The Shadow Collector (27 page)

Wesley’s mind was working overtime. ‘Think someone put her up to it?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ There was another long pause. ‘You know Frith tried to kill himself?’

‘Yeah. Bad business.’

‘And that little madam’ll probably get away with it.’ There was bitterness in Gaulter’s voice.

‘Heard any more about my friend Neil’s car?’

There was a moment of silence while Gaulter retrieved the case from the back of his memory. ‘Afraid not. He told us he left
it parked on the street in Exeter so it was probably kids messing about.’

Wesley didn’t answer. It was all too trite, the fictitious kids who went around reaching under cars and cutting strangers’
brake pipes in the hope of causing a serious accident they probably wouldn’t be around to witness. He couldn’t believe it.

And things didn’t start to become clearer until the call came to say that Evan Mumford was dead.

Pam left work early, sneaking out before the headmistress could collar her. Sometimes she felt like a naughty child herself,
always guilty at abandoning her post even though she was taking home several hours’ worth of marking. But her instincts told
her that Michael needed her.

Amelia was waiting for her in her classroom as usual, reading in the library corner. She jumped up when she saw her mother
and grabbed hold of her hand but Michael was nowhere to be seen. He’d said he was walking back with his mates. The mates she
couldn’t quite bring herself to approve of. Hopefully, having asserted his independence, he’d be waiting for her back at the
house and she chatted to Amelia as she drove home, trying not to show her nagging anxiety.

When she reached the house she saw a light in the front room and she hoped Neil was in there entertaining Michael, maybe even
helping with his homework. But when she opened the front door she found Neil alone, reading through what looked like some
old documents. There was a layer of dirt on the coffee table but she had more important things on her mind than housekeeping.

‘Is Michael back?’

‘Not yet.’ Neil looked up, suddenly picking up on her concern. ‘Should he be?’

‘He insisted on walking back. I told him to come straight home. I said you’d be here.’

‘He’ll have gone to a mate’s or something. He’ll be fine.’

Pam didn’t answer. She went into the kitchen and busied herself with trivia, and half an hour later when the doorbell rang,
she ran to the front door.

When she opened it she saw Michael standing there, head bowed. And behind him was a well-built police constable in a high-vis
jacket. She could see a patrol car parked across the drive.

She reached out to Michael but his eyes didn’t meet hers.

‘Mrs Peterson?’

‘Yes. What is it? What’s happened?’

‘I take it this is your son?’

She nodded, wondering why Michael had made no attempt to move.

‘He was with a group of lads who were nicking sweets from a shop in George Road.’

Pam felt numb, strangely detached from the situation as if it was happening to somebody else.

The policeman was speaking again. ‘The shopkeeper is insisting on taking it further with the other boys but your lad was just
hanging round by the door waiting for them so it’s unlikely charges will be brought.’ The policeman’s eyes met hers and she
could see a trace of sympathy there. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t leg it.’

It seemed he had the measure of the situation. The impressionable kid taken along for the ride, paralysed by fear when things
went pear-shaped. She reached out again and this time Michael stepped forward, allowing her to put a protective arm around
his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry for any trouble he’s caused.’ It was the only thing she could think of to say. ‘We’ll have a word
… make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

The constable’s face suddenly lit up with recognition, and something else. Calculation maybe. ‘Peterson. You’re not Inspector
Peterson’s missus?’

Pam resisted the temptation to lie so that the incident wouldn’t be the subject of police station gossip. But she knew lies
would only make the situation worse.

‘Hopefully this will have taught him a lesson,’ she heard herself saying in a surprisingly steady voice. She looked down at
Michael but he was still refusing to meet her eyes. ‘I’ll let my husband know.’

The constable left, a slight grin on his lips, no doubt keen
to get back and spread the news to his colleagues. An inspector’s son in hot water.

Michael shuffled into the house and discarded his coat on the hall floor. And when he turned to face her she saw he was crying.

