The Jackal Man (22 page)

Jakes looked puzzled. ‘You what?’

Before Wesley could reply Gerry gave him a slight nod and stood up.

‘Well, thank you, Mr Jakes. We’ll be in touch.’

‘You mean I can go?’

‘We’ve no reason to detain you for the moment. But don’t leave the area, will you? We might need to speak to you again.’

‘Do you think he’s telling the truth?’ Wesley asked as they walked back to the incident room.

‘I’m pretty sure he’d never seen Anubis before.’

‘He didn’t recognise it as the mask Clare’s attacker was wearing.’

‘He only caught a glimpse … and in spite of the full moon that lane must have been pretty dark. And I don’t really think
Analise’s murder is his style. Do you? And can you see him researching into the John Varley murders? ’Cause I can’t.’

Wesley didn’t answer. He was keeping an open mind.

As soon as Wesley returned to the incident room, Paul Johnson broke the news that Geoff Dudgeon had indeed visited a London
gallery the day after Analise was murdered. It didn’t provide him with an alibi, of course, but it meant that he hadn’t deliberately
been avoiding the police. When Nick Tarnaby called him over to his desk, Wesley put Dudgeon to the back of his mind.

Nick had checked out the name and address of Robert Delaware’s alibi with uncharacteristic efficiency and he presented Wesley
with a piece of paper. Wesley thanked him – hoping that with a bit of encouragement the taciturn and
slothful Tarnaby might one day become a decent detective – and ambled back to his desk.

As Wesley slumped back in his chair something caught his eye. A missing persons report was sitting on the right-hand side
of his desk next to his phone. This was normally the province of Uniform and he wondered who had left it there.

Curious, he picked it up and read that a woman called Isobel Grant had gone into Tradmouth to meet someone for a drink the
previous evening. She’d told her mother that she’d be home by ten whatever happened because she had to be up early for work
the next day. She hadn’t arrived home and she hadn’t turned up at work.

He looked up and saw that Trish Walton was watching him. He waved the report in her direction. ‘Do you know something about
this, Trish?’

She stood up and walked over to his desk. ‘Yes. I know Uniform usually deal with that sort of thing but …’

‘This Isobel Grant is twenty-eight. Surely her mother’s jumped the gun a bit reporting her missing? Isobel probably hit it
off with this man she was meeting and she’s with him now in his flat or some hotel bedroom.’ He handed the report back to
Trish.

‘That’s unlikely, sir,’ she said quietly. ‘If you’d read the whole of it you’d have seen that Isobel’s diabetic. She hadn’t
taken any insulin with her. She’d only expected to be away a few hours.’

Wesley’s lips formed an ‘oh’. He should have known that Trish wasn’t the type to make a fuss about nothing.

‘Do we know who she was meeting?’

‘Yes. Isobel’s mother had a call from one of her friends from work at ten thirty last night. The friend, Gwen, had
been trying to call her mobile but it was switched off. It turns out Gwen had called Isobel earlier in the evening and she’d
been in the Angel having a drink with a man she’d met earlier that day. She went to the loo to take the call for some privacy
so she told Gwen quite a bit about him. Anyway, Isobel promised to call her back when she got home to report how the evening
had gone … only she never did.’

‘So what do we know about the man she met?’

‘She told Gwen his name was Adrian. He was a wealthy businessman who owned a yacht called the
Lazy Fox
, moored in Tradmouth.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. The woman attacked in Neston had said she met a man who claimed to be a yacht owner and businessman
– a Rory not an Adrian but there were similarities. ‘I take it she’d never met this man before?’

‘Not that Gwen knew of.’

‘Then you’d better go and break the news to the boss. And get Uniform to ask the Harbour Master if the
Lazy Fox
exists – and, if it does, if it’s still moored here.’

Trish began to walk slowly towards Gerry’s office, as though she feared that her news was potentially explosive, while Wesley
gazed at the paperwork on his desk. Isobel Grant had chosen a very bad time to disappear.

Just as Wesley was gathering his thoughts a call came from Reception to say that Robert Delaware had arrived and was asking
for him.

Five minutes later he was in the interview room recently vacated by Alan Jakes. Unlike Jakes, Delaware looked far from comfortable
in the utilitarian surroundings. He shifted in his seat and took constant sips from the cup of tea Wesley had provided for
him as though he needed something to occupy his hands.

‘I feel like a criminal sitting here like this,’ Delaware began with a forced smile on his face.

