A Painted Doom (40 page)

There followed a career as an investigative journalist on a Scottish newspaper, then his breakthrough into television,
where his single-minded disregard for the feelings of others had made him a force to be reckoned with. Then came the day when
his researcher introduced him to a has-been rock star called Jonny Shellmer. If he’d known about the meeting he would have
avoided it. But it was thrust upon him suddenly, Shellmer being a last-minute replacement for another ageing pop singer.

He had seen Jonny watching him, his brain working overtime. Then Jonny had uttered the fateful words – ‘you remind me of someone’.
But Jack had bluffed it out, said that it was impossible. They had never met before. But Jonny had an excellent memory for
faces and, as the months passed, he had become more and more certain of the truth.

Jack had bought his retreat in Derenham from Jim and Maggie Flowers. He didn’t know why he chose Derenham. Of course, it was
the up-and-coming place for those in the media to have their weekend places, and the semi-resident actors, author and weatherman
had spoken of it in glowing terms. Jeremy Sedley had come on his show to publicise his new TV series, and he had talked fondly
of his new home in Derenham: a heaven on earth on the banks of the River Trad.

The people Jack had known from his childhood years might still be there. But it never occurred to him that his new identity
wasn’t impenetrable. Such was his supreme self-confidence that he thought his return would present no problems. In fact he
found it rather amusing to see people he had known; people like Terry Hoxworthy, whose father’s farm and barn he had used
as a summer playground. It gave Jack great pleasure to nurse his secret; to pass them in the village street and watch their
faces as they recognised Jack Cromer off the television – but not James Simms, who had left them far behind all those years
ago.

But there was one ghost from the past he couldn’t ignore. Local gossip had it that Jonny Shellmer, ex-lead-singer of Rock
Boat, was moving to the village: he had decided to
leave the bustle of London and settle in the countryside.

Then came the telephone call; the one he’d lied to the police about. It had been no wrong number; the caller hadn’t asked
for Jim Flowers. It had been Jonny Shellmer and he wanted to arrange a meeting. Jonny was staying in Whitely and said that
he would meet him at a property in Derenham he was interested in buying: it was somewhere private where they wouldn’t be disturbed.
He’d rung on the Sunday and Jack had told him that Wednesday would be convenient. He needed time to think.

For the first time in years James Simms – or Jack Cromer – was afraid. If his past were revealed to the media, if Angela came
back into his life like an avenging angel, he’d be finished.

When he met Jonny, his worst fears were realised. Jonny said he’d been uneasy when they had met for the interview; his mannerisms,
the way he scratched his nose, his habit of brushing imaginary fluff off his trousers, had seemed familiar. Jonny had a phenomenally
good memory and these things were etched on his brain. How could he not remember the boy who’d violated Angela and left him
to take the blame and be sent away? Since their meeting for the TV interview, Jonny had made enquiries into Jack’s background.
He had studied old photographs, and he had become more and more convinced that Jack Cromer wasn’t who he claimed to be.

Jonny had told him that he had been fond of Angela and had never forgotten her. He had looked for her and had found her living
in Neston. They had been seeing each other, getting on well, although it was early days and Angela was still vulnerable.

She’d kept apologising, Jonny said, for the fact that she had been so traumatised that she hadn’t spoken up, that she had
let Jonny be blamed. But now she was beginning to feel that, with Jonny’s encouragement and support, she might be able to
reveal the truth about what happened.

She’d spoken of some old letters that had put the idea
into James’s head all those years ago – medieval letters written by a family called Merrivale that he had spoken of that afternoon
up in the hayloft. Jonny was trying to get hold of them to see if they held any useful evidence. He was determined that eventually
justice would be done. This had sealed Jonny Shellmer’s death warrant.

Jack had taken a gun he had obtained on some foreign journalist mission with him – just in case. If Jonny were seen to have
committed suicide then, even if Angela’s story did come out, everyone would assume he had been responsible – just another
nasty abuser. It would hit the tabloids for a few days, then Jonny Shellmer would be forgotten under a blanket of public distaste
– the pop star who had raped his own sister before his days of fame. Just another degenerate old has-been. He shot Jonny at
close range and put the gun beside his body. His car was left parked outside the Old Vicarage: suicide in an empty house.
Simple.