Pauline Parry sat on the back seat of the bus in a trance, staring out over the fields and the wide expanse of sea as the
vehicle trundled along at its unhurried pace, stopping every now and then to pick up passengers in the outlying villages.

It was a long time since she’d set foot in West Fretham, the village which held such horrific memories. The village where
those women – those witches – had murdered her precious daughter. She alighted at the little bus stop in the village centre,
a tiny roofed structure like a shrunken cottage open to the elements on the side nearest the road, its interior decorated
with posters announcing local events from yoga classes to playgroup cake sales.

For a while she stood at the side of the road, getting her bearings. She’d once lived a hundred yards down the hill, in the
small enclave of pebbledashed council houses at the edge of the village; a post-war afterthought. She began to walk in that
direction. Joanne might have come home and if she went back to her old house she might find her. The light was fading now,
turning everything to grey, and some of the houses she passed had lights in their windows, giving her a glimpse of the scene
within. Cosy rooms; happy families. Many years ago she’d lived like that. Until Joanne’s father had left and her world had
been ripped apart.

Eventually she found the house. It had new plastic windows with garish white frames and a white plastic front
door but she still recognised it. The front room curtains were open and the light was on and she could see unfamiliar wallpaper
on the fireplace wall – huge blue flowers. And there was a car in the drive. A small black VW. She stood there staring, unsure
what to do. Somehow she’d imagined everything would be the same as the day she’d left.

She stumbled away, hot tears burning her eyes. Her mind, so long confused and numbed with chemicals, seemed strangely clear
now. Coming back had been a mistake. But she had to know whether her sighting of Joanne was a hallucination as they’d said
… or if, by some miracle she hardly dared to believe in, she had survived the witches’ slaughterhouse. In her heart she knew
the answer. But if she didn’t have hope, she knew how it would end. The river had rejected her once. Next time would be different.

She walked away from the house, back to the centre of the village, and stopped at the butcher’s. Only it wasn’t the butcher’s
any more. Models of people and animals had replaced the sausages and cuts of meat in the shop window but the lights weren’t
on so she couldn’t see clearly. Her Joanne had been good at making things. Her teachers had always said she was good with
her hands.

She staggered along the road towards the bus stop. Unlike in Tradmouth, there was no pavement here and cars whizzed by, dangerously
close, sending cold splashes up her bare legs from the puddles left by last night’s rain.

‘Pauline.’

The sound of her name made her turn round, half fearful, half hopeful. But Joanne would have called her mum, not Pauline.

‘I thought it was you.’ An elderly woman hobbled towards her and took hold of her arm gently. ‘I heard you’d
moved to Tradmouth but I didn’t know your address or I would have kept in touch. Have you got time for a cup of tea? I’m in
the same place … just down the road. My nephew came to see me the other day. You know, Eric … he’s on the telly. He’s been
doing that show at Jessop’s Farm. He reached the final two.’

Even in the circumstances Vera Bourne couldn’t resist the chance to boast to anyone who cared to listen about her famous nephew.
But Pauline couldn’t give a damn about Eric Bourne … or Rupert whatever he was calling himself these days. He couldn’t hold
a candle to her Arnold. He’d been an entertainer too. And a better one than Eric Bourne. He just hadn’t had the lucky breaks.

She stared at Vera, thinking that she had aged almost beyond recognition in the past eighteen years. Her pale grey hair was
thin, giving glimpses of the scalp beneath, and she walked slowly and painfully with a metal crutch.

‘I’m looking for Joanne,’ she said.

Vera’s expression changed from sympathy to shock then back to sympathy. ‘I know, love. It’s terrible when you haven’t got
a body to bury, isn’t it? People need closure.’ She gave Pauline’s arm a gentle squeeze as if to emphasise her understanding.
‘Why don’t you come back and have that cup of tea?’

‘I heard that woman’s come back.’