‘Just routine,’ Wesley said lightly. ‘Let’s get down to business, shall we?’

‘Fire away then. What is it you want to know?’ Delaware was doing his best to sound casual and confident. But Wesley could
sense the fear as his eyes flickered from side to side, taking in every feature of the room as though searching for a way
out.

Wesley took the sheet of paper Tarnaby had given him from his pocket and placed it on the table, smoothing it out carefully,
wracking up the tension.

‘We’ve checked out the address you gave us …’

‘Ah yes, I was meaning to tell you about that …’

‘It doesn’t exist, does it? And neither does Mr or Ms B Cooper.’

Delaware leaned forward, preparing to share a confidence. ‘Look, I didn’t want to say where I really was in front of Caroline
Varley. Caroline and I have … well, we’re becoming rather good friends. And if she’d found out that I was seeing someone
else …’

‘We’ll need the name of this woman, Mr Delaware. I can assure you that we can be discreet when we want to be.’

‘Actually …’ He lowered his voice. ‘It’s not a woman, it’s a man. You can understand why I wanted to keep it from Caroline
… and there’s his wife as well. She was away for the night on business. If some flat-footed copper goes barging in asking
him to confirm that he was with me … Well, you see the problem, don’t you?’

Wesley leaned forward. ‘We’re only interested in eliminating you from our enquiries.’ He hesitated. ‘As far as we’re aware,
you’re the only person who’s been looking up the details
of the murders committed by John Varley recently so you can understand why we have to confirm your alibi.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Now if I could have the details of the person you were with …’ He slid the paper towards Delaware who scribbled down
another name and address. A Mr Raymond Seed at a Morbay address. ‘Please, if his wife’s there when you talk to him can you
say you’ve come about witnessing an accident or something? Also he’s a teacher and …’

‘Where does he teach?’

‘Neston Grammar. He teaches history.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. That particular school kept cropping up every now and then and he wondered whether it was significant.
After promising discretion he put the paper in his pocket, omitting to say that it probably wouldn’t be him who conducted
the interview: it would be some detective constable who may or may not be the soul of tact. Delaware and his lover would have
to take their chances.

After a few more questions he told Delaware he was free to go and he shepherded him out into Reception, assuring him that
the police weren’t in the least bit interested in his complex sexual arrangements providing no law was broken. They weren’t
in the business of spreading people’s private secrets – not deliberately at least. However, he didn’t mention that during
a murder enquiry there was often no time to avoid collateral damage.

When he returned to the incident room he rang the number Delaware had given him and when there was no reply he rang Neston
Grammar only to be told that Mr Seed was off sick and wouldn’t be back till next week.

‘He teaches history, doesn’t he?’ Wesley asked innocently.

‘No,’ said the disembodied voice on the other end of the line. ‘He teaches art … part-time.’

Wesley thanked her and replaced the receiver.

The owners of Gull’s Nest lived in Exeter but at this time of year they came down to check on their investment most weekends.
In spite of its modern conveniences and its view over the River Trad via Tradmouth’s rooftops, the small whitewashed house
in Upper Town, five minutes’ walk from Tradmouth town centre, was hardly rented out during the winter months, except for a
couple of weeks around the festive season. All that would change once Easter came, of course, and the place was virtually
fully booked for the coming holiday season.

Keith Bunton had finished work early that Friday afternoon and when he arrived at Gull’s Nest with his wife, Penny, they dragged
their weekend cases from the car boot along with a cardboard box of provisions.

It was Penny Bunton who unlocked the back door that led onto the small paved courtyard at the rear of the house. She strolled
outside with a carrier bag full of rubbish and made for the bin hidden behind a trellis by the wooden back gate.

But when she saw what lay on the stone paving, wrapped up in bloodied linen like a grim parcel, she dropped the rubbish. And
as the used tea bags, toilet roll tubes and tin cans scattered over the cold damp ground, her mouth formed a silent scream.

I had not found myself alone with Frederick for some time and I spent the time in a daze, going through the motions of duty
so that others were quite unaware of my anguish.

The children were quiet and attended to their lessons for which I was most grateful as I was feeling unwell. In the mornings
I was most nauseous and on one occasion I felt faint and sorely in need of fresh air.