Jack had been concerned when the police appeared to be treating it as murder. But he’d kept his head down and stayed away
from Derenham as much as possible without arousing the suspicions of his wife, which hadn’t been difficult, he said, as she
wasn’t the brightest of women.

The history evening, of course, had been a long-standing engagement, and it would hardly have been good public relations to
have let the village hall appeal down.

And he had had to ensure that Angela didn’t cause him any trouble – who knew what ideas Jonny had put into her empty little
head? He had visited her at her pathetic little shop, he said with a sneer. He had waited until she was alone and then walked
in, like any other customer. The look of fear on her face when she saw him said it all. Jonny had been talking to her.

He persuaded her he wanted to talk, and once they were out of sight of any passing member of the public, he hit her with a
stone angel he’d picked up from the shop display. Then he opened the till and took all the money so that the police would
assume that robbery was the motive. The
blow hadn’t killed her, and he was about to finish the job when he was disturbed by someone entering the shop: he made his
escape through the back. He should have kept his head and killed her, he said with regret: leaving her alive had been a big
mistake. He’d have done Angela a favour really, he assured Wesley, looking him in the eye. She had turned out very strange,
very strange indeed. A sad woman.

Wesley looked at his boss and saw the look of disbelief on his face. Jack Cromer had long since ceased to consider those not
in his élite circle as human beings. There was no regret, apart from the obvious one that he’d been caught.

‘What about the young lad you were going to burn alive in the barn?’ Gerry Heffernan snapped.

Cromer shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’d seen him push a note through my door. It said he’d seen me coming away from the Old Vicarage
the day I shot Jonny. I took a short cut I knew over the Hoxworthys’ land. The stupid kid had the barefaced cheek to say that
two thousand pounds left in the old barn would ensure that he kept his mouth shut. I found him and took him to the barn, where
I planned to teach him a lesson he wouldn’t forget. Boys play in barns and barns have been known to burn down. Problem solved.’

‘You’d have burned down a barn with a fifteen-year-old kid in it?’ Wesley leaned forward, looking Cromer in the eye, searching
for some feeling, some emotion, some regret. But he saw none.

‘It would be taken for an unfortunate accident.’ He turned to his solicitor and smiled. ‘Besides, the boy was blackmailing
me. I was doing your job for you, Inspector – ridding the world of a criminal.’

‘He’s fifteen.’ Wesley was struggling to keep his temper.

Cromer shrugged his shoulders and his cashmere jacket fell to the floor.

Wesley looked at Gerry Heffernan, who was sitting beside him, seething. It was time for a break.

Wesley had returned home at three in the morning. He was
due to resume questioning Cromer at 9.30. It was Sunday, so he crept out of bed, leaving Pam snuggled beneath the duvet, dozing
until Michael demanded her attention.

They hadn’t spoken since last night. Not surprisingly she had been asleep when he had finally made it home. Wesley made his
way to the kitchen and poured some cornflakes into a bowl. He took it through to the living room and ate on the sofa. On the
coffee table in front of him were two empty beer cans: Pam had had a visitor last night in his absence. Neil probably. He
felt a momentary pang of envy which he quickly dismissed as being a product of exhaustion. Then he looked at his watch. It
was time to return to the police station.

Bob Naseby, standing behind the reception desk holding a Sunday morning cup of tea, greeted him with a wide grin.

Wesley was about to climb the stairs to the CID office when Bob called him back. ‘Nearly forgot, there’s a gentleman to see
you. He’s waiting in Interview Room One. He asked to see DCI Heffernan but I told him he’s busy. I expect you’ll do,’ he added
with a wink.

Wesley made for the interview room, wondering who the visitor could be, and he was surprised when he saw Jim Flowers sitting
there, clutching a plastic cup which had recently contained the liquid that passed for tea in Tradmouth police station.

Flowers stood up. ‘I’ve come to make a statement.’

‘If you could give me some idea of what this is about, sir …’

‘Four years ago I, er, made a statement to the police.’ He hesitated. ‘And I’ve found out since that I, er, made a mistake.’

‘You want to change your story?’