Vera dropped her hand to her side. ‘She was back but now she’s gone again. Killed two more people, she has; some reporter
and that singer your Joanne was at school with.’ She looked around the deserted lane, suddenly nervous. ‘She’s still out there
somewhere so no one’s safe. I only came out ’cause I needed a pint of milk from Spar.’ She nodded at the canvas bag hooked
over her elbow, weighed
down by a single carton. ‘You really shouldn’t be out here on your own, you know. Come on home with me.’

Pauline walked slightly behind Vera, shuffling up the hill towards the small crescent of bungalows.

‘They should have hanged that Benley woman for what she did,’ Vera Bourne said when they reached her front door. ‘And I’d
have tied the noose myself.’

Written by Alison Hadness, September 25th 1643

William being abed there is no restraint upon Elizabeth now and I despaired when she told me that she had followed me to the
barn and spied upon me. Then she put her face close to mine and whispered that she had seen me conjure demons and have carnal
knowledge of the Devil. Then she pointed at me and uttered one word which struck dread into my heart. Witch
.

William is close to death, hardly able to open his eyes and look upon those around him. Elizabeth weeps at his bedside. Dorcas
too is most grievously sick, as are many of our neighbours, screaming that demons torment them and burn their flesh, their
bodies shuddering and shaking in agony. It is said that there is witchcraft abroad and I fear Elizabeth’s tales of my wickedness
will be given credence. Her spite against me knows no bounds and some folk hang upon her words as she whispers her venom into
any ear willing to hear
.

Today I found within my linen chest another most hideous image of a woman stabbed with nails. It is no work of mine and I
fear it
represents Dorcas. I have hidden it with the other within rough wooden boxes I found in the outhouse for I cannot destroy
them for fear of magic
.

Elizabeth grows thinner by the day and will take no nourishment. Her eyes are wild with loathing. I fear her
.

Evan Mumford had been on his way to Dukesbridge for a meeting with his accountant. Business had been flagging. The situation
was getting serious and they needed to talk.

Evan had anticipated trouble as he set off in his Mini. And trouble had followed him onto the lonely single-track lane that
snaked down from the crossroads at Hugford to Whitepool Sands. The Mini had ended up mangled beneath the wheels of a tractor
moving slowly in the other direction. Evan Mumford, according to the emergency services attending the scene, had probably
been aware of very little after the first terrible realisation that his life was about to be brought to an abrupt close. The
farmer driving the tractor was treated for shock. Mumford was pronounced dead at the scene.

It was Uniform’s job to inform the next of kin but when Gerry heard about the accident, he decided to visit Harriet Mumford
himself. Wesley wasn’t sure what had brought on this decision. Perhaps it was the fact that Evan’s crash mirrored Neil’s.
Or maybe it was the Mumfords’ connection with the West Fretham case.

Pam had just called to tell him about Michael’s latest exploit. When she’d asked what time he’d be home he could hear the
anxiety in her voice. He promised to get back as soon as possible and when the call was over he sat there for a while, stunned
by the news. When Gerry asked
him what was wrong he decided to share his troubles and he was surprised by the DCI’s casual reaction. It was all part of
growing up, he claimed. He himself had nicked sweets from Woolworths in Liverpool with his mates when he was a nipper. Only
he’d never got caught. Fine example Uncle Gerry was, he added with a chuckle. But he’d ended up a DCI so there was still hope.
Wesley didn’t answer. Things had changed since Gerry’s misspent youth and childish folly could dog you for the rest of your
life.

But Michael’s misdemeanour wasn’t all that was bothering Wesley. He couldn’t get Selina’s revelation about Lilith’s lover
out of his mind. He’d just learned that the photographer, Dan Sericold, had decided not to press charges against Raybourn
after all. No real harm had been done and Sericold claimed he couldn’t be bothered with the fuss and the paperwork. But even
though Raybourn was off that particular hook, Wesley still wanted to speak to him again and ask the question that had been
niggling in his mind.

Raybourn was still staying at the Marina Hotel, waiting for the filming to resume in a couple of days. The disgraced MP, the
last to be voted off, was returning to take Zac James’s place. The producer had promised a tasteful tribute to Zac in the
closing credits, although Wesley suspected that hard cash rather than good taste was driving the project forward.