Frederick’s manner was civil whenever we met and we still took dinner together in the evenings as he had no wish to eat alone
and John was usually occupied elsewhere – although where and with what I had no inkling. However, although Frederick conversed
with me freely, mainly on the subject of his Egyptian studies and the findings of recent excavations, I was sure that I could
detect a certain coolness in his manner. On one occasion I begged him to tell me if I had done something to offend, but he
would say nothing.

I guessed that John’s wicked words had brought about this unhappy transformation and I assured Frederick that there had been
no truth in them, that John had made up his lurid tale because of his hatred for me.
Frederick acknowledged that this might be the case but his coolness remained. Nothing could be as it was before those filthy
words were uttered.

Then one day I fainted after dinner and when the doctor was called the news he had to give me was most unwelcome.

After examining me most thoroughly, he told me that I was with child.

Wesley and Gerry had left Mrs Bunton in the living room, sitting on the sofa with her husband’s arm around her shoulder. One
of the policewomen had brought her a cup of tea but it stood, cold and untouched, on the coffee table. The pair were clearly
in shock and it was also obvious that they knew nothing about the body in their courtyard. The two policemen slipped out of
the room and made for the back of the house where the crime scene team were going about their well choreographed business
beneath the temporary floodlights brought in for the occasion.

Gerry stood silently by Wesley’s side, hands in pockets, staring at the spectacle as if in a trance. After a minute or so
the back gate was opened by a uniformed sergeant and Colin Bowman entered the courtyard wearing a white crime scene suit and
carrying a large bag.

‘What have we got?’ Colin asked after delivering a cheerful greeting to the assembled team.

Gerry seemed uncharacteristically silent so it was Wesley who answered. ‘It’s another young woman. Same as the one up by the
castle, I’m afraid.’

Colin’s amiable expression disappeared as he stared at the bloodied linen wrapping. ‘I’d better have a look. Do you know who
she is?’

‘She fits the description of a twenty-eight-year-old woman called Isobel Grant who was reported missing this morning.’

Gerry touched Wesley’s arm, a signal for them both to step back into the shelter of the cottage kitchen and let Colin get
on with his gruesome work.

‘Where’s Rach?’

‘She’s gone to meet Analise’s sister at Morbay station.’

‘Give her a call and tell her to get round to Mrs Grant’s as soon as she can. We need to inform her that her daughter’s been
found.’

Wesley made the call. He knew Rachel hated playing Angel of Death, as she always called it, but he was just glad that he didn’t
have to do it.

When the call ended Gerry spoke again. ‘When exactly was Isobel last seen?’

‘According to the missing persons report she left home yesterday at around six thirty, presumably to meet this Adrian she
told her mate about on the phone.’

Gerry fished in his pocket and extracted a tatty scrap of paper from its depths. ‘Uniform contacted the harbour master. The
Lazy Fox
does exist and it’s moored up at the marina. We should get someone down there. We really need to talk to Adrian … if
that’s his real name.’

‘And when we find him we need to ask him where he was on Tuesday night. And on Sunday when Clare Mayers was attacked.’

‘Chief Inspector, can I have a word?’

Wesley looked up. One of the crime scene investigators was standing at the back door, shifting from foot to foot. It was obvious
that he didn’t want whatever he had to say to be overheard by the Buntons. As the CSI held out a plastic bag for his inspection
Gerry closed the door between the narrow galley kitchen and the living room. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Dr Bowman found this caught up in the sheet she was wrapped in. It’s been photographed in situ.’

Gerry took the bag from him. ‘Our friend Anubis again,’ he said quietly. ‘Our killer must have bought a job lot.’

Caroline Varley stood at the entrance to the Egyptian room. ‘Do you know where Robert is?’

‘Sorry, I’ve no idea.’ Neil looked at his watch. He had been busy helping Andrew sort out Sir Frederick’s collection and he’d
lost track of time. Andrew was sitting by the window cataloguing some jewelled scarabs, so absorbed in his task that he didn’t
seem aware of Caroline’s presence.

‘Only he was going to see that policeman friend of yours in Tradmouth. He said he’d be back by six and it’s almost eight.
I’m worried that he’s had an accident. The roads round here can be treacherous in the wet.’

She gave Neil a pleading look and his heart sank. As far as he was concerned, Robert Delaware was a creep on the make and
Caroline deserved better.

But it would have been churlish to refuse her heartfelt request. ‘I’ll try Wesley’s number,’ he said, wondering if Delaware
had been kept in for further questioning. If he had it wouldn’t surprise him in the least.

