The Jackal Man (26 page)

‘I understand you made a papier mâché Anubis mask last autumn?’

‘Yes. I teach a girl called Peony White – she’s a friend of Clare Mayers. Her mother wanted some masks for a local drama society
production. It wasn’t just Anubis; I made
Horus the falcon and Apis the bull along with a couple of others – a baboon and a crocodile I think it was. She said they
were doing
Cleopatra
– a little ambitious I thought, but there’s nothing like aiming high, is there.’

‘There certainly isn’t. The Anubis mask you made has gone missing from the church hall where it was stored with the other
costumes for the production.’

Seed shrugged. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

‘Just one more thing, Mr Seed. Can you remember who bought your Anubis figures at the craft fair? Do you keep records or …?’

Seed smiled and shook his head. ‘If you’d ever been to one of those fairs you wouldn’t be asking that. We were selling the
things for a fiver and, as far as I can recall, everyone paid cash. And I certainly don’t remember any names. Sorry.’

‘Anybody you can remember who bought a number of them?’

‘Several people I should think but I can’t remember who. I think I had some nicked as well. Can’t trust anybody these days.’
He glanced at Ian Petrie who was listening intently.

‘Why did Robert Delaware have a key to your flat?’

There was a flicker of alarm in Seed’s eyes, swiftly suppressed. ‘I must have lent it to him once. I forget why.’

Wesley thought the truth had been too much to expect. He thanked Seed and handed the interview over to Ian Petrie. Ian looked
tired but that didn’t stop him pressing Seed for the name of his contact in a London auction house. But Seed wasn’t talking.

‘You were meeting your contact when you were down in London last Tuesday, weren’t you?’

‘No comment. I’ll admit to my part but I’m not going to name names.’

For a self-confessed novice in the criminal world – an art teacher who’d hit on a money-making scam and was now paying the
price – Raymond Seed was being remarkably stubborn. But once Ian had taken him back to London, that might change when he learned
that co-operation could earn him a lighter sentence.

In the meantime his solicitor managed to get him released on bail. Wesley could tell that Ian wasn’t happy about this – and
neither was he. He was sure that Seed was lying about his connection with Robert Delaware, but Seed wasn’t considered likely
to abscond or pose any danger to the public at large so he walked out of Tradmouth police station a free man for the time
being.

Wesley told Ian he’d see him later: they’d meet for dinner that evening.

Anubis. He’d almost come to think of himself as the god who looked after the dead. Just as the killer of those four women
up near Varley Castle over a hundred years ago had.

At one time he’d feared that the first chosen victim, Clare Mayers, had caught a glimpse of his face, in which case it would
have been absolutely necessary to repeat the attempt he’d made at the hospital to silence her for good. But there’d been no
announcement, no e-fit flashed across the TV screen, so she’d probably only seen the mask, the shell, and it was likely that
he’d panicked for nothing.

So the score was two. Not enough.

He took the mask from its hiding place, running his fingers over its painted curves. He’d seen the original and felt its power,
even though it was now almost crumbled to dust. And he’d seen a painting of the embalmer, his identity hidden by
an identical mask, bending over the prone corpse, obsidian knife in hand, ready to perform his merciful task.

Now it was his turn to act; to cut into the soft dead flesh, still warm from the life so recently departed.

It was time to get to work again.

Each day I went through the motions of normal life. I gave Edward and Victoria their lessons and behaved toward them as I
always had because my predicament was none of their doing. How could I blame the children for the sins of the father? Besides,
I had become fond of them. Whatever happened, I would not let them suffer for what their father and half-brother had done
to me.

I was now six months with child and my body had thickened considerably although I felt quite well and strong. However, when
I lay alone in that room at night feeling the child move inside my belly, I cried often and prayed that I might die in childbed
so that my ordeal of shame and loneliness would end. Sir Frederick made no reference to our former relationship when we met,
nor did he make any mention of my condition. It was as though, by ignoring the situation, he hoped it would vanish like a
bad dream in the morning.

I continued in this silent world of unspoken secrets until one night when Frederick visited my room. I had locked the door
but he had obtained another key from the housekeeper’s room, sneaking in there and
pilfering it when she was otherwise occupied. To my horror he entered unannounced and in my astonishment I let out a small
cry and cowered there, protected only by the bed covers, until he switched on the electric light, an innovation of which he
was so proud, and the identity of my intruder was revealed. He sat on the chair in the corner of the room and refused to look
me in the eye as he spoke. For what he had to say struck me in the heart like a dagger.

