The Jackal Man (32 page)

Wesley sighed. Gerry could be right. But he had a gut feeling that something was amiss. Or maybe it was the thought that a
killer was out there – and he knew what that killer was capable of.

When Gerry’s phone rang Wesley almost jumped. This could be news.

After a short conversation, Gerry turned to him. ‘Sorry, no news about Pam. It’s just that Paul’s been trying to get hold
of your mate Ian Petrie to tell him about Delaware’s connection with the antiquities racket, but he’s had no luck. The hotel
told him that he’s checked out but he left a note at Reception addressed to you. Someone told them to take it to the police
station.’

Wesley could tell Gerry was trying to distract him from his worry about Pam. ‘He’s probably gone back to London – something
might have cropped up.’

‘Maybe,’ said Gerry as his phone rang again.

As he took the call Wesley’s eyes were fixed on his face, looking for any telltale sign that this was relevant news, good
or bad. Gerry’s contribution to the conversation consisted of grunted monosyllables and when he’d finished he turned to Wesley,
his face solemn.

‘None of our suspects have been out and about this evening. Alan Jakes is in custody. Robert Delaware’s accounted for down
at Tradmouth nick and Raymond Seed’s at home on bail like a good boy, as is Clive Crest.’ There was a long silence.

Suddenly Wesley spoke. ‘Gemma Fielding.’ His mind had
been so numbed by worry that he’d almost forgotten what he’d been about to do before the crisis arose.

‘What about her? Has she called again?’

‘Not yet. She said she’d try to contact someone Isobel shared with in the second year.’

‘And she’s no idea what the name of this dead boy was?’

‘Gemma never actually met him. But Isobel claimed to have seen him recently.’

Gerry looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘So he might not be dead?’

‘Isobel told her he’d died while they were at university. He committed suicide – drowned himself in the Albert Dock. But she
told Gemma that she’d seen him in Tradmouth.’

Gerry frowned. ‘I still don’t see—’

‘I called Merseyside police earlier to see if they have a suicide that matches. And I asked them to see if they could locate
the other housemate as well. His name’s Dominic and he studied dentistry so there’s a chance he’s traceable.’ He hesitated.
‘If Isobel Grant was really blackmailing someone … and this person wanted her dead …’

He stood there in silence for a while. Then he had a thought that made his stomach churn. He turned to Gerry again. ‘I’ve
just remembered something. Pam told me that Mary, Guy Kitchener’s mother, said she was distantly related to the Varleys. The
killer knows all about the John Varley case, doesn’t he? And Pam was going to see Mary …’

Gerry pulled a face. ‘I think you’re jumping to conclusions, Wes.’

He took a step forward. ‘I’m going over there …’

Gerry put a hand on his arm. ‘I’ll get Rach and Paul to go straight over there first in a patrol car. It’ll be quicker.’

Before Wesley could answer, Gerry’s phone rang again
and Wesley held his breath while he listened to the hushed conversation.

Gerry looked up. ‘No news about Pam, I’m afraid. Rachel’s got that note from Ian Petrie,’ he said quietly.

‘Tell her to open it,’ Wesley said, taking the phone from Gerry’s hand. He listened as Rachel read in a monotone as though
she was reluctant to add her own interpretation to Ian’s words.

‘Have returned to London. Don’t worry about me. And thanks for everything.’

‘Let’s get back to the station, Gerry,’ Wesley said. ‘We can’t do any good here.’

Pam’s limbs felt stiff and numb with cold but she knew she had to make for the sanctuary. Mary Kitchener would look after
her and she could call the police from there.

She had no idea who had tried to kill her but she remembered that the first girl who’d been attacked lived almost next door
to the sanctuary. Her boyfriend had been a strong suspect and although he’d been arrested for attacking a woman in Neston,
there was a chance that he’d been released on bail: sometimes the courts seemed to be on the side of the criminal classes.
If he was still hanging around then she was in danger.

She could hear the dogs barking and the occasional braying of a donkey and Mary’s front door was now in view. She dared herself
to look round and saw that she was completely alone in that quiet lane. But she knew that he could still be near, lurking
in shadows, crouching behind the hedge, pressed up against a wall.

