A Perfect Death by Kate Ellis

Neil looked at him, puzzled.
    ‘You didn’t mention Rowe. Does she know yet?’
    Wesley shook his head. ‘She met Rowe in Carcassonne. I intended to tell her right away but now I think I should really tell
     her face to face … pick the right moment.’
    ‘But he wasn’t exactly a friend, was he?’
    Wesley had to acknowledge that Neil was right. Pam had been on little more than nodding terms with Ian Rowe and, although
     she’d be shocked at the news of his death, she’d hardly be grief-stricken. But before he talked to her, he wanted to get things
     straight in his head. And a chat with Neil would help him do just that.
    The pub was ideal. Low-beamed and cosy, it served a good pint but, as both men were driving, they made do with shandy instead.
     Wesley didn’t have to be a detective to know that most of the clientele were tourists. In the winter the landlord struggled
     to keep going. What he made in the summer would tide him over for the whole year.
    They found a corner table, tucked away from the main bar. It was quiet here. Wesley sat down and took a long drink. He was
     thirsty.
    Neil looked round. ‘Wonder how the new housing development will affect this place. Might not be good for the tourist trade
     but I suppose there’ll be regulars all year round. Swings and roundabouts.’
    ‘How big’s the development going to be?’
    ‘Twenty houses. Half detached, half what they call cottage-style town houses.’
    ‘And I expect they’ll go for a good price.’
    ‘I’ve heard he plans to flog them for half a million apiece. But planning permission was given on the understanding that ten
     per cent of them should be what they describe as affordable.’
    Wesley almost choked on his shandy. ‘Affordable to whom? Russian billionaires?’
    ‘You’ve got a point there,’ Neil answered with a smirk. ‘Somehow I can’t see Jon Bright letting two of his money boxes go
     to the peasantry for a knock-down price.’ He took another swig of shandy. ‘If he was going to be that generous, I might have
     bought one myself. Now tell us about Ian Rowe.’
    Wesley gave him an account of the bare facts. How Ian Rowe had accosted him as he and Pam were having a romantic evening stroll
     along the ramparts of Carcassonne. How they had arranged to meet the next day and how Rowe was worried about someone he knew
     – a woman called Nadia. Rowe had arranged another meeting the next morning but he hadn’t turned up. However, Wesley had obtained
     copies of emails sent by Nadia which seemed to confirm Rowe’s story and throw up some intriguing possibilities. As he spoke
     it helped to clarify things in his mind. Nadiashould really be the focus of his investigations. The car near Owl Cottage belonged to her so presumably Rowe had seen her
     on his return to Devon. Or maybe things weren’t that straightforward.
    Neil frowned. ‘This Nadia woman might have contacted him. If he found out she was in danger of some kind he might have come
     rushing back.’
    Wesley sighed. Neil could well be right. Perhaps Nadia was the reason for Rowe’s sudden return and not the letter from Sir
     Martin Crace that he’d received on the day of his disappearance. ‘What do you remember about Ian Rowe?’
    ‘I remember he used to fancy himself. And he was more into mind-altering substances than archaeology. He dropped out after
     he failed his second-year exams, didn’t he?’
    Wesley nodded. Neil’s recollection of Rowe’s depart-ure from university was as vague as his own. By that time they were moving
     in entirely different circles.
    ‘I remember he was a bloody pain when we did that fieldwork in Somerset. He was supposed to be recording our trench and he
     was doing doodles of cartoon characters instead.’ Neil sounded quite indignant.
    ‘His heart certainly wasn’t in archaeology, I’ll give you that.’ He paused, collecting his thoughts. ‘It looks as if he might
     have had some connection with Sir Martin Crace.’
    Neil