The Jackal Man (16 page)

Vicky put on some music, loud enough to disturb the rest of the family in an ordinary house but in Vicky’s house her parents
and her brother were too far away to be bothered. Or even most of the time to be aware of her existence.

The first thing Vicky did was to change out of her school uniform. She couldn’t wait for the freedom of university after the
prison of Neston Grammar. Nobody would tell her what to do there, she thought – not that anybody told her what to do at home.
Her parents were busy with work and social functions and she could come and go as she pleased. It was only school that reeked
of childhood restrictions – and that would soon be an unpleasant memory.

She had picked up the local evening paper from the doormat on her way up to her room and carried it up to her flat, throwing
it down on the coffee table before going to her bedroom and changing into jeans and a low-cut top. When she returned she
noticed that her friends, who had made themselves comfortable, sat up to attention on the edge of the sofa. She sat down,
crossed her long legs and gave Peony and Sarah a patronising smile. They relaxed again, like troops who’d just been ordered
to stand at ease, and, as Vicky picked the paper up, they watched her, gauging her mood, ready to hear her plans for that
coming weekend, preparing to hang on her every word.

But before Vicky could turn to the relevant pages, she froze, staring at the front page.

‘What is it, Vic?’ said Sarah. ‘Something the matter?’

Vicky slung the paper back onto the coffee table. ‘It’s her … the girl who was murdered.’

Peony’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘What about her?’

‘She works for him. She’s his au pair.’

‘You mean your older man? You mean Clive?’

‘He talks about her. Even had the nerve to mention her name in bed once. I told him once that it got on my tits the way he
went on about her sometimes. Analise this and Analise that.’

‘You think he fancied her?’

‘He always said he didn’t. I told him that his cow of a wife is one thing, but when it comes to screwing the au pair …’

‘Was he?’

Her lips twitched upwards in a bitter smile. ‘I told him if he ever did I’d kill her.’ She paused. ‘But I can trust you two
to keep that to yourselves, can’t I?’

When Vicky began to laugh, the others looked down in embarrassment. As a friend Vicky was exciting and unpredictable. But
the absent Jen had always warned them that one day she’d go too far.

My dinner with Sir Frederick was to be the first of many and each time we dined alone. I realised after a while that he always
waited until John was away from the house before he summoned me, which I considered most thoughtful. We did not speak of John,
of course, but I was certain that his father was aware of his true nature.

One evening when I returned to my bed chamber after handing my young charges over to their nursemaid to be put to bed, I found
upon the bed a blue silk gown of such exquisite beauty that I could not resist seizing it up and holding it against me as
I swirled in front of the mirror. As I’d swept it off the bed a note had fluttered to the floor and when I read it I discovered
it was from Sir Frederick. ‘A gown of beauty for a woman of beauty,’ it said. ‘Please wear this tonight when we dine.’

I had no difficulty in complying with my benefactor’s request and we spent a blissful evening together. First we dined and
then we went to the museum where Sir Frederick – or Frederick as I called him now – entertained me with more tales of Egypt.
He told me how he had broken into the richly painted tomb of a woman in Thebes – a court musician –
only to find all the paintings of the dead woman defaced and papyri beside her coffin bearing execration texts – curses to
exorcise malignant ghosts. She had been a murderess, he said, who had killed for the joy of it and had been cursed by her
victims’ kindred. He had brought these texts back with him and he promised to show them to me and translate their meaning.
I told him I would be honoured to gaze upon something so rare and he told me that I was a rare woman indeed to appreciate
such things. I insisted that I would never tire of hearing his stories and we talked late into the evening.

Then, as it was a warm summer night we walked in the garden, breathing in the scent of the roses. And when he kissed me I
raised no objection and felt a longing in my body that I had never before experienced.

Clare Mayers put on her usual brave face when her mother appeared in the living room wearing her new trousers and a sparkly
top, a little too low cut for decency.

Karen Mayers had already had a couple of drinks – why pay pub prices when you’ve got a bottle handy in the kitchen? Clare
knew the telltale signs: the voice that was just a little louder than normal and the new-found eloquence. Karen always said
that she could take on the world with a few vodkas inside her.

