Chapter 22

“Good detective work, Tiggy,” Rupert says. “Please don’t tell me how you know Templeton. If it involves rabbit holes, I’d rather not know.”

In reply I tell him how many words I’ve written in between phone calls.

We decide to wait for Tremayne’s email until close of business today. Then if he hasn’t got back to me, Rupert will proceed as if Clemence can’t be found. He has other contacts in France who can help but if she’s gone to ground he’ll probably have to fly over.

The name Clemence hovers beyond my recall while I write an interview scene between Piper and a pompous member of Kelly Field’s camera club. Tremayne has helped me find this guy’s voice.

Just before 5pm, an email comes through, followed by his call.

“Clemence Gagner,” Tremayne says without preamble. “She’s not in good shape as expected and she’s snapped up the offer of Rupert stepping in to help. I vouched for him so I hope he’s as reputable as you say, Tiggy. And I will hold you to that drink next time you’re in the big smoke.”

I hope he can’t hear my teeth grit. Now I owe him a favour and he’s just the type to call it in. But we probably won’t be in touch again.

“Thank you, Tremayne. Your email has come through. Now I’d better get back to my book.”

“A 24-hour job. A bit like soliciting.” He laughs.

How did lawyers get called solicitors? I might look it up some time.

I forward Tremayne’s email to Rupert, noticing that Clemence’s last name is Gagner. Clemence Gagner is not the name I’ve heard before. The other Clemence had a different last name.

Another message pings on the burner phone.

Don’t trust CG.

I thought my text to Helena had inspired her to make contact again, but it’s clear Tremayne has been telling tales. They’re still in touch. And she’s not a fan of her brother’s fourth wife.

A zinger follows.

The killer is still at large.

Helena thinks Clemence killed Ambrose? A domestic killing? It would explain why the murderer seemed to have easy access to Number 24. Unless the door to the lane is often left unlocked.

‘Burglars notice these things,’ Tremayne observed.

But the police didn’t mention any signs of a burglary. Not that they were sharing their information with me.

I ring Rupert with Helena’s hint about the widow he’s going to contact.

“Are you worried about my safety, Tiggy? I think it’s in Clemence’s interest to keep me alive and manage the sale so she can get her percentage.”

“A percentage she doesn’t have to share with Ambrose.”

Rupert has witnessed the power of money over love, especially in cases where the pair selling their property are separating.

“Good point,” he says. “It makes splitting up their assets easier if he’s dead.” He stops then adds, “I’ll keep Helena’s warning in mind, though.”

He rings off and I send a short reply to Helena’s text to let her know I’ve seen it.

Noted.

Charlie Marsh sends another photo. At least it’s not another pub. This one even turns out to be useful for my book. It’s a page from a scrapbook. A yellowed newspaper article from thirty-five years ago with early details about Molly Crane’s death. Kelly’s death is mine to create but this extra information is a gift.

And where did Charlie find the scrapbook? Probably in the office of the Devon Wetlands Trust. If the staff followed the case back then – the tragic death of one of their volunteers – it makes sense that the scrapbook is still on the shelf. They may even have changed their protocols based on her accident, although Charlie was at Merton Mire on his own. Perhaps they log their daily schedule with where they’re going and when they’ll return so an early alert goes out if they don’t come back on time.

But why is he sending me this? Information that he thinks might be helpful for my book? Maybe Charlie is more like my first impression: a guy with hidden depths.

After saving it to my laptop, I enlarge it on the screen. The first line is an interesting way to describe a suspected theft.

Human Remains found at Merton Mire, Dartmoor

After police were alerted to the sudden appearance of a mysterious push-bike in the front garden of a house in Okehampton, a search for the real owner was initiated. While helping the police with their enquiries, the bike’s teenage finder admitted he’d thought it had been abandoned after observing it on two occasions a week apart hidden in bushes on Dartmoor. He eventually led them to the carpark of the isolated Merton Mire where they discovered human remains behind a gate kept locked to exclude the public.

The remains have now been identified as Molly Crane (22), an entomology student at the University of Exeter. She was undertaking fieldwork into the elusive Wolf Weevil as part of her studies. Cause of death is not yet determined and the police are treating Molly’s death as suspicious.

I read the piece twice looking for anything to enhance the scene in Death by Deception.

It’s the first time I’ve seen Okehampton mentioned, a town right on the edge of Dartmoor. With about 6000 people it’s small enough for residents to notice any new ‘prizes’ pilfered by their neighbours. Nothing else I can see. I already know the police jumped to their early suspicions based on what turned out to be weevil marks on Molly’s neck.

But the piece reminds me about Charlie’s creepy comment concerning the shrinking bog: ‘For women falling and hitting their heads, there’s less chance of drowning while they’re unconscious.’

I thought he was being rude about my ‘circus ring’ antics with the tripwire. And he seemed to be suggesting that women working in wild places are clumsy and should leave the rough stuff to the hairy-chested men – a sure way to stifle any budding friendship with me. (I recall my trek across the Simpson Desert with eleven people and sixteen camels, climbing on foot over 768 sand dunes, managing not to fall over once and not washing my socks or underwear for thirty days to conserve water for drinking.)

But what if he meant something else?

And now he’s sent me this article to follow up?

I read it again looking for something I’ve missed. I assume they identified Molly’s remains soon after they were discovered because the family had raised the alarm when she hadn’t returned from her ‘camping trip’.

My heartrate leaps. Is that a clue?

Why was she using her pushbike if she was going on a camping trip? It’s doable by bike but not without the right gear. The teen could also have helped himself to a couple of well-packed panniers but they would surely have made him wonder if the bike really was abandoned and if there might be someone injured nearby. Anyone growing up on the edge of Dartmoor would be alert to its lonely dangers.

If there were no panniers and Molly was planning to set out on foot from Merton Mire, did police find her backpack? Such a clue wouldn’t be mentioned in this kind of newspaper report especially when they were initially looking for a murderer.

These thoughts take me back to Kelly Field. Planning to make the murder look like an accident, the murderer would need to leave anything behind that police would expect Kelly to have with her. I’ve got that covered with the fake phone message and the phone dropped in the bog. What else? If she took a tote bag or daypack, could there be something in there that might become a clue?

Planting this idea for my subconscious to work on, I silently thank Charlie for the article and return to the book.