The Bone Garden (27 page)

‘Carlotta’s ever-so-discreet new knocking shop, aye. And what did the lovely Lilly have to say for herself?’

‘She says she’s got something to tell me but she wouldn’t say what
it was over the phone. I’ve arranged to meet her at the Copper Kettle tea room in Tradmouth at ten.’

‘Well, go on then, Wes. Don’t keep the lady waiting. It is about Brian Willerby, I hope?’

‘Do you want to come with me?’

‘Oh, I think you’re old enough to be let out on your own, Wes – not like some people round here. Have you heard about Steve’s
little act of charity?’

‘Yes, Rachel told me. A good deed in a wicked world. Pity it was probably a con. It won’t do wonders for the development of
Steve’s better nature, will it?’

‘Has he got one?’ Heffernan replied automatically. Then he thought for a moment. ‘Wasn’t our Rachel settled with that Australian
bloke? What was she doing drinking bubbly with Pitaway?’

Wesley shook his head. This was one bit of station gossip he felt no inclination to share. ‘No idea,’ he said.

Gerry Heffernan’s mobile phone squealed loudly for attention. He took it from his pocket and grunted into it. After a cryptic,
one-sided conversation, he turned to Wesley.

‘Interesting news, Wes. The statues that were nicked from the pavilion have turned up in an architectural salvage yard. A
young PC on a routine visit spotted them, and you’ll never guess who the dealer got them from.’

‘Who?’ asked Wesley impatiently. He had too much on his mind to be playing guessing games.

‘They were sold to him by a builder he does a lot of business with … a Les Cumbernold.’

‘Who had a key to the pavilion and made it look like a break-in.’

‘Exactly.’

‘So do we pick him up?’

‘All in good time, Wes. We’ll pop over later for a cup of tea and a chat. Off you go, then. Don’t keep the lovely Lilly waiting.’

Wesley paid a quick visit to the gents’ to check his appearance before setting off towards his car.

Lilly’s slender body was encased in jeans and a checked cotton shirt. As Wesley approached the round oak table where she sat,
she looked up and smiled. She was pretty, beautiful even, but she had shed the exotic aura she had exuded when they had first
met.

‘Thanks for coming,’ she said as Wesley arranged himself on a Windsor chair after ordering tea from an elderly waitress. ‘I
thought it best if we met on neutral ground. I shouldn’t like Carlotta to think I’d been talking about a client. You can assure
me that my name won’t come into this?’

‘If that’s what you want. What do you want to tell me?’ He looked around. Fortunately the Copper Kettle tea room was half
empty, the height of the tourist season being over, and the nearby tables were unoccupied. Wesley hoped they stayed that way.

‘It’s about Brian Willerby. Look, I don’t know if this’ll have anything to do with his death. I read in the paper that he
was found dead under suspicious circumstances at a village cricket match. Is that right?’

Wesley nodded. ‘Yes. We’re treating it as murder.’

Lilly took a deep breath. ‘Well, it’s probably unconnected but … he liked a record, a photographic record of what we did,
if you see what I mean. He’d arrange a camera on the dressing table and set the timer. He described it as a little hobby of
his,’ she said with some bitterness. ‘I didn’t like it. I mean, if any of the pictures fell into the wrong hands later on
… I want to work in television and I couldn’t afford …’

‘Quite,’ said Wesley. ‘So did you object?’

‘I did at first but Carlotta said he was an old and valued client and very discreet and he assured her that the pictures were
for his own private use and would never be seen by anyone else. She said I had to go along with it so that was that. I didn’t
have much choice if I wanted to keep my job.’

‘Haven’t you considered getting a more, er, conventional job?’ he said, realising as soon as he’d spoken that he had probably
sounded disapproving. But sometimes being non-judgemental was hard work.

‘There’s nothing that would pay me so much for working so few hours. I see my friends slogging their guts out in bars and
shops and coming to lectures completely knackered. This is easy money and most of the clients are okay. They’re all vetted
by Carlotta, so you don’t get any nutcases or anything too kinky. So why not?’ she asked, a challenge in her voice.

‘Don’t your parents mind?’ Wesley heard himself saying, realising with increasing horror that he was sounding like a concerned
parent himself. But he couldn’t help thinking of what his own parents’ reaction would have been if they had caught even a
whiff of his sister
being involved in anything remotely unsavoury during her long years studying medicine in Oxford.