Tonight she was off to the karaoke evening at the Red Lion in Whitely. Clare hoped that she wasn’t going to make a fool of
herself. She hated the thought of word getting round and Vicky smirking and whispering behind her back at school. Clare would
be glad when this final year at Neston Grammar was over and Vicky had gone off to university to spread her poison in some
distant town. Sometimes, in her darkest hours, she had even wished that Vicky was dead.
There had even been times when she had contemplated betraying her nasty little secrets … but she was afraid of the repercussions
at school.

Clare heard a car horn outside and then the slamming of the front door. Her mother had gone off in a taxi. If she’d said she
was scared to be alone after what had happened to her, Karen would have told her not to be such a baby. She was old enough
to cut loose from her mother’s apron strings. Not that Karen had ever worn an apron in her life: she had never been that sort
of mother.

Clare switched on the TV, spread her English essay notes out on the coffee table in front of her and stared at them, not quite
knowing where to start.

Hamlet, in her opinion, was an irritating, self-centred idiot. Too much thought never did anybody any good; she had tried
it and it only made everything worse. Especially when she thought of Alan Jakes.

Finding herself in bed with the man who had been her mother’s lover had seemed romantic at first: Heathcliff carrying Cathy
off across the moors in his strong arms, united despite society’s disapproval. Back then she’d seen it as an opportunity to
give herself a modicum of worldly glamour – to imitate Vicky’s exciting existence. But now, in retrospect, the whole thing
seemed sordid. Now she knew that Alan Jakes was a dark, good-looking, charming egomaniac who enjoyed wielding power over women,
power he couldn’t exercise in his everyday life as a garage mechanic’s mate, taking orders from colleagues and customers.
Alan Jakes had been all charm at first and he’d made her feel like the grown-up woman she longed to be. But she’d soon discovered
that he liked to be in control. He’d scoffed at her ambitions to go to university and he’d made her do things in bed and in
the back of his van
that she hadn’t particularly enjoyed; humiliating things that now made her heart shrivel with embarrassment. Sometimes he’d
frightened her and laughed at her fear, his eyes shining with pleasure. It had taken a few weeks for the truth to dawn: Alan
Jakes was bad news.

His reaction had been violent when she’d told him their liaison was over. No girl ever finished with him, he’d told her as
he banged his tightly clenched fist down on the table a few inches from her face. He’d sworn to teach her a lesson she wouldn’t
forget and those chilling words still echoed in her head. When he left the house that day, slamming the door behind him, she
had sat there tearful and shaking until her mother returned from work. But she knew she’d receive no sympathy from the woman
she’d replaced in Jakes’s dubious affections, so she had nursed the secret of her clandestine affair and Karen had interpreted
her distress as teenage sulks. She knew that if she’d told Karen what had really gone on, her mother would have been furious
– then she would have laughed and said that if you play with fire you get burned.

After that Jakes had disappeared from her life for a few weeks and she’d begun to feel safe again … until she’d seen him
in the Anglers’ Arms, staring at her with a knowing smile playing on his lips. He’d said nothing but she knew he was watching
her every move, his eyes boring into her back. And then Vicky hadn’t let her share the taxi so she’d been left to start her
long walk down that dark lane alone.

The police had shown her that model of the man with the dog’s head and she wondered why Alan had chosen to terrify her like
that. There was little doubt in her mind that it had been him. He’d promised to teach her a lesson. And she’d known that he’d
meant violence.

She could hear the wind blowing hard outside, bending the trees until they creaked and groaned, and she could see rain drops
shivering on the window panes. She walked across to the window and grasped the thin curtains in both hands but before she
pulled them closed she couldn’t resist peering outside, scanning the lane for the dark-blue van with stickers on the windows.
His van. It wasn’t there but that meant nothing – he could have parked it down the lane out of sight.

She shut the curtains with a violent jerk and hurried to the kitchen. Had her mother remembered to lock the back door? There
had been so many times when she’d forgotten.