When he told Gerry where he was going, the DCI was keen to be in on the action. They could see Raybourn in Tradmouth then
pay Mumford’s widow a visit.

Wesley’s route took him past the entrance to the lane where Evan Mumford had met his death; a sharp corner flanked by a pair
of bright pink thatched cottages overlooking the
tree-fringed beach on the other side of the coast road. Police tape sealed off the corner and he could visualise the investigation
team going about their business further up the lane, out of sight of passers-by.

He had called ahead and Raybourn was waiting for them in the hotel lounge, a large whisky on the table in front of him. He
was looking tired and Wesley noticed a small stain on his pale blue cashmere sweater. He rose to shake hands as soon as he
saw them, as if he was anxious to keep on the right side of the law.

‘I believe the charges against you have been dropped,’ Wesley began.

‘Yes, I’m rather relieved about that. That man pushed and pushed till I lost my temper. When you’re in the public eye people
think you’re fair game … that you don’t have any feelings.’ Raybourn looked from Wesley to Gerry as if he was anxious that
they should understand.

‘But the story about the rent boy was true … and the racist remarks?’ Gerry asked.

There was a look of concentration on the man’s face, as though he was searching for the least damaging answer. ‘No to the
second but yes to the first.’ He paused and lowered his eyes. ‘We all do stupid things we regret. Use foolish ways to fill
the emptiness.’

Wesley knew he was playing for sympathy but he was finding it hard to conjure any. He still hadn’t made up his mind about
the man. Perhaps he never would. He saw Gerry was watching him, waiting for him to continue.

‘Have you ever come across anyone called Carl Cramer? Might be a fellow comedian. Or maybe a magician.’

When Raybourn looked up Wesley saw a spark of recognition in his eyes and he knew his visit wasn’t in vain.

‘Carl Cramer. Now there’s a blast from the past.’ He spoke with a false bonhomie that Wesley had heard before.

‘We’ve heard he was involved with Lilith Benley.’

Raybourn fell silent for a while. Then he cleared his throat. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Never mind who told us,’ Gerry growled. ‘What do you know about him?’

Raybourn took a sip of whisky, smacking his lips as though he was trying to delay the moment of revelation. When he finally
spoke, he focused his eyes on the glass.

‘OK. Carl and I were on the same bill at the Pavilion Gardens in the late 1980s. I was top of the bill back then but Carl
hadn’t made the breakthrough. Not that his act wasn’t good, he just hadn’t had the lucky breaks. He was married with a kid
but he was always one for the ladies and one night we went for a drink after the show and met this striking bird. Anyway,
to cut a long story short, she was down here from London, taking her old mum to the seaside for a break. Her and Carl hit
it off and he ended up leaving his missus and moving to London to be with this Lilith. I remember her name because it was
unusual. After that I never heard of him again.’

‘But you heard of Lilith,’ said Wesley.

‘When she was charged with killing those two girls I recognised her picture in the papers and I couldn’t believe it. And I
couldn’t believe she’d been living in West Fretham ’cause that’s where Carl came from. After it happened my aunty said Lilith
and her mum had been living alone in that cottage so I don’t know what had become of Carl. I thought he might have gone back
to his missus and Lilith had followed him there but Aunty Vera said there was no sign of him. She knew his wife, you see.’

Wesley and Gerry looked at each other.

‘Have you any idea where Lilith is now?’ Gerry asked.

Raybourn shook his head. ‘Of course not. Why should I?’

‘Did you see her while you were at Jessop’s Farm?’

Raybourn shook his head. Then he looked up and Wesley sensed that some sort of confession was coming. ‘OK, I admit I went
up to her cottage once … after that woman was murdered. I wanted to ask her what was going on … and what had become of Carl.
But she didn’t answer the door.’

‘You didn’t break in?’

‘No way.’

