The Shadow Collector (18 page)

‘What about Simon Frith?’

‘Nothing known against him. But there’s always a first time.’

‘This boyfriend, what’s his name?’

‘Alex something. Why?’

‘What does he look like?’

‘Average height, bit on the porky side. Dresses as a Goth with longish black hair and various bits of metal stuck through
his face.’

Wesley hadn’t been expecting a description of Alex
Gulliver but he’d got one. And the connection made his heart beat a little faster. Until he told himself that it was bound
to be a coincidence. ‘I’m working on the Boo Flecker case and a lad called Alex answering the same description found the murder
weapon.’

Gaulter raised his eyebrows. ‘You don’t think there’s a connection?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Unless the lad has a thing about the police … like arsonists who set fire to things to watch the fire brigade arrive. Perhaps
he likes the drama.’

‘Anything’s possible, Geoff. Look, thanks for seeing me.’

‘We’re still investigating Jessica’s claims but I’ll keep you posted.’

Wesley thanked him and as he left the police station he felt that at least he’d be able to tell Della that he’d tried. Hopefully
that should keep her off his back for a while.

As he was getting into his car his mobile rang and when he answered it he heard Rachel’s voice.

She told him to get back to the incident room. Gerry Heffernan had finished his meeting with the Chief Superintendent and
he wanted to head up to Devil’s Tree Cottage as soon as possible. Whatever was going on, Lilith Benley was at the heart of
it.

When they arrived at Devil’s Tree Cottage all the curtains were shut, exactly as they’d been when Wesley had called with Rachel
the previous day. The place was silent and the possibility that it was the silence of death flashed into Wesley’s head. Maybe
Lilith Benley had committed suicide in a fit of remorse, he thought. With two – or perhaps
three – terrible deaths on her conscience and a bleak future as a reviled outsider, it wouldn’t have surprised him.

He knocked on the door but there was no answer.

‘I reckon she’s decided to scarper,’ said Gerry, staring at the front door.

‘Does she have a car?’

Gerry shook his head. ‘Not as far as I know. She’ll probably use taxis if she wants to go anywhere. I shouldn’t think she
has any friends willing to offer her lifts. I can’t see her having any friends full stop.’

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘She claimed she was a witch. Don’t witches have covens?’

‘You mean someone’s given her a lift on their broomstick?’

‘All I mean is that she might have contacts we don’t know about.’

Gerry considered the matter for a few seconds. ‘She says she doesn’t practise any more but she bought those athames so it
looks like she was lying. Unless she ordered them with murder in mind.’

‘Is that likely?’

‘Who knows, Wes. We’ll contact all the local cab firms to see if anybody’s picked her up. But before we do, I want to have
a look around the back.’

Wesley followed reluctantly. A row of dilapidated red-brick pig sties stood behind the cottage. This was where, according
to Dorothy Benley, the women had disposed of the girls’ bodies. The thought made him feel slightly sick.

Gerry carried on walking in determined silence and when they arrived at the back door he stopped suddenly. ‘Looks as if her
burglar might have paid her another visit.’

The smashed pane of glass in the door had been
replaced by a piece of wood after the burglary, but now there was an unglazed hole where the wooden rectangle should have
been. Wesley took a peek inside the kitchen and saw it lying on the floor. It had been held securely with nails and he could
see them protruding from the wood. Somebody had smashed it in.

He took a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket; he was so used to being around crime scenes that the action was automatic.

‘Go on, Wes,’ Gerry said. ‘Let’s see if it’s unlocked.’

Wesley put a gloved hand on the door handle and when he pushed it down the door swung open. He stared into the shadowy interior,
wishing the curtains weren’t drawn because it was hard to see much in the gloom. He had a strong feeling that something was
wrong but he forced himself to cross the threshold.

Stepping into the kitchen he found the light switch. He flicked it down and in the sickly yellow light he could see a dirty
plate and a pan encrusted with something orange and glutinous lying in the sink, half covered with greasy water. There was
a blanket of toast crumbs on the chipped Formica table in the corner and a mug on the draining board contained the dregs of
some brown drink. There was no sound in the room, not even birdsong from the fields round about. Just a heavy, ominous silence.