Fortunately Lilly didn’t seem to have taken offence. ‘They’re divorced,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Dad lives abroad, Mum’s
got a new boyfriend. Why should they care? I’m my own boss. I don’t answer to anyone.’

‘When did you last see Willerby?’ Wesley asked, relieved to move on to bare facts.

‘Friday night. The night before he died.’ She shuddered. ‘Creepy that, isn’t it.’

‘Did he mention anything he was worried about?’

‘No. He never talked about anything personal. Not like some of them. I didn’t even know if he was married. Some of them love
to talk. In fact they prefer the talking to the sex, I reckon … but not Brian. He seemed a bit uptight on that Friday night
but he never said why … and it didn’t affect his performance.’

She gave Wesley an apologetic smile. He averted his eyes and pretended to study the mouthwatering array of cakes displayed
on the counter near by. But somehow he didn’t think he could manage to eat one.

‘What are you studying at university?’ he asked after a few seconds.

‘English. Why?’

‘My wife read English.’ He smiled sadly and sipped his tea. ‘Why did you want to tell me about the photographs?’

‘Well, I thought if he had pictures of other girls they might have a motive for killing him if he was … if he was blackmailing
them.’

She paused. It was clear to Wesley that she was putting her own fears into words.

‘We’ve searched his house and his office I can assure you that no photographs were found.’

‘Perhaps he kept them somewhere else.’

‘If we did find any I can assure you they’d be treated in the strictest confidence,’ Wesley said, omitting to mention that
they’d probably be leered at by half the police station first. He drained his teacup then looked her in the eye for the first
time during their interview. He saw a vulnerability there, a softness that she kept well hidden. ‘You will be careful, won’t
you, Lilly?’ he said gently. ‘There are some very nasty people about.’

She brushed her dark silken hair back from her face. ‘I can take
care of myself,’ she said with brittle assurance. ‘I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about me.’

Wesley Peterson left the Copper Kettle tea room feeling mildly depressed.

‘So that’s what he used that darkroom for. The old goat,’ said Gerry Heffernan loudly. ‘And the lovely Lilly featured in these
pictures, did she? What I want to know is what’s happened to them. Has some worried ex-call-girl, now leading a blameless
life with her husband and kiddies and or with a respectable career, bumped off the man with the evidence of her colourful
past? And where does our dead man in the caravan come into all this? Was he an irate brother trying to get the pictures back
for the lady? Maybe he got into an argument with Willerby. He might have had the name of his college or local pub on his T-shirt
so he could be easily identified. What do you think, Wes?’

‘I think we should go and have another word with Mrs Willerby. See what she knows about all this.’

‘Do you think she knows anything?’

‘I find it hard to believe that she doesn’t. That darkroom had been thoroughly cleared out; everything neat and tidy but no
sign of any photographs. Either Brian repented of his wicked ways and cleared it out himself or Martha discovered it and got
rid of everything incriminating – maybe with the help of her brother.’

Heffernan nodded in agreement. Martha Willerby was hiding something. ‘You could be right, Wes. Let’s get over there. We’ll
walk; get ourselves a bit of exercise.’

They left the stable block in companionable silence, falling into step on the uneven drive that led out of the Earlsacre estate.
After a while Heffernan spoke. ‘We haven’t seen much of your mate Neil lately, have we? All the other times when you two have
been working near each other I’ve got sick of the sight of him. Is it that pretty dark-haired lass he’s taken up with or what?’

‘I think it’s Claire, yes. Normally Neil’s love life comes a poor second to his work, so it must be serious.’

‘Must be,’ said Heffernan, a faraway look in his eyes as he contemplated the joys of love from a safe distance.

They were nearing Brian Willerby’s house. As they passed Les Cumbernold’s bungalow, they noticed that Les was working in his
garden, clipping the front hedge into a neat square shape.

Wesley looked at his boss inquiringly but Heffernan gave a barely perceptible shake of the head. ‘He’ll keep,’ he muttered
under his breath.

Les spotted the two police officers but he carried on clipping obsessively, making no acknowledgement of their presence.