Her heart hammering, she staggered across the lane and flung herself at Mary’s door. She rang the bell, leaning
against the door jamb gulping in breath, and when the door opened she fell into the hall. As her grazed knees landed on the
soft Turkish rug, she breathed in the comforting aroma of dog. And it smelt good.

‘Pam … oh my God. What’s happened to you? Are you all right?’

Pam looked up at Mary from her lowly position sprawled amidst the dog hairs on the floor. Mary pushed away a curious border
collie and put out her hand to help her. Pam tried to speak but no sound came out. Whatever had been tightened around her
throat had done some damage. She mouthed the words ‘call the police’ but Mary didn’t seem to hear.

‘Why on earth are you dressed in a sheet, dear? Where are your clothes? And your poor feet … Oh dear,’ the woman wittered.
‘I’ll call Della.’ A pair of other dogs had joined the collie and had begun to sniff round Pam suspiciously.

When Pam opened her mouth no sound emerged. But after a few attempts she managed a guttural hiss. ‘Call the police and call
Wesley. Call my husband.’

‘Yes, yes, dear. But first let’s make you comfortable. I think you should lie down. Can you make it up the stairs? You can
have Ben’s old room. The bed’s made up. Guy’s away at some conference and he won’t be back till tomorrow. I’d call him over
if he was here,’ she muttered as she put her arm round Pam and began to help her towards the staircase.

Pam leaned her weight against the woman’s stout body and Mary murmured words of encouragement. ‘Don’t worry. Just take it
slowly. Everything’s going to be fine.’

Eventually they reached the landing. Mary opened one of the doors and led Pam inside. If Pam had been able to speak she would
have asked who Ben was because she hadn’t heard
the name before. But communication was too much of an effort. Her throat felt worse now as she stumbled towards the bed.

She cast a cursory glance around the room. It was a plain room with stripy, masculine wallpaper. There were clothes hanging
in the open wardrobe and neatly folded over the back of a chair in the corner as though the occupant of the room was about
to return at any moment. Pam lay on the bed, aware that she was soiling the clean white duvet cover with her muddy limbs.
Mary deftly covered her with the quilt that lay across the end of the bed and told her to close her eyes.

As Pam drifted into an exhausted sleep, she could hear dogs barking and a car screeching to a halt outside.

Wesley’s phone rang and he answered it immediately, almost allowing it to slip from his grasp in his eagerness. After a curt
conversation he felt like a man who’d just had the weight of the world’s troubles lifted from his shoulders.

‘That was Rachel. They’ve found Pam. She’s OK.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Mary Kitchener found her. She was wandering round stark naked apart from a sheet and she collapsed on Mary’s doorstep. It
looks as if somebody tried to strangle her … just like Clare Mayers.’

Gerry swallowed hard. ‘Well, thank God they didn’t succeed.’ He paused, studying Wesley’s face. ‘I’ll organise a car to take
you round. You’re in no state to be driving.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘I’m getting you a car. You don’t have to play the hero with me.’

When Gerry Heffernan had first joined the force his old
DCI had always kept a half bottle of whisky in the bottom drawer of his desk. Looking at Wesley sitting there, slumped in
his visitor’s chair, he wished, for once, that the old tradition had been kept up. Wesley looked as though he was in need
of something reviving.

‘Look, don’t worry too much about Ian Petrie,’ said Gerry. At least the subject of Petrie took Wesley’s mind off Pam.

‘I can’t get what he told me out of my mind … about the cancer.’

‘They can do marvellous things these days. I knew this bloke who—’

‘Ian won’t have any more treatment. He never could deal with ill health. I remember when his daughter was ill, he never talked
about it … treated it as if it hadn’t happened.’

‘Maybe that’s the best way. Anyway, we’re arranging for Seed to be taken to London to face charges once we’ve finished with
him. As for Delaware, it looks as if he’s our responsibility for now, more’s the pity.’

Wesley gave an absent-minded nod but before Gerry could say any more he received a call to say the car was ready to take them
to Hugford. Wesley grabbed his coat from the stand and Gerry followed him out. There was no way he was missing out on this.