Gerry nodded towards the closed door leading to the small parlour and Wesley pushed it open. The curtains were drawn here
too and he stopped in the doorway, reluctant to stagger in and tread on anything that might be evidence. Gerry, standing behind
him, reached past the door frame and fumbled for the light switch. When he found it the room was suddenly bathed in the puny
light
from the bare sixty-watt bulb dangling in the centre of the ceiling.

Wesley had feared that he’d been about to blunder into a crime scene, splattered with dried blood and smelling like a slaughterhouse,
and he was relieved to see that the room looked just as it had when he had last been there. Except for one thing.

On the floor lay a figure. It was smaller than a new-born baby and its roughly made black skirt was raised to its crotch.
Its face was yellow-white wax with drawing pin eyes and a mouth of red thread. As Wesley moved forward he could see a tangled
tuft of dusty black hair stuck to its scalp and a large nail protruding like a miniature javelin from its middle.

He heard Gerry’s voice behind him, uncharacteristically hushed.

‘I think it’s meant to be Lilith Benley.’

Written by Alison Hadness, September 19th 1643

When I married William he had no inkling of my deception. If he had he would not have begged my hand and I would not have
had to endure this marriage my father arranged for me. I try my best not to think on Thomas Whitcombe. Such was his devotion
to the King’s cause that he had gone from Tradmouth before I could tell him that our sin had borne fruit. Maybe it was a blessing
that the fruit withered and died within me and the bloody thing was pulled from my body and thrown upon the fire by Dorcas
who has ever been a friend to me
.

I went to gather herbs and ventured into the churchyard. There I did pray at the grave of my father, asking forgiveness for
the ill will I bear him for arranging my marriage. I prayed also that I would find it in my heart to be a dutiful wife to
William and a mother to Elizabeth and that I might learn to disregard her spite and hatred
.

I could see the guns mounted atop the tower but I knew I was alone in the churchyard as I gathered the yellow flowers. I wished
they smelled
sweeter but they will suit my purpose. The infusion I made is stored now. If William ails again I shall use it
.

Dorcas says the miller has rye flour for bread from a farmer in Derenham. The grain is not of the best but starving men cannot
choose
.

Dave was floundering, out of his depth. If Neil had been there, he’d have known what to say. But he wasn’t so it was up to
him to deal with the situation.

A phone call from Harriet Mumford had brought him rushing back to Mercy Hall, temporarily abandoning the dig up at Princes
Bower.

As he drove his rickety Land Rover to the far edge of Tradmouth and parked it next to Evan Mumford’s shiny new Mini Cooper,
his mind was on the past. Mercy Hall would have been at the centre of things during the Civil War when Princes Bower had been
manned by the Royalist army, and he knew Neil had intended to do some research into the Hall’s history – until the accident
put him in hospital.

Dave wasn’t much good at comforting the sick but there was something he could do for Neil. He could discover all he could
about the little coffins and the carving of the hanged woman he’d seen in the garden. People wrote things down in the seventeenth
century so the truth must be there somewhere. It was just a case of finding it.

According to Harriet, when the builders had removed the rest of the panelling, they’d found a third wooden box containing
a hideous wax doll – a man this time, dressed all in black like the others, the wax face leering above its small white puritan
collar. This new find had seriously spooked them and now it looked as if it was up to Dave to be the voice of reason. The
builders, Harriet said, were threatening to walk out and she wanted him to reassure them that
there wasn’t a curse on the place. Dave hadn’t realised your average British workman was so superstitious

When he arrived he found four builders standing in the kitchen, sipping tea and looking mutinous.

Harriet stood beside the sink, wringing her hands, as though the latest discovery was the last straw.

‘What do these things mean?’ she asked him as soon as he walked in.

‘I’ve got experts up at Exeter examining the one we found yesterday. Once I get their verdict …’

‘The men say they’re not working in there any more and the cellar’s only half dug out. They say they’re scared of what they’ll
find down there.’

‘That’s right,’ said Lee who was standing in the centre of the group.

Dave cleared his throat. ‘Look, there’s no reason to think …’

A tattooed builder with a shaved head held up a bandaged hand, stepping forward and waving the soiled dressings in his face.
‘Nothing’s gone right since we found those things. You dropped a spade on your foot, didn’t you, Lee?’

Lee nodded obediently.

‘What’s going on?’

Dave looked round and saw Evan Mumford scowling in the doorway. Harriet’s expression suddenly changed and she took a step
back.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he barked at his wife. ‘Those invoices need sending out.’

