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dead woman’s floating coffin.

It took less than an hour to confirm that no one answering her description had been reported missing. And so far nobody with a boat moored in Tradmouth had admitted to missing a dinghy, a common type stowed aboard many of the vessels in the harbour.

The yachtsman who’d reported the body had been interviewed but he’d come upon it by chance and could tell them nothing more. By seven thirty Wesley was becoming impatient for some snippet of useful information to come in. A dead woman in full medieval costume cast adrift in a flimsy boat. If the yachtsman hadn’t seen her when he did, the dinghy would most likely have carried her out to sea where it would have capsized, taking her down into the depths with it. He was as sure as he could be that this had been her murderer’s intention; only she had been spotted before this convenient disposal could take place.

There was nothing much they could do until the team’s inquiries began to bear fruit so Wesley seized the opportunity to acquaint himself with the Jenny Bercival case. Ever since the dead woman had been discovered so soon after their visit to Jenny’s mother, the two cases had become entwined in his consciousness and he couldn’t banish the thought that the dead woman might be Jenny. After all, the physical description was similar.

He spent ten minutes comparing the latest crime-scene pictures with photographs of Jenny: a smiling graduation picture provided by her mother and a more casually posed holiday snap. When he’d finished he walked into Gerry’s office. The DCI looked up from the reports he was reading and his eyes lit up, as if he was grateful for the company.

‘Do you think our dead woman’s Jenny Bercival?’ Wesley asked as he sat down.

Gerry frowned. ‘To tell you the truth, Wes, it’s the first thing that occurred to me. I’ve sent Rachel to tell Mrs Bercival that a body’s been found. I didn’t want her to hear about it on the news.’

‘So you do think it’s her?’

Gerry looked uncertain. ‘There is a resemblance but…’

‘Is it worth getting Mrs Bercival to identify her? Or maybe a DNA test would be better. Then we’ll know for sure without the poor woman having to go through the ordeal of viewing the body.’

‘Good idea, Wes.’

‘I’ll arrange it tomorrow.’

‘What’s come in so far?’ Gerry asked.

‘Nothing much but it’s early days. It’ll be on the TV news tonight so someone might come forward with information.’

‘Either that or tomorrow we’ll have every nutcase and timewaster in the West Country queuing up at the door.’ Gerry gave a loud yawn. ‘Why don’t you get off home, Wes, and we’ll make an early start in the morning?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to leave at nine anyway ’cause it’s Rosie’s performance tonight.’ He gave a coy smile. ‘She said she didn’t want me there but… Well, you’ve got to show your support, haven’t you.’

‘What is it she’s doing?’

‘She’s in an early music group. Palkin’s Musik they call themselves. Musik spelled with a “k”. It’s medieval music played on original instruments. Sackbuts and hurdy-gurdies, that sort of thing.’

Wesley could tell that the boss was brimming with pride in his talented daughter. ‘Enjoy yourself,’ he said, edging towards the door. He’d already rung his wife, Pam, to say he’d be late and she’d sounded resigned rather than annoyed; then again she’d had long and bitter experience of his working hours during a murder investigation. There were times when he was afraid her patience would run out, though that was something he tried not to think about.

He often walked back home up Albany Street so retracing Jenny Bercival’s last journey wouldn’t take him out of his way. As he left the police station he wove through throngs of festival-goers, all dressed as if it was the year 1400. Wives, maidens, jesters, merchants, knights, peasants and kings and a