She didn’t switch the kitchen light on. Instead she tiptoed across the room, her eyes adjusting to the dim moonlight filtering
in through the window, and when she tried the back door handle she was relieved to find it locked.

After grabbing the cordless phone from the worktop she heard the door handle rattle. Once. Twice. He was out there and he
wasn’t giving up. Her heart was thumping now, so loud that she was sure he could hear it. But she stood motionless, praying
he’d think the house was empty and go away.

Then she heard a voice, muffled on the other side of the glass. ‘Open the door, Clare. I only want to talk.’ Jakes’s tone
was wheedling, persuasive, just as it had been when he’d wanted to get her into bed. It was hard to believe that it was the
same voice that had issued such vile threats. ‘Let me in, Clare. Come on. It’s pissing down out here.’

Clare felt the tears stinging her eyes. The handle rattled again and she retreated into the hall on tiptoe. Then she heard
breaking glass and she froze with terror, pressing her back against the cold hard wall of the narrow hallway.

She felt the phone in her hand. Her lifeline. She couldn’t
see the buttons in the dark so she rushed into the living room and dialled 999. He’d hurt her once and he wasn’t going to
do it again.

When Wesley arrived home at eight o’clock the hall smelled faintly of disinfectant. He found Pam watching TV, engrossed in
her favourite soap opera, a pile of school books on the coffee table awaiting her attention. The kitten lay curled up asleep
beside her. Wesley could see the little furry body moving up and down with each breath.

Pam looked up and gave him an absent-minded smile. ‘I suppose you want something to eat?’

‘Gerry and I had a takeaway back in the office,’ he said as he slumped in the armchair and stretched out his legs. ‘Have you
heard about the murder?’

Pam sat forward and the kitten, disturbed by the movement, opened its eyes. ‘What murder?’

‘Didn’t you see it on the news?’

‘I had a staff meeting tonight so I was back late. Mum picked the kids up from school. Who’s been murdered?’

‘An au pair from Tradmouth. Her body was found near the road leading to the castle.’

‘Any suspects? Jealous boyfriend?’

Wesley hesitated. ‘We think there’s a connection with the attack on that schoolgirl near Hugford.’

Pam’s hand fluttered up to her mouth. ‘I thought you’d linked that to the assault in Neston.’

‘We’re not ruling anything out at the moment.’

Pam looked him in the eye. He could see that the news worried her. ‘Do you think he’ll do it again?

‘It’s early days.

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘I suppose it’s a possibility,’ he said quietly. ‘I saw Neil today.’ He thought the change of subject might take the anxious
expression off her face. She had to drive back from school alone in the dark and, like every other woman in the area, the
spectre of a murderer waiting in the shadows would be there at the back of her mind till the killer was caught.

‘I thought he was working at Varley Castle.’

‘He is. But I needed to ask him something.’ He decided not to mention the Egyptian connection for now as Gerry had decided
that the information shouldn’t yet be made public. Besides, it would only prey on Pam’s mind just as it was preying on his.

‘Has he threatened to pay us a visit?’

‘He sends his love. How’s the cat?’

Pam reached out a hand and ruffled the little creature’s fur. It began to purr loudly. ‘Getting under my feet. Making the
kids over-excited. Depositing a lot of puddles and worse in the litter tray which I have to clean out because nobody else’ll
do it. But apart from that …’

Before she could continue, Wesley’s mobile phone began to ring. He saw Pam roll her eyes as he answered it. Now she’d been
told about the murder she knew full well what the next few weeks would hold. And he knew that after all this time she’d become
resigned to it. Although sometimes, in dark hours, he feared that one day she’d lose patience.

When the call was finished he turned to her, assuming his most apologetic expression. ‘Sorry. That was the station. There’s
just been a 999 call from the girl who was attacked in Hugford. She was in her house alone when a suspect tried to break in.
Uniform’s out looking for him. But if they bring him in I might have to go back to the station. I’ll go and say goodnight
to the kids,’ he said, levering himself up from the
clinging depths of the chair. He touched Pam’s hair and she looked up.

