The Plague Maiden (18 page)

Wesley took Rachel with him to see them. She was good in such situations, a calm, sympathetic presence. He had the necklace
and watch in his pocket swathed in plastic evidence bags. And he had brought the St Christopher found near by as well … just
in case they recognised it. As they walked up the Wilmers’ neat garden path, he hoped the finds would prove to have nothing
to do with Helen. He dreaded being the bearer of bad tidings. He was a parent himself now and knew how he would feel if anything
happened to Michael. He knew that destroying the Wilmers’ hope would probably destroy them … but the truth had to be known
so he had no choice.

It was Mrs Wilmer who opened the door. She was a tall, thin woman with limp grey hair and bloodshot brown eyes. She backed
away slightly when he showed her his identity, like a frightened animal that had spotted a huntsman.

Rachel stepped forward and said something to her softly which Wesley couldn’t quite hear. Mrs Wilmer turned and led them through
into an over-neat lounge. She was a house-proud woman, Wesley guessed. Housework probably gave her something to do while she
endured the restless uncertainty. From her expression, he imagined that things hadn’t got any better over the years. She waited
for Helen’s return now as she always had.

As they were making themselves comfortable on the red velvet sofa, a man entered the room. He was taller than his wife and
the skin stretched over his bald skull reminded Wesley of parchment. Mr Wilmer didn’t look well. Wesley felt a sudden urge
to get out of the room, to leave this
couple alone and not to make things any worse for them than they already were. He put his hand in his pocket and felt the
hard plastic of the evidence bags that held the watch and necklace, offering up a silent prayer that they wouldn’t belong
to Helen, that the Wilmers would still have some hope to cling on to in their declining years.

But Rachel was already speaking, telling them gently that remains had been found. He could hear the honeyed sympathy in her
voice, soothing the wounds she knew she was opening. When she mentioned the watch and necklace Wesley produced them on cue,
automatically, trying to stay professional and avoiding meeting the Wilmers’ eyes.

There were a few moments of silence followed by a heart-rending sob. Mrs Wilmer had flopped into her husband’s arms like a
rag doll and stayed there for a few moments, limp and still, helpless with grief. Then her thin body started to shake, but
no sound emerged.

Mr Wilmer looked up, his eyes full of sorrow. ‘Where did you find her?’

Rachel told him.

‘She’d been so near us and we never knew. We walked past her most days and we never even knew.’ He buried his face in his
wife’s thin hair and said no more.

Mrs Wilmer suddenly sat up, disentangling herself from her husband’s embrace. ‘I want to see her,’ she said. ‘When can I see
her?’

Wesley and Rachel looked at each other, wondering which one should explain that their beloved daughter was now just a heap
of dry bones. But there was no need. Mr Wilmer patted his wife’s hand. ‘She’s just a skeleton, love. Are you sure you want
to …’

The woman nodded.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Rachel said quickly. ‘You’re quite sure the necklace and watch are Helen’s?’

It was Mr Wilmer who answered. ‘We bought her that watch for her twenty-first. And … a boyfriend gave her the necklace.’

‘Dermot O’Donovan?’ Wesley asked.

Wilmer looked surprised. ‘Yes. How did you … ?’

‘I’ve been reading the file on her disappearance. Do you know where Dermot O’Donovan is now?’

The man frowned with disapproval. ‘You’ll have to ask his mother … she still lives in Belsham. I hear he still visits her.’

Wesley nodded. ‘I think I’ve met her,’ he said softly, adding Mrs O’Donovan to his mental list of people to see. He produced
the bag containing the St Christopher from his pocket and handed it to Stephen Wilmer. ‘Have you ever seen this before?’

Wilmer examined it, turning the bag over in his hands. He shook his head. ‘It’s not Helen’s … looks like a man’s. Did you
find it … ?’

‘Near the body. It might have something to do with Helen’s death. Someone might have lost it.’ He mentally added the words
‘her murderer perhaps’, but it was really too early to leap to conclusions.

When Rachel suggested that she make a cup of tea for them all, Wesley stood up and offered to do it. Anything was better than
trying to think of the right thing to say.

Wesley let Rachel take the Wilmers to the mortuary to view their daughter’s remains. She was better at that sort of thing
than he was. She was a natural for family liaison work … it was a gift that some had but not others.

