that’s no problem. Her dental records are back at the surgery too. Will you come along yourself?’
‘When would be convenient?’
‘First thing Monday?’
‘I’ll be there.’
Bowles looked into her eyes. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’
‘Me too,’ she said before she could stop herself. If Rachel could see her now, she’d tell her she was being unprofessional.
And that was the last thing she wanted.
An hour after she returned to the incident room, she received a call. Bowles had called into his surgery on the way to his
appointment and had looked at Tessa Trencham’s file. She’d given her address as Lister Cottage,St Marks Road, her date of birth was the 1st April 1972 and she had no underlying medical conditions or elaborate dental work.
He ended by saying he was looking forward to seeing her on Monday when she brought him the dead woman’s dental chart for comparison
with his records.
Never before, in Trish’s experience, had anybody made the subject of teeth sound quite so appealing.
Kevin Orford’s message had been terse – quite rude really. ‘Meet me at Catton Hall at three o’clock.’ He had ended the call
without waiting for an answer.
As it was the weekend Neil had been looking forward to a day of leisure, catching up on his reading and leafing through some
of the archaeological journals that had piled up on his coffee table. Then he’d planned to meet some post-graduates for a
drink and to discuss the strange proposed excavation at Catton Hall. He’d assumed Orford would realise that the arrangements
would take a day or two to finalise. But it looked as if the man didn’t inhabit the same planet as lesser mortals who had
to work for a living.
He toyed with the idea of sticking to his original plan and not turning up. Why should he be at the beck and call of a man
he considered to be a pretentious fool? He’d looked him up on the Internet and learned that his previous projects included
the pile of rotting oranges, with which he had triumphed at the Turner Prize exhibition; the hundred naked men eating takeaway
pizzas on the Millennium Bridge over the Thames and his twelve-foot-tall tower of rotting apples in a field next to Heathrow
Airport. Then there were his smaller works, so beloved ofwealthy collectors: the plastic fruit arranged in a toilet bowl; the Union Jack made from discarded meat bones. His creations
hit the news and he was taken seriously by the art establishment and notable collectors, so if Orford was a fool, he was a
fool with money. The way things were in the world of archaeology at that moment, Neil’s unit needed all the cash it could
get so at half past one, he climbed into his old yellow Mini and set off down the A380, hoping he wouldn’t get held up by
the Morbay holiday traffic.
He arrived at Catton Hall at ten past three, reasoning that being just a little late would make a point. Orford had specified
the hall rather than the field where they had last met, so Neil drove through gates topped by a pair of stone eagles, one
missing a head, the other a wing. The drive was rough and pitted and he drove slowly, fearing for the Mini’s suspension, but
eventually the house came into view. It was long and low and built of a rough, brown-grey stone that blended perfectly with
its surroundings. He guessed that the stone had originated at the disused quarry near Fortress Point; somehow local materials
always made a building appear in harmony with its surroundings. It was hard to tell the age of the house. This was no grand
fashionable dwelling to impress the neighbours. It sat solidly in the landscape and had been constructed without a thought
to passing design fads. This was the timeless seat of the local gentry.
There was no sign of Orford – or anybody else for that matter – so Neil parked on a patch of weed-infested gravel in front
of the house and walked up to the front door. If anyone expected him to use the
‘When would be convenient?’
‘First thing Monday?’
‘I’ll be there.’
Bowles looked into her eyes. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’
‘Me too,’ she said before she could stop herself. If Rachel could see her now, she’d tell her she was being unprofessional.
And that was the last thing she wanted.
An hour after she returned to the incident room, she received a call. Bowles had called into his surgery on the way to his
appointment and had looked at Tessa Trencham’s file. She’d given her address as Lister Cottage,St Marks Road, her date of birth was the 1st April 1972 and she had no underlying medical conditions or elaborate dental work.
He ended by saying he was looking forward to seeing her on Monday when she brought him the dead woman’s dental chart for comparison
with his records.
Never before, in Trish’s experience, had anybody made the subject of teeth sound quite so appealing.
Kevin Orford’s message had been terse – quite rude really. ‘Meet me at Catton Hall at three o’clock.’ He had ended the call
without waiting for an answer.
As it was the weekend Neil had been looking forward to a day of leisure, catching up on his reading and leafing through some
of the archaeological journals that had piled up on his coffee table. Then he’d planned to meet some post-graduates for a
drink and to discuss the strange proposed excavation at Catton Hall. He’d assumed Orford would realise that the arrangements
would take a day or two to finalise. But it looked as if the man didn’t inhabit the same planet as lesser mortals who had
to work for a living.
He toyed with the idea of sticking to his original plan and not turning up. Why should he be at the beck and call of a man
he considered to be a pretentious fool? He’d looked him up on the Internet and learned that his previous projects included
the pile of rotting oranges, with which he had triumphed at the Turner Prize exhibition; the hundred naked men eating takeaway
pizzas on the Millennium Bridge over the Thames and his twelve-foot-tall tower of rotting apples in a field next to Heathrow
Airport. Then there were his smaller works, so beloved ofwealthy collectors: the plastic fruit arranged in a toilet bowl; the Union Jack made from discarded meat bones. His creations
hit the news and he was taken seriously by the art establishment and notable collectors, so if Orford was a fool, he was a
fool with money. The way things were in the world of archaeology at that moment, Neil’s unit needed all the cash it could
get so at half past one, he climbed into his old yellow Mini and set off down the A380, hoping he wouldn’t get held up by
the Morbay holiday traffic.
He arrived at Catton Hall at ten past three, reasoning that being just a little late would make a point. Orford had specified
the hall rather than the field where they had last met, so Neil drove through gates topped by a pair of stone eagles, one
missing a head, the other a wing. The drive was rough and pitted and he drove slowly, fearing for the Mini’s suspension, but
eventually the house came into view. It was long and low and built of a rough, brown-grey stone that blended perfectly with
its surroundings. He guessed that the stone had originated at the disused quarry near Fortress Point; somehow local materials
always made a building appear in harmony with its surroundings. It was hard to tell the age of the house. This was no grand
fashionable dwelling to impress the neighbours. It sat solidly in the landscape and had been constructed without a thought
to passing design fads. This was the timeless seat of the local gentry.
There was no sign of Orford – or anybody else for that matter – so Neil parked on a patch of weed-infested gravel in front
of the house and walked up to the front door. If anyone expected him to use the
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