When Wesley answered his phone it was obvious that he
wasn’t in the mood to chat. He told Neil curtly that Delaware had left Tradmouth police station around three hours ago and
rang off.

He sensed something had happened and Wesley’s reluctance to talk made him suspect that history might have repeated itself.
He couldn’t forget that there had been four corpses back in 1903. Anyone copying John Varley wasn’t likely to stop until he’d
reached that number – or exceeded it.

When he relayed the news to Caroline she walked off with a worried frown on her face.

‘I’m just taking a break,’ he called across the room to Andrew who acknowledged his words with a small wave of the hand, too
involved in his ancient scarabs to be bothered with the present day. Andrew had taken a room in a pub a mile away so without
the problem of a long drive home, he’d probably work late into the evening. Neil had to face the drive back to his flat in
Exeter so he wanted to leave within the next half hour … but he couldn’t resist taking advantage of Delaware’s absence.

Delaware had been given two rooms at the top of the castle in what was once the servants’ quarters. If there was anything
to find it would be there.

Hoping he wouldn’t meet Caroline on the way, he tiptoed down the wide stone passage where the dim bulbs cast sinister shadows.
Then he hurried up the old servants’ staircase, separated discreetly from the family’s domain by a heavy oak door. The servants’
accommodation at Varley Castle had been very well appointed by Victorian standards but there was no mistaking the austerity
of the décor and the pokiness of the rooms, all, no doubt, meant to keep the lower orders firmly in their place.

It was the first time Neil had visited this particular part of the house. Here there was a faint, musty smell and the walls
were pale-green, unadorned apart from the odd cheap framed print. There were no rich Turkish rugs on the bare floorboards and
the rooms contained Spartan beds with ticking mattresses and battered brown chests of drawers. Eventually he came to a room
which was larger and better furnished then the others and had probably once accommodated the butler or housekeeper. The modern
divan bed was topped by a colourful duvet and there was a worn rug on the floor, a lamp on the bedside table and a single
wardrobe with a suitcase perched on top. The floral curtains at the window were open to reveal angry clouds scudding across
the moonlit sky. Neil switched on the light. This was Delaware’s room all right.

There was a door in the far wall which, Neil discovered, led into another, similar-sized room containing a large desk and
two chests of drawers. He switched on the light and saw that the desk was piled with papers and what looked like old letters:
Varley family letters. Caroline had given Delaware access to the lot and Neil wondered whether she’d been wise to do so. But
then she’d probably thought that there’d be nothing worth hiding.

He started to search through the papers, not quite sure what he was looking for. Evidence that he’d somehow been involved
with Wesley’s murder victim perhaps, or maybe a desperate note from the girl asking him to meet her. But there was nothing
remotely like that. Everything dated back to the time of Sir Frederick Varley, mainly letters from his colleagues, estate
manager and family concerning exploits in Egypt and his household back in Devon. An old metal box contained more letters concerning
a tomb in Egypt and the
discovery of a remarkable painted interior. There were photographs too, disappointingly monochrome, of brilliantly executed
tomb paintings and hieroglyphics.

Neil felt a little deflated. He’d got it into his head that Delaware was up to something, that he wasn’t what he appeared
to be. But if Robert Delaware had any secrets, he hadn’t hidden them here.

He suddenly felt a pang of guilt that he’d been snooping on a man merely to satisfy his own prejudices. It was time he got
out of there but he couldn’t resist a swift peep inside the drawers before he left. He opened each one, finding some empty
and others containing papers and sketches of hieroglyphics Varley had found in various tombs and temples.

The bottom drawer of the chest nearest the window slid open more smoothly than the others and when he saw what it contained,
Neil’s heart beat faster. It was an old sketch-book, shabby and foxed, and when he opened it carefully he saw that the pencil
sketches within had been executed by a talented hand. In a way, that made it seem worse – the juxtaposition of technical ability
and horror.

The book was filled with sketches of dead women; some merely strangled with twisted, cyanosed faces and a cord biting into
their thin necks. In others the women were eviscerated, the organs portrayed in loving anatomical detail. Then there were
sketches of human shapes, neatly wrapped in bloodstained linen.

This sketchbook was the souvenir of a killer.

It was eight fifteen and the mutilated body of Isobel Grant had been taken off to the mortuary to lie in peace until Colin
conducted the post mortem the following morning. Rachel
had already broken the news and had left her mother with a family liaison officer for company. By all accounts Mrs Grant
was distraught, but that was only to be expected. And now they faced the unappetising prospect of intruding on her grief.