He returned to the station and reported to Gerry that the watch and necklace had been identified as Helen Wilmer’s. And Gerry
had some news of his own. The lab had come back to them at last and had confirmed that the jam found in Edith Sommerby’s bag
was contaminated with botulism. Her weakness for conserves had been the death of her. For some reason Wesley felt better now
he knew this for certain. Until now there had always been the possibility that they were barking up the wrong tree entirely.

As the news sank in, Gerry Heffernan sat on the corner
of Wesley’s desk, deep in thought. Then suddenly he gave Wesley a hearty nudge, making the pen he was holding slip from his
fingers. ‘I’ve got to see the Nutter about the Shipborne case so why don’t you get over to Huntings and see if the lads over
there have come up with any names yet.’ A number of officers were over there going through the personnel files under Keith
Sturgeon’s watchful eye.

Wesley looked at his watch. Perhaps a trip to Morbay would help erase the memory of the Wilmers’ grief from his mind. He glanced
round the office and noticed that Paul Johnson, elbow-deep in paperwork, looked as though he needed a change of scene. He
would take Paul with him. He could always be relied upon to be useful.

Wesley was surprised to find the store open when they arrived. Trusted members of Huntings’ staff and a forensic team had
worked flat out to examine every item of stock before the doors had been flung open to the public again and nothing untoward
had been found. Wesley had the fleeting thought that he still wouldn’t fancy eating anything from the store, but he kept quiet.
He presumed Forensics knew what they were doing. But then examining every single item in the store would be like looking for
a needle in a haystack.

He noticed that the security guards at the entrance were watching everyone intently and there were more guards posted in the
aisles. Keith Sturgeon had pulled out all the stops, quite rightly. To do otherwise was to gamble with people’s lives.

Sturgeon was waiting for them, pacing his office anxiously. He looked as though the strain was getting to him.

‘I’m afraid the lab’s confirmed that there was botulism in the jam Mrs Sommerby bought from here,’ Wesley said as he sat down.
‘We’ve spoken to Mr Hunting and he says he has no idea who’s behind all this. Have you had any more thoughts on the matter?’

Sturgeon stared at him for a moment and shook his head.

‘I’ve had a look at the latest note … the one that was dropped into the customer’s trolley. Have you ever had dealings with
this …’ He consulted his notebook. ‘Mrs June Seward before. Know anything about her?’

Again Sturgeon shook his head. ‘You think she could have had something to do with it?’

‘It’s as good a place to start as any.’

‘The girl on the till said she’s a regular customer who always pays by credit card.
There’s absolutely nothing suspicious about her. The officers who came last night questioned her and she didn’t see anybody
around … just found the note on top of her shopping. It can’t be anything to do with her.’

Wesley looked at Paul, who was scribbling earnestly in his notebook. ‘Well, this note can hardly have dropped down from heaven,
can it? I’d like to send someone to show Mrs Seward some security footage … see if it jogs any memories. You do have security
footage from last night, I take it?’

‘Of course. But she said she thought it was put into her trolley when it was parked by the speciality cheeses …’

‘And there’s no camera there?’ It was a guess on Wesley’s part but it produced an affirmative nod from the manager.

‘So I think we can safely say that whoever’s doing this knows the store well. He or she knows where all the security cameras
are situated. That means staff … or a very observant regular customer.’ Wesley frowned. ‘Which brings us back to square one.
I suppose we’ve now got a complete list of past employees?’ he said hopefully.

‘Your officers have been going through the personnel records. I think they’ve nearly finished. I presume this means that you’ve
eliminated those two who were sacked recently. Baring from the warehouse and that girl who threw a can of beans at one of
our customers … Patience Reid.’

‘They’ve both been interviewed but we’re still keeping an open mind at this stage,’ said Wesley non-committally. He hadn’t
eliminated anybody yet. And he was keeping Edward Baring and Patience Reid’s details filed in the back of his mind … just
in case.

‘Your officers seem to be going back a long way … in the files, I mean. Back to the eighties.’

‘It’s routine,’ Wesley said. ‘We have to be thorough. You’ve looked at the list yourself, I take it?’

‘Yes. But I couldn’t see any names there that …’

‘Nobody you’d think would be capable of something like this?’

