He used to be a minor villain called Darren Collins in a former life. Did a cookery course in the nick, went to Paris, had some cosmetic surgery, learned his trade in a top restaurant, changed his ident.i.ty and the rest is history.'

Trish shook her head in disbelief. 'I've seen him on telly. I can't believe he's not French.'

'Oh he's got the act off pat now. But the one thing he couldn't change was his fingerprints. If it wasn't for the fact that he left them all over Annette's bedroom.' He smiled. 'And probably all over Annette herself, we'd have been none the wiser.'

'Anyway, according to Annette it's all over now. It finished when Colbert found out about the wine scam.'

There had been times when he'd underestimated Trish but she had done well. 'Can you check exactly where Petronella was at the time of Simon Tench's murder?'

Trish nodded. 'I was here on Sat.u.r.day night around that time and she did go out for a while. She said she was going into Neston to the supermarket. They're open till ten on a Sat.u.r.day. She came back with some shopping ... just bits and pieces. I a.s.sumed she just wanted to get out of the house. Annette isn't the easiest person to live with.'

Wesley thought for a few moments. 'As well as double-checking her story, maybe you can get her to talk about the people she knows ... see if there's any way she could have met Simon Tench.'

Trish gave him a martyred smile. 'I'll have a go.'

'You're doing well, Trish. They trust you now,' he said. A word of encouragement never went amiss.

To DC Lee Parsons the world of CID had seemed a far more glamorous prospect than dealing with messy traffic incidents and shepherding drunks on a Friday night. But the reality hadn't really lived up to his expectations. Ninety-nine per cent of CID work, he'd discovered, was dull routine: taking statements, checking facts, writing up reports and making mundane phone calls ... all in the hope that somehow, somewhere a connection would be made and the pieces of some complex jigsaw would fit into place.

He kept telling himself that, as the new boy, he got all the c.r.a.p jobs. But even so, it was better than being in uniform. And at least he could tell any girls he met that he was a detective which sounded more impressive than a plain police constable a wooden top. And there was one girl in particular Sarah who seemed rather impressed by his inside knowledge. He was definitely on a promise.

However, one piece of news that day had rather taken the spring out of Lee's step. It was all round the office that DC Steve Carstairs was coming back. Word had it that the accusations against him had been dropped. Lee didn't actively dislike Steve but he'd noticed that the office was certainly a more relaxed place when he wasn't there. He'd met the likes of Steve before. Jack the Lad with a fast car, sharp clothes and a swagger that told the world he was G.o.d's gift to policing. When Steve returned, Lee would keep his distance.

Lee turned his attention to his computer. Missing persons. Males in early middle age. From a few phone calls to watch manufacturers, he had discovered that the watch found near the body was a mid-range model available throughout the country around twenty years ago and discontinued in 1987.

Then there was the dental work. He'd sent the details to all the dentists in the area but nothing had come in as yet. However, Devon was the sort of place that attracted outsiders so he might have to search further afield. And there was always DNA of course. Samples had been taken but that sort of thing took time.

As he trawled the missing persons database for likely candidates, the plastic bag containing a gold signet ring caught his eye. It had been caked in the soil around a skeletal middle finger, barely visible until the bones were lifted from their resting place and cleaned up a little. Strange, Lee thought, that if it was a case of murder, n.o.body had attempted to bury the body. It must have been there for years lying in the undergrowth in a tangled spot of woodland where only wild animals prowled.

After an hour of searching, Lee concluded that no man of that age and height who had gone missing in the South Hams area around the relevant time remained unaccounted for. Whoever it was hadn't been missed. n.o.body had reported his disappearance. Either that or he'd come to Devon for some reason after being reported missing elsewhere.

Perhaps the man had travelled miles and had died alone, either from natural causes, accident or by his own hand, in that strange, isolated place. The thought made Lee Parsons feel rather sad.

DI Peterson's arrival in the office interrupted his thoughts. He looked across at Lee and smiled encouragingly. Lee hadn't known many people from ethnic minorities before but Peterson was okay. He didn't make you feel stupid ... not like some.

'How's it going, Lee?' Peterson said, approaching his desk. 'Got a name yet?'

Lee shook his head. 'I don't think he came from round here, sir. n.o.body answering the description was reported missing in Devon during that period of time.' He blushed. 'Well, there were three but they've all been accounted for. No luck with the dental records either. I think I'm going to have to try further afield. Maybe we'll have some luck with the DNA.'

'Let's hope so.' Wesley picked up the plastic bag containing the ring.

'I was just going to have a look at that, sir. There might be some initials or ...'

Wesley couldn't help smiling at the young man's puppyish enthusiasm. 'I'll leave it with you then,' he said before making for Gerry Heffernan's office.