He had arranged for my baby to be adopted by a family on his estate who had long been childless. I was to give birth in secret
at the castle then I was to be given the choice of continuing with my duties as though nothing had happened or of leaving
for another post with excellent references.

At no time did he mention the love we had shared. And at no time did he ever enquire about my feelings on the matter. I put
my hand on my belly and felt my baby moving. Soon it would be torn from my body and given away. If I chose to stay at Varley
Castle I would see it from time to time but it would never know me as its mother. Was that situation more painful, I wondered,
than the prospect of never seeing my child again in this life?

Wesley had planned to have dinner with Ian Petrie at the hotel but when he’d called Pam and told her the news of his former
colleague’s illness, lowering his voice so that the rest of the incident room couldn’t hear, she had insisted that they should
eat at home. She’d feel awful, she said, if she didn’t make the effort to offer some hospitality in the circumstances. However,
as Wesley sat there at his dining table that evening, making conversation, his mind kept returning to the case and that afternoon’s
developments.

He’d hoped that Andrea Washington would be able to identify Alan Jakes as the man she’d met in the Neston pub before she was
attacked. But his luck was out. Andrea was away for the weekend so the confirmation would have to wait.

A couple of DCs had been given the unenviable task of examining all the available CCTV footage for Thursday night from the
waterfront area. According to Alan Jakes,
Isobel Grant had arranged to meet someone there. Or it might just have been a ploy to end an unsuccessful date: they only
had Jakes’s word for it that things had been going well.

Jakes’s story about meeting a man who owed him money had been checked out: he’d definitely been there and the debtor had paid
up. But Jakes still lacked an alibi for the night of Analise Sonquist’s death.

Then there was Robert Delaware. Gerry had looked positively triumphant when Wesley had presented him with the book he’d found
in Delaware’s flat,
The Art of Mummification
. An art known to the killer of Analise Sonquist and Isobel Grant.

Wesley had called Neston hospital to see when Delaware could be picked up, only to be told that the doctors wanted to keep
him in overnight for observation. In spite of Gerry’s worries concerning the overtime budget, Wesley had arranged for a constable
to stay outside the suspect’s room to ensure that he didn’t try to make his escape. Wesley had always been the cautious type.

When he felt Pam nudge his arm his mind returned to the present. Ian was sitting opposite him, sipping his coffee appreciatively.
The dinner had gone well but Wesley had felt all evening that he had to choose his words carefully. Ian didn’t want to be
treated as an invalid but Wesley dreaded making a thoughtless remark that would remind his guest anew of his situation.

Ian had seemed appreciative of Pam’s hurried culinary offerings – a casserole followed by a fruit salad; something simple
after a Saturday spent listening to her mother going on about the animal sanctuary. Ian and Pam had met before, of course,
when he’d been Wesley’s boss back in London, and they’d got on well. Ian had been good company
back then, urbane and knowledgeable. And yet he had always worn his expertise lightly, never using it to make others feel
inferior. But that evening he had been subdued, not the man he used to be. And, in spite of everyone’s efforts to keep cheerful,
Wesley felt sad.

Ian left fairly early and Wesley offered to walk him back to the hotel, reluctant to let him venture back on his own after
three glasses of red wine. But Ian was firm in his refusal. It was very kind of Wesley but he’d be fine.

As Wesley stood on the doorstep, watching Ian walk away down the steep road, he felt Pam’s arm slip through his.

‘How ill is he?’ she said softly.

Wesley shut the door, blocking out the cold. ‘He says he can’t decide whether to go for treatment or not.’ He paused. ‘There
doesn’t seem to be any fight left in him.’

‘A diagnosis like that can knock you for six, I suppose,’ she said. ‘But he shouldn’t just give up. Has he told Sheila?’

Before Ian’s arrival Wesley had told her briefly about the separation, just to ensure that she didn’t make a faux pas. ‘I
don’t know.’

‘Why did they split up?’

‘She went off with someone else.’

After a few seconds Pam spoke. ‘I used to like Sheila.’

‘He said it was because he spent too much time at work.’ He hesitated. ‘If you ever thought I was doing that, you’d tell me,
wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t just seek solace elsewhere?’

Pam looked away, avoiding his eyes. ‘You’ve got no choice, have you?’ she said quickly. ‘You’ve got to do your job.’

