Free The Shroud Maker by Kate Ellis Page A

any complaint.

Gerry looked at his watch. ‘Ta, Paul, but I think I’ll have a word with this Dennis Dobbs myself.’ He stood up, looking at Wesley. ‘It’s about time we got some fresh air.’

Wesley followed him out of the office. Some people didn’t mind being stuck behind a desk directing operations once they reached the rank of detective chief inspector, but Gerry liked to speak to suspects and witnesses himself, saying it was the only way to get a feel for the truth. At this stage he liked to follow his instincts and only when they had the culprit was Gerry happy to hand them over to be interviewed by specially trained officers who would dot the i’s and cross the t’s for the Crown Prosecution Service.

It was a fine day and Wesley was glad to be outside, walking down the quayside, shading his eyes from the sun as he peered at the vessels moored on the river. The Palkin Festival and its attendant regatta had brought visiting boats from all over. He spotted a couple with French flags flapping on the stern and one sporting the Stars and Stripes. But most boasted the usual Red Ensign of British-registered vessels. Gerry himself was a keen sailor who’d restored a thirty-foot yacht called the Rosie May after his daughter who’d been eleven at the time and the apple of his eye. She was moored over the river at Queenswear because the fees were cheaper. Several times he’d invited Wesley to go sailing with him when they’d had a rare free weekend. Wesley had always made an excuse. He suffered from seasickness and knew his limitations.

They found the
Queen Philippa
moored at the end of a long wooden jetty that protruded into the river not far from where the new car ferry plied to and fro across the water. She was larger than her immediate neighbours and when Gerry spotted her he muttered his admiration. The
Queen Philippa
was a nice vessel.

‘Must have cost a pretty penny.’

‘You jealous?’ said Wesley with a smile.

Gerry snorted his disdain and walked off ahead down the jetty, halting by the bobbing yacht with its gleaming white hull, neatly furled sails and spotless deck. He cupped his hands and shouted: ‘Anyone aboard?’

Wesley caught up with him and stood beside him as he repeated the question, a little louder each time, disturbing the seagulls which increased their volume in reply. For a while there was no sign of life. Then the cabin door opened and a head popped out.

The man was in his mid twenties with an open face, bare torso and sun-bleached hair which fell in soft waves to his shoulders.

‘What can I do for you?’ He sounded confident, almost cocky.

‘Dennis Dobbs?’

‘Who’s asking?’

‘Police,’ said Gerry, flashing his warrant card.

The young man’s cockiness suddenly vanished. ‘Den’s gone into town.’

‘And you are?’

‘I just crew for him.’

He jumped up on to the deck with almost feline grace. Wesley could see he was endowed with muscles most men would envy and a deep tan that hinted at time spent in sunnier climes. If it weren’t for his public-school accent he might have been mistaken for an Australian surfer.

Gerry asked him his name and he hesitated before replying. ‘Jason Teague. Look, if Den’s in any sort of trouble…’

‘No trouble,’ said Wesley smoothly. ‘We’re making routine inquiries concerning the murder of a woman whose body was found near the mouth of the river yesterday.’

‘I heard about that. It’s terrible.’

‘Can we come aboard?’ said Gerry, sick of having to conduct the conversation from the jetty.

‘Be my guest,’ Teague said with casual confidence.

Gerry stepped on to the deck and Wesley, after a moment’s hesitation, did likewise. Gerry put out a hand to steady him as he climbed aboard. Once safely on the deck, Wesley took a deep breath. Boats made him uncomfortable. Even when he took the short ride across the river on the passenger ferry, he was only too pleased to get off at the other side.

Jason led