Ten minutes later Lee Parsons had discovered that the signet ring bore the initials BI. And as he rushed to the DCI's office to report his findings, he felt rather pleased with himself.

Rachel Tracey was relieved when the doorbell rang. Emma Tench's parents were expected but they seemed to have been a long time coming. Various domestic and work arrangements and a bad traffic jam on the M5 caused by an overturned lorry, had conspired to keep them from their daughter's side but now they were here.

Rachel tactfully stood back and tried to be un.o.btrusive during the tears and embraces. Emma had seemed too stunned for coherent thought and she hadn't been able to provide much information. But Rachel sensed that she was glad of her presence ... of not being left alone with her pain. She'd sat for hours watching the DVD of the programme she and Simon had made together. House Hunters. She and Simon had been guided from property to property all cottages in the Tradmouth area similar to the one they were renting by a hyperactive blonde presenter. As Rachel watched the episode with her, time and time again until she knew everything they were going to say before they said it, she thought they seemed a nice couple. Intelligent but uncomplicated. The sort of people who just want to get on with their jobs and their lives. Not the sort of people who get murdered unless they are in the wrong place at the wrong time and the killing is motiveless. The more Rachel watched Simon Tench being led, good humouredly, from room to room, the more puzzled she felt.

Now that the victim's widow was in the care of her parents who seemed, in Rachel's opinion, a nice sensible couple further questioning seemed inappropriate. Besides, Rachel was sure she'd learned all she was going to learn from Emma Tench. The next thing on her list was a visit to Simon's work colleagues.

She drove to the veterinary practice on the road out of Tradmouth and parked in the car park. A car drew up beside her and disgorged a large woman with two equally large dogs Irish wolfhounds, Rachel thought. Beautiful creatures. At the surgery entrance they met a woman carrying a basket containing a black cat with large, frightened eyes. One of the dogs gave a half-hearted bark for honour's sake but fell silent when its mistress gave a yank on the lead.

At reception she flashed her warrant card discreetly at a young woman in a nurse's uniform. She needed to have a word with Mr Tench's colleagues. The young woman's eyes immediately filled with tears as if she'd been suppressing her emotions all day and now the dam was about to burst.

'He was a lovely man,' she began to sob. 'And so nice with everyone. It's awful, it really is. Was it a burglary? I heard it was a burglary.'

Rachel wondered how this story had got about. Someone had speculated and the theory had been taken as gospel, she supposed. It usually happened that way.

Fortunately she didn't have to wait very long amongst the dogs, cats, rabbits and a.s.sorted rodents. It amazed her how quiet and well behaved they all were. It was as though the creatures had agreed a temporary truce for the duration of their visit. Dogs wouldn't bark at cats, cats wouldn't chase rodents and so on. Or perhaps it was the atmosphere of the place that cowed them. They knew exactly why they were there.

While she was waiting, Sam Heffernan came out of one of the rooms off the reception area to call in a patient a dopey-looking spaniel. He spotted Rachel and smiled. She smiled back. Keep on the right side of the boss's relatives. After a while a middle-aged man in a white coat, who bore a pa.s.sing resemblance to a friendly Labrador, emerged from another room, walked over to her and shook her hand.

'I'm afraid I have to ask you and your colleagues some questions about Simon Tench, Mr Wicks.'

'Terrible business,' Peter Wicks, senior partner in the practice, muttered as he led her into his surgery. He looked at Rachel and frowned as if he'd forgotten something. 'I know you, don't I? Isn't it Rachel? Rachel Tracey? Little Barton Farm. You're Harry and Stella's daughter.'

Rachel smiled. Peter Wicks had been looking after the beasts at Little Barton for years now. Not that Rachel had had anything to do with that side of the farming business. She'd left all that to her father and brothers while she and her mother along with her sister-in-law looked after the holiday lets that were so essential to make ends meet.

'I trust all is well,' the vet said with professional politeness, making conversation. Maybe to get away from the unpleasant subject of murder.

'Fine as far as I know. I moved into a place of my own a few months ago.'

Wicks nodded earnestly. 'Of course. I was there for a complicated calving back in March and Stella mentioned something about it.'

Rachel said nothing, mildly annoyed with her mother for discussing her private living arrangements. But then the farming community was close knit: people took an interest in each other's business so it was hardly surprising.

'So what would you like to know about Simon? I can tell you now that he didn't have any enemies. He was popular with everyone a good man and a good vet. He'll be sorely missed.'

Rachel had heard eulogies like this before about the recently dead. But this time, she knew it was meant sincerely. Simon Tench had been liked. Loved even. And his murder seemed to make no sense.

'It was a random attack surely. A robbery gone wrong.'

'I'm afraid it doesn't look that way, Mr Wicks. We think Simon was deliberately targeted. There was no sign of anything missing.'

Wicks shook his head. 'I find that so hard to believe. Who'd want to ... ?'