‘There have been times when I’ve felt like asking Neil for a job in the Archaeological Unit.’

She touched his cheek. ‘Neil’s obsessed with his job. In some ways he’s worse than you.’

At that moment the phone started to ring. Wesley stood there, reluctant to pick it up. Then Pam made the decision for him.
She answered it herself and, after a brief conversation, she passed it to Wesley. ‘It’s Gerry. He says it’s urgent.’

Wesley stared at the receiver as though it was contaminated. Then eventually he took it from Pam’s outstretched hand.

After a few muttered words and broken sentences he put the phone down then he stepped forward and took Pam in his arms. He
held her close for a few moments, taking strength from the warmth of her body, before breaking the expectant silence.

‘There’s been another murder.’

‘Where?’

‘Over in Neston. Near the hospital.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I’ve got to go. Sorry.’

She stood on tiptoe and kissed him but he could see the disappointment on her face. Another Saturday night ruined.

At that moment the kitten tore in from the kitchen like a tiny fury and made a vertical ascent of the curtains.

It was a well-known short cut from the hospital area to the town centre. But for a long time various local groups had complained
vigorously about the overgrown bushes and the lack of adequate lighting.

Andrea Washington had been assaulted in this very location. But on that occasion she had survived, shaken but unscathed.

The latest victim hadn’t been so lucky.

Colin Bowman was already there, making his pre liminary examination beneath the floodlights set up around the scene. The CSIs
were going about their well-choreographed business dressed in their white suits while uniformed officers
guarded the perimeter, ticking off names on clipboards and keeping out anyone who had no valid reason to be there.

Wesley and Gerry had been handed crimescene suits on their arrival. Gerry was still struggling with his while Wesley was walking
slowly and reluctantly towards the hub of the action. He could see a young woman lying sprawled face down on the scrubby grass
at the side of the gravel path. She was dressed for a night out in sequined top and tight satin trousers and she looked as
though she was asleep. He half hoped she would struggle to her feet and be on her way but his head told him that wasn’t going
to happen.

‘She must have been cold dressed like that,’ Wesley said to Colin as he gazed down at the shell that was once a young and
living woman.

‘They don’t feel the cold at that age,’ Colin answered with a sigh. ‘My daughter’s the same.’

Wesley bowed his head, dreading the day when Amelia was old enough to insist on going out dressed provocatively with no inkling
of the dangers that lurked around every corner.

Colin addressed the photographer and the officer with a video camera who were recording the scene for posterity. ‘I’m going
to turn her over now.’

Wesley watched as he rolled the young woman gently onto her back but as soon as he saw her face he looked away. In spite of
the cyanosed flesh and the bulging tongue, he could tell that she had been pretty with freckles and bobbed chest-nut hair.
‘Any ID?’ he asked, trying to keep detached, professional.

‘Her bag was found just over there in the bushes. Her name’s Naomi Hart. According to the ID card in her bag she’s a nurse
at Neston Hospital. On her way to a night out by the look of it.’

‘Is it the same killer or …?’

Colin straightened himself up with a heavy sigh. ‘It’s our man. The method’s identical. A thin ligature around the neck tightened
from behind. The only difference is that our killer hasn’t had a chance to undress the corpse and make his characteristic
mutilations. I think he started to undress her – there are no shoes and the top’s unbuttoned – but he was probably disturbed.
Someone said you’d made an arrest,’ he said as he snapped his bag closed.

Wesley looked round. Gerry was lumbering towards him, face like thunder. ‘We had. But our main suspect’s in there.’ He jerked
his head towards the bulk of Neston Hospital. ‘He collapsed in the cells and they’re keeping him in for observation.’

‘He couldn’t have got out, could he?’ Colin asked.

‘There’s a constable outside his room.’

‘Looks like we were wrong about Delaware,’ said Gerry as he stood staring at the dead girl as if he couldn’t take his eyes
off her contorted face. ‘It could be a copycat of course.’

Colin pointed at the dead girl’s neck. ‘The ligature mark is absolutely identical to the other two. And there’s this.’ He
picked up a plastic bag that was lying in the shadows and handed it to Wesley. ‘It was found next to the body.’

Wesley took the bag from him and held it up for Gerry to see. Another model of Anubis.

‘And further on down the path somebody’s dropped a white sheet … neatly folded, so it looks like he was making a run for
it when he was disturbed. He didn’t have time for his nasty little ritual.’

