The Flesh Tailor Read Online Free PDF Page B

sounded pretty sure. Said there appear to be two human skeletons in the trench.’
    The words echoed in Wesley’s mind. Two human skeletons. A double murder. His heart began to beat faster. If two victims were
     buried on the site there might be more.
    He tried to tell himself that it was probably a couple of animals; that whoever had seen white bones against the dark earth
     had panicked, thinking the worst. But the more he tried to convince himself that there was nothing to worry about, the more
     his mind kept creating horrifying scenarios: going back over old missing person cases, the discovery of more bodies, blanket
     press coverage. The terrifying prospect of a serial killer operating on their patch. But he was jumping the gun. Pam had always
     accused him of being too pessimistic.
    ‘Has anyone gone to have a look?’
    ‘A patrol car’s attending the scene. We’re waiting to hear back from them but I thought you’d want to know. Just a moment,
     that could be them now.’
    While Paul took the other call, Wesley wondered whether to mention the matter to Gerry. But he decided to wait. The tall lanky
     Paul, with his enthusiasm for athletics and Trish Walton, was a good officer but he was inclined to be rather cautious, even
     pedantic. When he came off the phone, however, his voice was deadly serious.
    ‘Yes, that was the patrol, sir. The bones are definitely human and there appear to be two individuals in the grave. Uniform
     are requesting a CID presence right away. And scientific support’s been called. They’ve requested an archaeologist too, sir
     … to help with the digging. I think that friend of yours from the County Archaeological Unit has been called out.’
    ‘Fine,’ Wesley heard himself say. He hadn’t seen Neil Watson for a couple of weeks as he’d been up in Exeter catching up on
     his post-excavation paperwork. ‘We’re in the middle of interviewing a witness in the Dalcott case but I’ll let the DCI know
     about the development,’ he said.
    ‘How soon can you get down to Tailors Court? It’s just outside Tradington off the Neston road.’
    Tradington again. James Dalcott had lived and died in Tradington. But there could hardly be a link to a pair of skeletons
     in a field. It was just an unfortunate coincidence. Bad timing.
    ‘I’ll be over as soon as I can,’ Wesley said before ending the call.
    DS Rachel Tracey had been given the job of breaking the news to Dalcott’s widow. Somehow she suspected that MrsDalcott wouldn’t be a widow of the grieving variety. She had taken up with a younger man and abandoned her boring husband
     so, who knows, Rachel thought, she might even welcome the tidings of James’s death. It would probably solve a lot of her problems.
    She’d discovered Rosalind Dalcott’s new address from the owner of Trad Itions who’d received her call at seven-thirty that
     morning. He hadn’t seemed pleased at being awoken at such an unearthly hour on a Sunday, especially as he told Rachel that
     he’d been at a party and only arrived home at three in the morning. She sensed he had bitten his tongue, knowing that being
     rude to a police officer isn’t usually advisable.
    Rachel was surprised to learn that Roz Dalcott rented the flat above the shop where she worked. The place had been empty so
     Roz had moved in there with her new partner which had been a satisfactory arrangement for everyone. They were no trouble,
     paid some rent and kept an eye on the premises.
    When Rachel arrived outside Trad Itions at nine o’clock it was raining and the streets were deserted. In November all but
     the hardiest of tourists had scurried back to their own towns, leaving Tradmouth to its residents. The building that housed
     the gallery was tall and half timbered, one of a row of similar late medieval dwellings saved from the attentions of overenthusiastic
     town planners in the early part of the twentieth century by some good fortune which hadn’t extended to its