Martha Willerby must have been watching from her window because she opened the door when they were only half way up the garden
path. Wesley noticed that she looked anxious; there were dark rings beneath her eyes as though she hadn’t slept for several
nights.

‘Sorry to bother you again, Mrs Willerby,’ he said, unexpectedly feeling sorry for the woman. ‘Can we have a word?’

He allowed Martha to lead the way into the drawing room, wondering how to tackle the subject. What was the best way to ask
a newly widowed woman whether she knew about her husband’s visits to a brothel and his taste for featuring in erotic photographs?
There was no best way, he concluded. He’d just have to ask the questions and hope for the best.

But to his surprise Martha Willerby took it all remarkably calmly. She sat in a massive armchair facing them, her legs tucked
up beneath her in an almost childlike pose of comfort.

‘Of course I knew, Inspector. I’m not stupid, you know. Brian had certain tastes which I didn’t share. As for the photographs,
I burned them. As soon as I learned he was dead, I cleaned out his darkroom – I never normally went in it, of course, but
I knew it was there and what he used it for – and I burned everything in the garden incinerator apart from … well, I kept
back one photograph of each of the girls.’

‘Why did you do that?’ asked Wesley.

‘I don’t know why I did it but I thought that one day … I don’t know.’ She took a tissue from her sleeve and wiped her nose.

‘You intended to blackmail the girls?’ asked Wesley, mildly surprised.

‘I don’t know why I kept them really. Insurance? In case I started to remember Brian too fondly and needed to remind myself
what he was like? I really don’t know. But some instinct made me hold on to them.’

‘Can we see these photographs, love?’ asked Heffernan, trying to control his impatience.

Martha Willerby said nothing. She stood up and left the room. She must have hidden the pictures well because there had been
no sign of
them when the house had been searched before. Wesley and Heffernan sat in silence, waiting for her to return.

When she came back she handed the glossy coloured pictures to Heffernan without a word. There were five in all. The girls
he had chosen, paid for, were all of the same type: young, very pretty, dark-haired.

Heffernan looked through them but didn’t hand them on to Wesley, who noticed that his expression was uncharacteristically
solemn.

‘Did you ever have any dealings with these girls?’ Heffernan asked after a few moments. ‘Did any of them ring or call here?’

‘No, never. I wouldn’t have stood for that. As long as he kept his little tarts well away from his home I found that I could
tolerate his infidelities.’

Heffernan handed the pictures back to her. Wesley hardly liked to ask if he could see them, knowing that such a request would
earn a witty riposte from his boss. But he felt curious all the same.

‘Please keep those pictures safe, just in case we need to see them again,’ Heffernan said as he stood up to go.

Martha Willerby looked relieved as she saw them off the premises.

Heffernan waited until they were half way down the front path, well out of Martha’s earshot, before he spoke. ‘Come on. Let’s
go next door and bring in Les Cumbernold,’ he said with unseemly enthusiasm.

He surged on ahead, Wesley following with more on his mind than a pair of purloined garden statues.

They found Les Cumbernold still tending his garden, his bottle-blonde other half nowhere in sight. He looked up when he saw
the two policemen approaching, an expression of resigned dread on his chubby face.

‘We’ve been hearing tales about you,’ began Heffernan affably. ‘We’ve heard that you flogged a pair of garden statues to a
dealer in architectural antiques over near Neston … a pair of garden statues that match the descriptions of the ones nicked
from the cricket pavilion at Earlsacre on Sunday night.’

Wesley could almost see Cumbernold’s brain working with the effort to come up with some clever excuse. But he just wasn’t
up to it. ‘Prove it,’ he challenged.

‘We will, Les, we will. Your neighbour Brain Willerby, has he been burning anything in his garden recently?’

Les Cumbernold seemed rather startled at the sudden change of subject. ‘He’s got one of them incinerators; he uses it a lot.
He was using it last week.’ He looked relieved that the spotlight had moved away from his own misdeeds.

‘Was he using it on Wednesday?’

‘Yeah. I’m sure it were going on Wednesday … or was it Thursday? Why?’

‘What time was this?’

Cumbernold thought for a moment. ‘Early morning. Up at sparrow fart, he was.’

‘And this was Wednesday?’

‘I said, didn’t I?’