‘Don’t get them onto the subject of The Kitten, will you. They’ll never get off to sleep.’

Wesley promised. The word ‘kitten’ wouldn’t pass his lips. And if he read them a bedtime story it would be dull and soporific
with no mention of felines whatsoever.

‘And can you clean her litter tray out again while you’re up?’ she called to his disappearing back.

As he climbed the stairs he had an uneasy feeling that the tiny ball of fur was destined to rule the house with a paw of iron.
He smiled to himself as he tiptoed towards Amelia’s room.

But when he reached the landing, his mobile started to ring again and he shot into his bedroom to answer the call: the last
thing he wanted was to bring a pair of curious children out of their bedrooms to investigate.

The voice on the other end of the line was female and unfamiliar. Whoever it was didn’t identify herself but Wesley could
tell she sounded young and definitely nervous.

‘I thought you ought to know,’ the voice said, ‘Vicky Page has been sleeping with the man that au pair worked for – the one
who was murdered. I just thought you should know.’

‘Who am I speaking to please?’ Wesley asked, trying to make the words sound casual.

But the line went dead and he discovered that the caller’s number had been withheld. Whoever it was had said all they had
to say. A simple statement. No involvement.

Clare Mayers’s friend, Vicky, had been having an affair with Clive Crest. At last he’d found a connection between the two
girls.

*

Neil arrived at Varley Castle on Thursday morning only to find that there was no sign of Andrew Beredace’s car. As he was
staying at a pub nearby, Neil had expected him to be there first. However, when Caroline Varley answered the door she explained
that Andrew would be late because he had to telephone various museums and universities – calling in favours.

She looked a little agitated and Neil was soon to discover the reason why. She led Neil into the drawing room and invited
him to sit. ‘Andrew told me about the murder … about the statue of Anubis on the body.’

Neil stared at her. ‘I don’t think he should have told you. The police like to keep things like that to themselves.’

‘Well, I’m hardly likely to go blabbing to all and sundry, am I?’ she answered sharply. ‘At least Andrew said the statue was
a fake so it can’t have come from here.’

‘There was no suggestion that it did.’

‘It’s just so awful.’ She pulled a tissue from her pocket and crumpled it in her fingers.

Neil watched her, not quite knowing what to say. The murder of the au pair and the way her body had been desecrated was horrible.
But Caroline hadn’t known her – there was no reason, as far as he knew, why she should be so upset.

Before he could enquire further Robert Delaware walked in. The phrase ‘as if he owned the place’ passed through Neil’s mind.
There was certainly something proprietorial about the way he strode into the room. And he looked smug, as though he’d just
scored a victory of some kind.

‘How’s the book going, Robert?’ he asked, trying to sound casual. He didn’t particularly like Robert Delaware and he was surprised
that Caroline had allowed him to plant his feet
so firmly under her table. However, his arrival had distracted her from the news of the au pair’s murder and she stuffed
the tissue back in her pocket.

‘Well,’ Delaware said. Neil saw him glance at Caroline and he suspected the book would take as long to write as it suited
him to take advantage of her hospitality.

‘Whereabouts in Tradmouth do you live?’ Suddenly Neil had an urge to build a mental picture of Delaware’s life. Perhaps it
was idle curiosity. Or perhaps something about the man had aroused some suspicion he wasn’t quite ready to put into words.

‘I have an apartment in Ford Street.’

‘You mean a flat over one of the shops?’

Delaware gave him a sideways look. ‘You know Trad mouth?’

‘A friend of mine lives there. I think I mentioned him … he’s a policeman.’

There was an awkward silence and Neil knew this was the perfect opportunity to ask the question that had been on his mind
for days. ‘You never did tell me the full story about John Varley and those women he was supposed to have murdered.’

Delaware’s eyes flicked toward Caroline. ‘I don’t think Caroline wants to be reminded of … It was her great uncle, after
all. Skeletons in the family cupboard and all that.’ He cleared his throat and turned to Caroline. ‘I take it you’ve had a
look through Sir Frederick’s journals, Caro?’