‘Yes … no. I want to add something to it.’

Wesley prepared to write. ‘Very well, sir, let’s start at the beginning.’

‘It’s about a man called Heygarth. I was having a drink with him one night and …’

Wesley looked up. ‘Would this be the night a Mrs Kathy Heffernan was killed in a hit-and-run accident?’

Flowers swallowed hard and looked guilty. Then he nodded. ‘Paul was driving. The car was never stolen. I never actually lied.
I just said that I was in the pub with him and he left.’ He looked down, studying his hands, avoiding Wesley’s eyes. ‘But
what I didn’t say is that Paul came back an hour later and said that he’d had an accident and that he was going to report
that his car had been stolen and get one of his girlfriends to back up his story. He’d had a bit of drink and he was panicking.
I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong at the time.’

‘Except not telling the police the whole story,’ said Wesley, looking Flowers in the eye.

‘I didn’t want to get involved … you know how it is. And I had to work with him – we’re business partners.’

‘Go on. What happened next?’

‘He was going to dump the car and he asked me to follow in mine and give him a lift to this girl’s place in Morbay.’

‘And did you?’

Flowers nodded, shamefaced. ‘I didn’t like to say no. And at that time I didn’t know anyone had been hurt. I just thought
it was to avoid a drink-driving charge. I know it was a stupid thing to do but …’

‘What has made you come forward now?’

Flowers sat up straight in his plastic chair. ‘I’ve never been comfortable about it, especially when I heard that a woman
had been killed. It’s been on my conscience, but sometimes it’s easier to keep your head down and do nothing, know what I
mean?’

Wesley nodded. He knew what he meant, all right. ‘But why tell us now?’

‘It was Nicola, who I work with – she told me that she knows the dead woman’s husband, sings in a choir with him. She said
he was a good bloke and that got me thinking how I’d feel if some bastard did that to Maggie. It makes one hell of a difference
when you know someone, doesn’t it
– they’re like … a real person, not just a name in a newspaper.’ He hesitated. ‘And besides, Paul’s just let me down big time
and I don’t reckon I owe him anything any more.’

Wesley nodded and began to write. It looked as if Kathy Heffernan was going to get justice after all.

It was finished. James Simms, also known as Jack Cromer, was charged with the murder of Jonny Shellmer and with the attempted
murders of Angela Simms and Lewis Hoxworthy. Angela’s condition continued to improve, and the doctors expected her to make
a full recovery. It seemed that she would be all right physically – but Wesley feared what the future held for her. Jonny
had made a difference to her life; he had put her on the long, steep road to recovery. But Jonny was gone.

Paul Heygarth had been picked up and charged with causing Kathy Heffernan’s death. Gerry hadn’t seen him and had said nothing
since Wesley had broken the news to him. He had scurried into his office and hadn’t emerged since. Wesley guessed that he
wanted to be on his own.

He walked to Rachel’s desk. ‘I’m off to Derenham now to see Terry Hoxworthy. Are you coming?’

Rachel shook her head. Wesley wasn’t disappointed. If he went alone he could visit the dig; talk to Neil and find out about
his nocturnal visit.

He arrived at Hoxworthy’s Farm just in time to meet Terry emerging from the doorway of the old barn.

‘How’s Lewis?’

‘Quiet. I think he’s had a bit of a shock … hasn’t moved out of his bedroom since it happened. I asked him before if he was
off out to meet his mates and he just said no.’

Wesley didn’t comment. Presumably Terry didn’t know about his son’s feeble attempt at blackmail, and he didn’t intend to be
the one to tell him. ‘I expect he’ll be giving you a hand with the farm work,’ he said, making conversation.

Terry rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘You never know your
luck.’ He hesitated. ‘What’s happened to Simms?’

Wesley took a deep breath and told him about James Simms’s confession. When he had finished Terry said nothing for a few seconds.
He was still taking it in.

‘I can’t believe that I never recognised him, that no one realised who he was. Mind you, he was always a nasty bit of work,
was James.’ Terry held out his right hand to Wesley. He turned it over to reveal a shiny scar running across the flesh. ‘When
we were kids he held my hand over an electric fire. He would have kept it there only Jonny stopped him.’