Free A Perfect Death by Kate Ellis

the excavations in the area and, although semi-retired, still took an active interest in the world of local archaeology.
     Neil picked up the phone and dialled his number.
    The conversation with Professor Maplin lasted almost an hour. Maplin lived alone and, once given the opportunity to talk with
     Neil about their favourite subject, interspersed with Maplin’s usual smattering of gossip and scandal, there was no stopping
     him. But by the end of the call, Neil knew he had learned something that might put him on the right track.
    An archaeologist called Dr Maggie March had been in charge of the Grandal Field dig. She had died tragically in a car accident
     shortly after the excavation ended. Then, strangely, her deputy had gone missing … along with the records of the dig.
    Neil poured himself a beer. This one needed some thought.
    ‘The moment you fly off to foreign climes, all hell breaks loose. Good to see you back, Wes. Sit yourself down.’
    Gerry Heffernan was grinning, showing a fine set of crooked teeth. Wesley had rarely seen anyone so pleased to see him. Something
     told him that things must be desperate.
    On his way in he’d met Rachel Tracey, who’d looked as if she’d like to throw her arms round him and kiss him but was exercising
     iron self-control. He’d told himself it was his imagination. She had a new man in her life – a city banker who’d downsized
     to a Devon smallholding with disastrous results until Rachel, with generations of farming experience behind her, had taken
     him in hand. At one time Wesley had felt attracted to Rachel, although neither of them hadacted on that invisible magnetism. But that was firmly in the past, he told himself. He had Pam and the kids.
    ‘So what’s all this about someone being set alight in a field?’ Wesley began. Gerry had told him the bare facts on the phone
     last night but now he was after the details.
    Once Gerry had supplied them, chapter and verse, and reiterated his suspicions that the Brights might be involved somehow,
     his face suddenly assumed a solemn expression.
    ‘And something else has come in. Someone torched a cottage last night – run-down place according to the locals. The fire was
     spotted by a couple of lads on their way to the Sportsman’s Arms and they raised the alarm. Luckily the fire engines got there
     in time to save quite a bit of the building. The place was waiting to be done up and the neighbours said it would probably
     be empty.’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘But the firemen found a body inside. The poor sod was in the part of the house
     worst hit by the fire. If he’d been upstairs he might have stood a chance. The fire investigators reckon it’s arson. The seat
     of the fire’s in the hallway and there’s traces of accelerant. They’re doing more tests but …’
    ‘So we’re treating it as murder?’
    ‘That’s right and we’ve already got a suspect … or suspects.’
    ‘So who is it?’
    Gerry Heffernan sucked in air through his teeth. ‘Go to your desk and switch on the Internet. Look up a site called “ www.PureSonsoftheWest.com .”’
    Wesley had to smile to himself. Gerry wouldn’t have a computer in his office. He was terrified of the things and claimed that
     if he ever touched one it would break immediately. He relied on the fact that his colleagues could journey into the world
     of high technology and report back.
    ‘The same ones who threatened the developer’s wife?’
    ‘The very same.’
    Wesley made for his desk and found the website. It was an amateurish effort but the message was clear. Second-home owners
     should get out of the West Country or there would be dire consequences – or ‘revolutionary action’ as the site put it. Wesley
     scrolled down to the next page. This was entitled ‘latest news’.
    ‘Last night,’ it said, ‘a cottage near Whitely caught fire. It belonged to an outsider who left it to rot while our own are
     homeless. The place was empty and