Sturgeon shook his head vigorously. ‘I suppose it could be a customer. We get complaints from time to time … faulty goods,
that sort of thing. It may be someone who thinks our prices are too high or …’

Wesley sighed. If they were going to have to start tracing everyone who had ever shopped at Huntings it would take up a fair
slice of the CID budget for the year.

‘I don’t really see what more we can do until this person makes another move, to be honest, Mr Sturgeon. I’ll just have to
ask you to make sure your staff are vigilant … if they see anything at all suspicious, contact us right away.’

Sturgeon looked disappointed, as though he’d expected Wesley to come up with something a little more miraculous.

Wesley caught Paul’s eye. They’d shown their faces and now it was time to go.

‘If you could point us in the direction of the personnel office, I’ll see what my officers have managed to come up with.’

Keith Sturgeon jumped up, anxious to be helpful. ‘Certainly, Inspector. It’s down the corridor, third door on your left. I’ll
show you if you like.’

‘No need. We’ll find it.’ Wesley thanked the manager and made a swift exit before Sturgeon’s help became a hindrance.

As Paul followed him down the corridor, a door opened to their right and a young woman emerged, a file tucked under her arm.
Wesley recognised Sunita and said hello. She gave him a brief, nervous smile and hurried off. When she had disappeared into
Sturgeon’s office, Wesley felt a tap on his shoulder.

‘Sir. Who’s that woman you said hello to?’

‘She’s the assistant manager … Sunita Choudray, she’s called. Why?’ He turned to look at Paul, thinking that maybe Sunita
had acquired an admirer.

‘It’s just that I’ve seen her before. She was coming out of the flats where Patience Reid lives.’

Wesley stopped. Paul now had his full attention. ‘Tell me more,’ he said, taking out his notebook.

In Sunita Choudray’s experience, the words ‘women’s troubles’ always ensured that few, if any, questions would be asked. She
had whispered the words to Keith Sturgeon confidentially and watched as his face grew redder. He was eager to end the embarrassing
conversation and get rid of her. Of course she could go home if she wasn’t feeling well. She should get off now before the
traffic became too bad.

Sunita half walked, half ran to her car. She was sure that she had seen the young man who had been with Inspector Peterson
before … possibly outside Pat’s flat. And Pat had mentioned a visit from the police. Putting two and two together, she deduced
that he was a plain-clothes policeman. And if he had recognised her … She could hardly bear to think about it.

She drove too fast, hands gripping the steering wheel, slowing down only where she knew there were speed cameras. A speeding
fine would be bad. But getting found out would be far worse.

Wesley flopped down in the chair that stood beside Gerry Heffernan’s desk.

Heffernan sat back. ‘So what’s new? Any progress at Huntings?’

‘We’ve got a comprehensive list of employees, past and present. Although I don’t know how much use it’s going to be to us.’
He placed a sheaf of typed pages in front of Heffernan, who began to leaf through it absent-mindedly.

‘So you definitely think it’s someone who works … or worked … at Huntings?’

‘It seems likely. Although I don’t see we can do much more until he makes another move. Forensics say that the letters on
the notes were cut out of the
Morbay Herald
… the local paper … not much to go on. We’ve drawn a blank with the security videos. Whoever it is seems to be familiar with
the system and makes sure he’s never caught doing anything suspicious on camera.’

‘Which points to an employee.’

‘But which one? Could be anyone.’ Wesley looked up. ‘One interesting thing happened while we were at Huntings. It might be
nothing but I think it’s worth following up.’

‘What was it?’

‘While we were there Paul Johnson saw Sunita … the assistant manager. Remember?’

Heffernan nodded. ‘And?’

‘He recognised her. When he went to interview Patience Reid, the girl who was sacked for throwing a tin of beans at a customer,
he saw Sunita coming out of the flats where Reid lives.’

‘Could be a coincidence. Perhaps she was visiting a friend.’

‘Patience Reid lives in a run-down squat and Sunita hardly seems the squat type.’

Heffernan thought for a moment. ‘Follow it up if you want to but there’s probably an innocent explanation.’ He picked up the
list and began to study the first page. When he flicked over to the second he gave a small grunt which Wesley took to be some
sort of exclamation.