Gerry had been liaising with the Harbour Master, a man he knew well. There was no sign of life aboard the
Lazy Fox
and, according to the Marina, she was owned by the manager of the local golf club, a man by the name of Humph ries – and
his first name definitely wasn’t Adrian.

‘Dr Kitchener’s coming in first thing tomorrow,’ Wesley said, making conversation as they walked along the water-front: anything
to take their minds off the mutilated body of Isobel Grant.

‘So how come he knows your mother-in-law?’ asked Gerry as they climbed the steps up to the Grant house.

‘She met him at a conference at Morbay University and when he told her about his mother’s animal sanctuary she was quick to
volunteer. I can’t help wondering whether he’s the attraction rather than the animals.’

‘Poor bloke. Nobody deserves that.’ Gerry laughed and Wesley joined in, knowing that as soon as he reached Mrs Grant’s front
door all laughter would have to cease. But now he felt like affirming that there was still humour in the world – that life
went on.

Mrs Grant’s terraced house stood in a row perched above the Marina Hotel overlooking the river. The downstairs lights were
on and the curtains were drawn. The place looked cosy and welcoming, which proved to Wesley that appearances can deceive:
the atmosphere inside would be far from comfortable. He rang the doorbell and waited.

After a minute or so the front door opened a crack, but as
soon as the young policewoman recognised them she opened the door wide and stood aside to let them in.

‘Can’t be too careful,’ she said, looking round. ‘The last time I did this job we were pestered by press from noon till night.’

‘They don’t know yet, love,’ Gerry said reassuringly.

Wesley didn’t recognise the young woman and concluded that she must be new, transferred from another station perhaps. She
was small and plump with a pretty face and short chestnut hair. He put out his hand. ‘We’ve not met. DI Peterson. Wesley.’

The woman nodded. ‘I’ve heard of you. Pleased to meet you at last. I’m DC Julie MacBride, stationed at Morbay.’

Gerry gave her one of his grins. ‘DCI Heffernan. No doubt my reputation’s gone before me and all.’

Julie smiled and said nothing.

‘How’s Mrs Grant?’ Wesley knew it was a stupid question but he felt he had to ask it anyway.

‘Stunned. She just sits there with Isobel’s photograph on her knee, rocking it to and fro like a baby. Heartbreaking.’

Julie led them into the living room and Wesley looked around. The small front room looked newly decorated and up to date with
its leather sofas, wooden floor, red shag pile rug and floor-length red silk curtains. There were two empty mugs on the low
coffee table, bright and chunky. Isobel’s taste perhaps.

In pride of place over the fireplace hung a blown-up graduation portrait of the young woman they’d just seen dead and mutilated
in the courtyard of the Buntons’ holiday cottage. But in this picture she was smiling proudly in mortar board and black gown
trimmed with a pale blue and white fur hood, holding a scrolled certificate in her ringless hands.

Mrs Grant looked up. She was nursing a framed photograph, hugging it to her breast protectively. She seemed younger than Wesley
had expected with shoulder-length blonde hair and an attractive freckled face. She was the sort of woman who would normally
have looked cheerful. Wesley wished she still had cause to.

He fixed a concerned expression to his face and held out his hand. ‘Mrs Grant, I’m so sorry for your loss,’ he said, hating
the fact that his words seemed so inadequate. ‘This is DCI Heffernan. He’s the senior investigating officer in charge of the
case.’

Gerry shook hands solemnly, muttering platitudes.

‘Has DC MacBride told you that we can get somebody else to identify Isobel if you’re not feeling up to it?’

She nodded. ‘I want to do it. I want to see her.’

Wesley sat down by the woman’s side. ‘I know you gave us the details when you reported her missing but I wonder if you could
tell us any more.’

She shook her head. ‘She was a careful girl, Inspector. She wasn’t naïve. I couldn’t believe it when her friend, Gwen, said
she’d gone for a drink with a man she didn’t know – a stranger who picked her up in the street.’

She offered the photo she was holding to Wesley. He took it from her: it was warm. ‘Look at her picture. She was a lovely
girl; beautiful and clever. She had a degree in physics, you know. Taught at Tradmouth Comprehensive. She loved teaching.’
He examined the picture dutifully. Unlike in her graduation portrait, Isobel struck an informal pose, smiling happily with
a champagne glass raised in a toast to the unseen photographer.