The Flesh Tailor by Kate Ellis Page B

trampled on the site, the better.
    This was the first anomaly the geophysics had shown up, the one nearest the burials the Persimmons had found. As Neil dug
     his thoughts kept turning to that attic room. But he knew that if he dwelt on it, it might lead to sleepless nights. Half-seen,
     half-understood things always held the most horror.
    Dave was squatting in the trench they’d created, scraping away at the ground. Neil stepped cautiously into the area beside
     him and adjusted his kneeling mat before lowering himself to his knees and taking his trowel from his coat pocket. At first
     they worked without speaking until Dave broke the expectant silence.
    ‘I’ve got something here.’
    From the way he said it, Neil knew that his fears were about to be confirmed. ‘What is it?’ He leaned across to look at the
     place where Dave was digging and saw something like yellowed ivory emerging from the darkness of the soil. Bone.
    ‘Could be animal of course,’ Dave said, trying to sound optimistic.
    Both men carried on digging. Soon another piece of bone appeared beneath Neil’s trowel.
    ‘We’ll photograph this,’ he said quietly, reaching for the digital camera and the measuring stick that lay on a plastic tray
     at the edge of the trench.
    Carefully recording every new bone that emerged from its shroud of Devon earth, they continued in silence.
    Then, as the sun began to set and the rooks startedcrying from the trees that stretched their bony branches up to the darkening sky, the skeleton appeared, whole and articulated
     as before. It lay grinning up at them as though it was pleased to have some attention at last; as though it had kept its secrets
     for many years and now wanted the truth about its fate to come out into the light.
    ‘How many more of them are down there?’ Neil said softly and he put down the camera.
    Dave sat back on his heels and shook his head.
    All patrols were on the lookout for the hire car driven by Brian and Syd Trenchard, or rather the two men who were calling
     themselves Brian and Syd Trenchard.
    When Wesley returned to the incident room at Neston Police Station, the first thing he did was to examine their witness statements.
     They’d certainly said nothing that aroused suspicion. The two men had hardly known Dalcott; had had no relationship with him
     whatsoever as far as anybody knew. They’d claimed to have been out visiting friends at the time of the murder and returned
     to find the floodlit circus of a full crime scene investigation had landed on their doorstep. Bit of a shock, they’d told
     the officer who’d spoken to them. But now it looked as if they might have been lying. Especially as the address they claimed
     they were visiting in Morbay didn’t exist.
    It was five o’clock and dark outside and Wesley could see car headlights passing the window. The view was very different here
     in the open-plan ground floor office at Neston to the vista they enjoyed in the CID office at Tradmouth – the view over the
     Memorial Gardens to the River Trad with its bobbing yachts and the steep town of Queenswear on the far bank. He found that
     he missed it:he hadn’t realised it before, but staring out at the river helped him think.
    When his mobile phone rang he looked at the name of the caller and discovered that it was his sister.
    ‘Hi. How are things?’ he said.
    He heard Maritia sigh. ‘Everyone’s in shock at the surgery. The receptionists have started a charity collection in his memory.
     Everyone – all the patients – have been coming in. Some have been in tears. Nobody’s talked about anything else all day.’
    ‘How’s Evonne?’
    ‘She was here this morning but she had to leave at lunchtime. She was too upset.’
    ‘Understandable.’
    ‘Mind you, Keith Graham …’ She hesitated.
    ‘What about Keith Graham?’ Wesley hoped he didn’t sound too eager, but he really hadn’t taken to the retired senior partner.
     Or his wife, for that matter.
    ‘He’s