Dave saw Harriet flinch as though he’d struck her. Then he saw a look pass between the builders, a look he couldn’t quite
read.

Evan spoke again, squaring up to the builders. ‘And you lot can get back to work. That’s what I’m paying you for.’ He turned
his hostile gaze on Dave. ‘Have you finished?’

‘I’m just off,’ Dave said, only too aware that Neil wouldn’t have backed off so easily. He’d have ensured that the new discovery
was properly packed and safe before setting a foot outside. But Dave was made of weaker stuff.

Harriet followed her husband out of the room, and as she crossed the threshold she turned her head and gave Dave a pleading
look.

But Dave knew he was no knight in shining armour. Just a middle-aged archaeologist in a muddy combat jacket. It was time to
make a strategic withdrawal.

A search of the surrounding area failed to find any trace of Lilith Benley. She had gone. Either that or she was dead and
her body would turn up in due course. There were a lot of places in the Devon countryside where a body could lie undiscovered
for years: copses and ditches; isolated barns; shadowy woods and stagnant ponds.

Gerry seemed sure she was still alive, that she’d been sent the doll by an ill-wisher and she’d fled the cottage because it
had scared her. Wesley however, wasn’t so sure.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Gerry, making for the door. ‘I’ll order a thorough search of this place – see if there’s any
sign of those knives she ordered.’

Wesley nodded. The thought of those knives made him uneasy. Wherever Lilith was she might have them with her … and that might
mean she planned to use them.

‘We should have taken her in when we had the chance,’ Gerry said as they walked out into the fresh air. ‘Kept her in the cells
where we could keep an eye on her.’

‘You really think she killed Boo Flecker?’

‘If I was a betting man, Wes, I’d put money on it.’

Wesley said nothing until they were climbing into the car. ‘I think we should speak to Joe Jessop. He’ll have been out and
about on his farm. He might have seen something.’

Gerry nodded in agreement and ten minutes later they were at the cottage where Joe Jessop had been staying since the filming
began.

Jessop sat at his kitchen table, his sheep dog, Fin, on the floor by his side. Gerry leaned down and stroked the animal absentmindedly
and when he stopped Fin nuzzled his hand, craving attention.

‘Can’t say I’m surprised the Benley woman’s gone.’

‘Why’s that, Mr Jessop?’ Wesley asked.

‘A lot of people round here don’t think she should have come back.’

‘Have you seen anything suspicious? Anyone on the Benleys’ land?’

‘I told those policemen who came round earlier, I’ve seen nothing and heard nothing.’ He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Those
TV people said they’d come back as soon as the fuss died down. If this business scares ’em off it’ll cost me a bloody fortune
– and I wouldn’t mind but it’s nothing to do with me.’

‘That’s what you said when those lasses were killed eighteen years back,’ said Gerry.

Jessop half rose from his seat, indignant, and Fin, aware that the strangers had upset his master, gave a token growl.

‘It was true then and it’s true now. The coppers who came wouldn’t tell me what they’d found over at her cottage. You don’t
think she’s done herself in, do you?’

‘We haven’t found a body,’ said Wesley. ‘You didn’t hear anything suspicious last night?’

‘Devil’s Tree Cottage is a quarter of a mile away. The band of the Coldstream Guards could have been marching round up there
for all I’d know.’ He idly stroked Fin’s head and the dog began to wag his tail as he gazed up at his master with unconditional
adoration.

‘You knew the dead girls, didn’t you?’

Jessop looked at Wesley, suddenly wary. ‘I only knew
of
them. They lived in the village.’

‘We’re having problems tracing Joanne Trelisip’s family,’ said Gerry.

‘There was only the mum and she was a ewe short of a flock. No idea what happened to her. Her place is a weekend cottage now
… so I’ve heard.’

‘Rupert Raybourn.’

Jessop frowned. ‘What about him?’

‘His aunt lives in the village.’

‘I’ve not heard that. What’s her name?’

‘Vera Bourne.’

‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’

They left Jessop to his work, promising they’d let him know as soon as permission was given for the filming to start again.
The man’s weather-beaten face didn’t give much away as they took their leave. Wesley had the impression he was hiding something
but he told himself that he might always have been like that, guarded and watchful. It probably came from living alone on
an isolated farm which adjoined a notorious murder scene. Murder sends ripples out to stain everything and everyone around;
neighbours, acquaintances, relatives, the innocent and those with a heavy conscience.