Wesley watched as Colin stooped to continue his examination of the corpse. If there was any connection between this new victim
and the others, they would soon know. Analise and Clare Mayers had been linked by the furtive
relationship between Analise’s employer Clive Crest and Clare’s school friend – or perhaps friend wasn’t the word – Vicky
Page. No link had been established between Analise and Isobel Grant, although Alan Jakes was the connection between Isobel
and Clare.

Or were the attacks random? Had the victims been selected purely because of their availability?

There had now been three deaths – and one failure. If the killer was emulating John Varley’s reign of terror, that failure
must have rankled.

Wesley rang Pam. He thought he ought to tell her that he’d be fully occupied for the rest of the night.

It was Sunday morning and they’d had no sleep. Wesley found Gerry at his desk, his head buried in his arms, trying to catch
a few moments of rest.

As soon as he heard Wesley enter the office he raised his head. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked rough. ‘I was trying
out a bit of this power napping I keep hearing about. Ruddy useless. Anything new?’

‘There’s an interesting report from Forensic. The sheets used to wrap the bodies were definitely from the same source. Linen,
probably around a hundred years old, give or take a few years … and they bear traces of naphthalene.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Mothballs.’

‘So they’ve been kept in a cupboard somewhere.’

‘An old person’s cupboard. People don’t tend to use mothballs nowadays; probably ’cause they stink. The sheets are high-quality
linen and all of them bear a laundry mark which has been traced to an old laundry that operated in a village not far from
Varley Castle.’

‘Varley Castle again.’

‘They would have used high-quality linen sheets like that at Varley Castle. Don’t you think?’ Wesley had Gerry’s attention
and the DCI was looking considerably more lively now. ‘That place must be full of stuff like that. Old Sir George Varley would
hardly have been a fully paid-up member of the throw-away society. And Caroline Varley’s still in the process of finding out
what she’s inherited.’

‘This all points to Robert Delaware, Wes. He’s had the run of that place. Unlike Alan Jakes who wouldn’t know King Tut from
Queen Victoria.’

‘But Delaware didn’t leave his hospital bed last night – I checked with the constable on duty outside his room. And Jakes
was drinking with some mates who are all swearing blind that he was there all evening.’

The bells of St Margaret’s church began to ring and Wesley saw Gerry glance at his watch.

‘No choir today,’ he muttered regretfully.

‘I’m sure they’ll manage without you.’

Gerry pulled a face. Wesley knew he enjoyed his Sunday morning sing. It was a habit he’d kept up since his childhood days
as a chorister at Liverpool Cathedral, interrupted only by his seafaring years and serious criminal enquiries.

‘Have we found any link between this latest victim and the others?’

Gerry shook his head. ‘Not yet. We’ve got people talking to all her friends and family. And it seems she’s just broken up
with a boyfriend.’

‘Suspect?’

‘Shouldn’t think so. According to her mates it was an amicable separation.’

‘What about her friends?’

‘She was popular with her colleagues and she had a wide circle of friends. Nice girl by all accounts and—’

Before he could finish his sentence the door opened to reveal Guy Kitchener. There were dark circles under his eyes and he
looked as though he’d dressed hurriedly and forgotten to drag a comb through his hair. And he looked worried.

‘I heard there’s been another one in Neston. He’s getting bolder.’

Wesley smiled. ‘But he chose the wrong location last night. He was disturbed before he could carry out the mutilations.’

Guy entered the room and sat down. ‘That could be bad,’ he said with a frown. ‘He’ll probably feel the need to try again.’
He swallowed hard. ‘Like when Jack the Ripper carried out his double event. He was disturbed before he could mutilate the
first victim so he went on to commit another murder the same night. That second murder surpassed all the others in savagery.
He’d been thwarted, you see. Like the Whitechapel killer our man feels a sense of entitlement. And that makes him dangerous.’

Wesley caught Gerry’s eye. ‘So he could have had another go last night and we haven’t found the body yet?’

‘It would certainly fit psychologically. And the body of Isobel Grant was only found by chance. If the owners of that cottage
hadn’t turned up she could have lain there in that courtyard for weeks.’

‘How can you know how a lunatic’s mind works?’ Gerry said sharply as he turned his face away.

‘He won’t consider himself a lunatic, Chief Inspector. There’ll be a logic behind his actions – maybe not one that we would
understand but it’ll make perfect sense to him.’