The first murder took place on the evening of Sunday 14th September. It was a young woman of around my own age. I did not
know her but I heard later that she lived in the village nearby with her parents and was courting a young blacksmith who,
as is common in such matters I believe, came under suspicion at once.

The condition of the corpse caused much speculation in the district and very soon it was put about that Jack the Ripper himself
had moved to Devon and was stalking our fields and lanes in search of hapless victims.

The details, of course, were not made public but everybody seemed to know that the girl had been horribly mutilated and that
her innards had been cut from her body and arranged by her side. It was said that only a monster would treat a body in such
a way. How little these poor, ignorant folk knew of history and civilisations other than their own.

John Varley had taken up permanent residence at the castle and had taken to wandering the estate at night. But I did not inform
the police of this fact until much later.

Wesley held Pam in his arms. She was wrapped in a sheet which smelled of sweat, dirt and mothballs. Normally she favoured
Chanel Number Five. The sight of her in that sheet made his blood run cold. He knew that it was intended as a shroud – a wrapping
for the dead.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked for what was probably the tenth time since he’d arrived at Mary Kitchener’s house.

‘Apart from this sore throat, I’m OK,’ she hissed. ‘Stop fussing.’ She gave his hand a squeeze as though she regretted the
sharpness of her words. ‘Have you any idea who attacked me?’

Wesley shook his head. They were sitting side by side on the sagging velvet sofa in Mary’s back room in front of a blazing
log fire. Wesley was no longer aware of the smell of dogs and the layer of dog hair that seemed to cover every surface: his
eyes were drawn to the stiffly posed photograph of Guy Kitchener in his doctorate robes with the words
University of Liverpool in gold letters underneath. He had asked Mary about it and she had told him proudly that he had studied
at Manchester before obtaining his doctorate in Liverpool. He wondered why Guy hadn’t mentioned his sojourn in Gerry’s home
city. But he told himself that they had been so preoccupied with the murders that they had had little opportunity for pleasantries.

He asked Mary about the painting of Varley Castle that Pam had mentioned and she told him that it was in the other room: he
could see it if he liked. He hadn’t accepted the invitation.

There was another photograph standing on the mantel-piece too: a photograph of two little boys; one dark, one fair. From the
pose and the certain family resemblance between them, Wesley had assumed they were brothers. And when he had asked whether
she had another son Mary said simply that he’d died some years ago. He hardly liked to pursue the subject and resurrect old
griefs. But he knew that he might have no option.

‘How did your son die?’

The colour drained from the woman’s cheeks. ‘They said he killed himself but I never believed it. I’m sure it was an accident.’

‘What happened?’

There was a long pause, as if Mary was summoning up all her inner strength to state the dreadful facts. ‘He went out one night
and never came back. He was found a couple of days later. He’d drowned.’

‘Where was this?’

She hesitated. ‘Up north … in Liverpool.’

Before Wesley could enquire further, the door opened and Paul Johnson poked his head in. ‘Can I have a word, sir?’

Wesley gave Pam’s hand a comforting squeeze and followed Paul out into the hall.

‘Forensic are going over the place where your wife was attacked,’ Paul said in a low voice. ‘There’s no sign of anything yet
but there are tyre marks nearby.’

‘I want this house searched. Every inch.’

Paul looked surprised. ‘Why? Do you think …?’

Wesley didn’t answer. What he was thinking was almost unthinkable.

The things were well hidden. A pile of linen sheets – clean but very old and smelling of mothballs – were neatly folded away
in a space near the water tank in the loft. The papier mâché painted mask had been shoved into an old Winterleas carrier bag
and concealed behind the rafters along with five Anubis figures, identical to the ones left with the bodies. There was an
obsidian knife too – probably very ancient from some Egyptian tomb – wrapped in a plastic bag and shoved down in the floor
joists amongst the insulation. The woman’s clothes found in a carrier bag matched the description of those Isobel Grant was
wearing on the night she died. Her bag was there too and her mobile phone. Pam’s clothes, bag and phone had been shoved into
a separate bag.

Mary stood on the landing and watched calmly as the items were brought down one by one. And her expression gave nothing away.