‘I’ll drop you off in the village,’ Wesley said to Gerry as they were leaving. ‘There’s someone I want to see.’

‘Who?’

‘Shane Gulliver’s son, Alex. He found the knife that killed Boo Flecker.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

This wasn’t what Wesley wanted to hear. He’d wanted a private word with Alex. Off the record. Although Gerry was aware of
the accusations against Simon Frith, making unauthorised enquiries on behalf of a suspect in someone else’s case wasn’t the
done thing.

‘It’s just something I wanted to check,’ he said, trying to sound casual.

Before he could elaborate his phone rang. It was Trish calling to tell him that they’d found the Bed and Breakfast place where
Boo had been staying. It had taken a while – but then there were many such establishments in the area, not all of them on
the official tourist trail.

He told Gerry the news. ‘According to Trish, Boo left stuff in her room.’

Gerry’s eyes lit up. ‘Let’s get over there then.’

Alex Gulliver would have to wait. Besides, Wesley felt he needed a little more time to plan what he was going to say. He wanted
the boy to tell him the truth about Jessica and her dealings with Frith. And he wasn’t sure that turning up in his policeman’s
role was the way to do it. His instincts told him the informal, archaeology and metal detecting route might be the best way
to gain his trust.

Boo’s B and B turned out to be a farmhouse in the middle of open countryside about a mile outside Neston. It was a working
establishment and the scent of slurry hung in the air as they approached the front door. The paved
farmyard was damp with a thin layer of brown mud and a sheepdog greeted them eagerly, tail wagging. It hardly seemed the sort
of place an investigative journalist from London would choose to stay. Another mystery to add to their list.

The woman who opened the door introduced herself as Mary Broughton. She was well built with short brown hair and a grey tracksuit
and she looked as if she’d have no problem wrestling a misbehaving sheep to the ground if the need arose. She led them into
a utilitarian lounge with a busy patterned carpet, bare walls and a large flat screen TV in the corner, explaining that, in
an effort to diversify and supplement the farm’s dwindling income, she took in the occasional bed and breakfast visitor, advertising
on the Internet. It was rare to get any takers out of season so she’d been glad to accept Boo Flecker’s booking. Her guest
had arrived on Thursday and most of the time she’d been out in her car. In the evenings she’d eaten out before returning to
work in her room.

When Wesley asked her whether she’d heard about Boo’s murder she looked horrified and shook her head in disbelief. She didn’t
listen to the news, she explained … didn’t have time. But she had wondered why Ms Flecker hadn’t come back for her things.

‘I thought she might have met some friends … or possibly a man. She seemed that sort of girl,’ she added with a hint of disapproval.

Wesley searched for a tactful way to phrase his next question. ‘Did she say why she chose to stay here? It’s not the height
of the season so there’d be lots of vacancies in Tradmouth or Neston. I would have thought she’d want to be at the centre
of things.’

Mrs Broughton fished in her pocket for a tissue to wipe her eyes of the tears that were on the verge of forming. ‘She told
me she was a journalist and she wanted somewhere she wouldn’t be disturbed. She didn’t talk about her work and I didn’t ask.
I mean, you can’t be intrusive, can you? Then on Monday when she got in she seemed really excited. Not that she said anything
to me, of course, but I could tell something had happened. She went to her room after that and then out for the evening so
I didn’t see her again until breakfast. She didn’t say much then either. I don’t think she was a morning person.’

They asked her if Boo had ever mentioned West Fretham or any of the names that had come up in the course of the investigation.
But the answer was no every time.

‘Did you get the impression that she was afraid of something or someone?’

She considered the question carefully. ‘Now you come to mention it she did seem a bit nervy. She asked me if we got many visitors.
How many people knew I did bed and breakfast, that sort of thing.’ Her eyes widened. ‘This story she was working on … Do you
think it had something to do with her murder?’

‘We’re not sure yet,’ said Gerry. ‘Are her things still in her room?’

‘I didn’t know when she was coming back so I haven’t touched anything.’

‘May we have a look?’ said Wesley with a reassuring smile. Like most people leading a blameless, routine existence, murder
wasn’t something that normally touched Mary Broughton’s life.

They followed her upstairs then along a narrow passage
with a bright pink carpet. When she reached the door at the end she stopped, as though she was reluctant to go any further.
She took a deep breath before turning the handle and opening the door.