Once Pam had been taken to Tradmouth Hospital for a check-up a patrol car had driven her to Belsham Vicarage to stay the night
with Wesley’s sister. Maritia was used to dealing with emergencies. The children were already in Maritia’s safe haven: Wesley
needed to know they were in a place where they could come to no harm. He’d almost forgotten
about the kitten but he’d been reminded by a subdued Della who’d agreed to look after it for a couple of days.

Now all the practical arrangements had been made he could concentrate on Mary Kitchener who was sitting in her armchair, a
picture of domestic calm with a pair of dogs stretched out at her feet. With her wild grey hair and motherly figure she seemed
an unlikely serial killer. But Wesley knew that stranger things had happened in the history of crime and that harmless-looking,
motherly women had, on rare occasions, committed the most horrendous and grotesque misdeeds. Gerry sat beside him on the sofa,
staring at the woman. Wesley felt a nudge in his ribs. It was up to him to start the questioning.

When he told Mary what had been found in her loft her lips formed themselves into a secretive, satisfied smile. ‘That’s very
clever of you, Wesley. I always thought I’d kept one step ahead of you.’

‘So you admit that you killed those women?’

‘Is it any use denying it?’

‘Did you kill them?’

She gave him another smile but said nothing.

‘Can you tell me why you did it?’

‘Not really.’

‘You killed three women and attempted to murder two others and you don’t know why?’

She appeared to consider the question for a few moments. ‘They were sacrifices. I’m a follower of the goddess Isis. I was
following old rituals.’

Wesley caught Gerry’s eye. He didn’t believe a word of it.

‘I didn’t think the ancient Egyptians went in much for human sacrifice.’

Mary pressed her lips together and didn’t reply.

‘Where’s Guy?’

‘He’s in London. But you know that already, don’t you?’

‘Did he talk to you about the case?’

‘My first victim was Clare … a girl from down the road. I said I was interested in the investigation and Guy, obligingly,
kept me up to date. I do hope he won’t get into trouble.’

‘How did you go about killing them?’ Wesley asked the question casually, as though he was enquiring about some mundane matter,
like planting vegetables. He suspected he’d get to the truth quicker if they kept the atmosphere calm.

‘You know that already.’

‘I want you to tell me. How did you select your victims?’

‘I saw they were on their own and vulnerable and I followed them. Then I strangled them with a piece of garden twine and performed
the ceremony so that their souls could travel safely to the afterlife. I took out their organs and placed them beside their
bodies just as the Ancient Egyptians did. Then I wrapped them in linen.’

‘Where did you get the sheets from?’

‘They belonged to my mother. They’d come down through the family. I was told that they’d originally come from Varley Castle
but I don’t know whether that’s true.’

‘You left the bodies where they’d be found.’

Mary nodded.

‘Always?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why did you put Analise Sonquist’s clothes in the garage of the house where she lived?’ Wesley watched her face and there
was no mistaking her surprise, there for a moment then swiftly hidden.

‘I …’ She seemed to be searching for a valid explanation.
‘Guy said you’d interviewed the man who lived there. I suppose I wanted to incriminate him.’ Somehow she didn’t sound very
convincing.

Wesley felt Gerry’s hand on his arm. ‘Can I have a word?’ he muttered.

The detectives stood up, leaving Mary in the care of a young constable who was sitting by the window taking notes. Gerry led
the way into the hall and turned to face Wesley.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Wes?’ He hesitated. ‘It doesn’t seem right.’

‘She knows a lot of the details we’ve not released to the press.’

‘So does Guy.’

‘And the mask and those other things were found hidden here.’ He sighed. ‘She said she found the mask in the church hall while
she was organising the craft fair – the timing fits with it going missing from the drama group’s wardrobe. And Raymond Seed
was selling those Anubis figures at the craft fair so she could easily have bought them – or even pinched them. But you’re
right, Gerry. There’s something wrong. I’m sure she didn’t know what I was talking about when I first told her about the clothes
found in the Crests’ garage. I don’t think she did it. I think she’s protecting someone.’

‘Guy?’

‘He’s in London so he can’t have attacked Pam.’

‘Mary might have done that to throw us off the scent. The killer’s always seemed to be one step ahead of us and Guy had access
to everything.’ He banged his fist on the wall, frustrated with his own gullibility. If his suspicions were right, he’d aided
and abetted a murderer.

Wesley put a hand on his arm. ‘We weren’t to know. Come on, let’s see if we can get the truth out of her.’

They returned to the living room. Mary was sitting bolt upright in her armchair. And she was smiling.

‘Is there somebody who can look after the animals? I need to be sure that they’re all right.’

‘We’ll contact the animal shelter in Neston. They’ll send someone over.’

Mary nodded, a look of relief on her face, as if a huge worry had been lifted from her shoulders. ‘In that case will you arrest
me now, please? I don’t see any sense in delaying this any longer. I’m willing to make a full confession. I’m tired. I just
want all this to be over.’

They had little choice. Wesley left it to Gerry to make the formal arrest. And as she was led outside to the police car Mary
Kitchener was still smiling. And that smile held a hint of triumph.

There was a serenity about Mary Kitchener that belied her horrendous crimes. Wesley had never seen a prisoner so content to
be languishing on a thin blue plastic mattress in a police cell; the only time she had expressed any emotion was when she
spoke of her son.

‘I don’t know what Guy’s going to say when he gets back,’ she said to Rachel Tracey as she led her down the corridor from
the cells to the interview room the following morning. ‘Have you managed to contact him yet?’

‘Yes,’ Rachel answered tersely.

‘What did he say?’

‘He’s going to organise a lawyer for you,’ she said, avoiding the woman’s eyes. She found the very sight of Mary Kitchener
unsettling. The woman who looked so innocuous had been capable of such evil and it made Rachel doubt her own certainties … and her own judgement.

Mary answered each question politely, elaborating when requested like a good citizen co-operating with the police. On the
night of Naomi Hart’s murder she had been disturbed before she’d had time to carry out the ritual mutilations. She’d found
out later that it had been the man who’d assaulted that woman in Neston who’d put paid to her plans. Ironic really, she said,
that he should have been a suspect.

There seemed to be little doubt of her guilt. The attack on Pam Peterson, the incriminating items found in her house, and
the knowledge she possessed about Varley Castle, all pointed one way. She had claimed that if Rachel and Paul hadn’t turned
up at the sanctuary when they did, Pam Peterson would be dead. She had her there at her mercy and she would have finished
what she started.

When asked why she hadn’t killed Pam immediately, she said that she had been disturbed by Karen Mayers leaving her cottage.
She’d left Pam there in the shelter of the farm gate and the hedgerow, intending to return and carry out the mutilations when
all was quiet and dark. She had even provided a motive of sorts, although it wasn’t one that made any sense to Rachel.

When Mary had been returned to the cells, Rachel turned to Wesley. ‘Are you all right?’ She could see the strain on his face.
He had shown no emotion when Mary had been talking about what she’d planned to do to Pam and Rachel knew that this outward
calm had taken a massive effort of will. If it had been someone she loved, she would have wanted to scream and hit out at
the monstrous woman. ‘What do you think?’

Wesley looked up from the sheet of paper he’d been doodling on. She saw that he was sketching the head of a jackal. He smiled
absent-mindedly. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Is Mary Kitchener guilty?’

‘There’s not much doubt about that, is there?’

‘Do you think she’s mad?’ Rachel asked suddenly.

‘I’m sure that’s what she’ll tell the court. Plea of insanity.’

His mobile phone began to ring and Rachel watched him, trying to guess the subject of the conversation from his answers. When
the call was ended he looked up at her, his face solemn.

‘Guy Kitchener’s in Reception. He took the first train back from London when he heard. He wants to talk to his mother.’

‘I bet he does,’ said Rachel with a snort. ‘Are we going to have a word with him first?’

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘Yes. There’s something I want to ask him.’

Mary Kitchener sat in her cell, a serene smile on her face. Jackals were scavengers. Jackals cleaned up the mess left by death
and decay.

Her work was done now. She had cleared up the chaos. She had become a jackal.