Wesley sat forward. ‘Do you know where we can find Carl Cramer’s wife?’

‘No idea. But I know what his real name is if that’s any help. It’s Trelisip. Arnold Trelisip.’ There was a pause. ‘Lilith
Benley murdered his daughter.’

They were in the car heading out of Tradmouth when Gerry took the call. Rachel and Trish had gone straight to Pauline Parry’s
maisonette as requested but the woman wasn’t answering her door. Wesley couldn’t help feeling uneasy: Lilith Benley was still
at large and if she found Pauline, unbalanced and vulnerable … He said as much to Gerry but he didn’t reply.

Wesley was turning over all the possibilities in his mind as he took the main road out of town, putting the car into third
gear to climb the hill. The news that Lilith Benley had killed her lover’s daughter had come as a shock. And the more he thought
about it, the more this new discovery seemed to confirm her guilt. And yet he felt there was more to learn. More shadows to
be dragged into the light.

In the meantime they had a visit to make and as soon as they reached Mercy Hall he felt apprehensive, unsure what he was going
to say to Harriet Mumford who was, after all, a recently bereaved widow.

When they reached their destination it was Gerry who hurried to the front door and rang the doorbell. Wesley stood behind
him and looked round. He could see Harriet’s car parked beside the builder’s pick-up. There was no sign of Dave’s vehicle;
he was probably back at Princes Bower, digging up relics of the Civil War.

There was no reply and when Gerry rang again, impatient, Wesley noticed that the door was slightly ajar, as if someone had
closed it but the lock hadn’t caught. He put out his hand and gave it a push. It swung open smoothly.

He was expecting to find a weeping woman being comforted by friends or relatives, sitting on the edge of a sofa, twisting
a damp handkerchief in shaking fingers. He had encountered the scene so often in the course of his career. But instead he
saw Harriet Mumford standing at the top of the oak staircase, clutching a sheet around her naked body. Her blonde hair hung
around her shoulders and from a distance she looked more like a model on a photo shoot than a woman who’d just received news
of her husband’s death.

‘How the hell did you get in?’

‘Your front door was open, love,’ said Gerry. ‘Sorry to hear about your husband.’

‘Thanks. Look, I was just … having a shower. Can this keep for another time?’

‘Sure,’ said Wesley, preparing to leave. ‘Sorry to have bothered you.’

But Gerry stood his ground, staring up at the woman. Wesley nudged his arm but he didn’t move.

‘Is someone up there with you, love?’

‘No.’ The word was defensive.

‘I heard a voice.’

Wesley watched Gerry stride forward, annoyed with himself that he hadn’t been paying attention. But the problem of Michael
and his recent discovery about Lilith Benley hovered there at the back of his mind, distracting him.

As Gerry put a foot on the bottom stair Harriet began to retreat, the sheet still clutched to her body. ‘We need to have a
word, Mrs Mumford,’ he shouted. ‘It won’t take long then you can get back to whatever it is you were doing.’ His words were
full of innuendo.

Harriet was heading for the bedroom at the end of the landing, moving fast, almost tripping over the trailing sheet. Wesley
had followed Gerry up the stairs and he arrived on the landing just in time to see a bedroom door open to reveal a chubby
man in washed-out boxer shorts. The man stood quite still for a few seconds, his mouth hanging open in astonishment. Then
he swore loudly and slammed the door shut, leaving Harriet stranded on the landing, grasping the sheet so tightly around her
that her knuckles matched the fabric.

‘Seeking comfort in our grief, are we, Mrs Mumford?’ said Gerry. ‘That’s nice.’

Wesley stood there, lost for words. He wasn’t particularly surprised by the Lady Chatterley scenario, but her choice of lover
was rather unexpected. It was the unappealing builder, Lee, who’d been invited to take the dead husband’s place in Harriet’s
bed – which showed that there was no accounting for the vagaries of the human desire.

All of a sudden Lee burst out onto the landing again, this time fully dressed. Eyes wild, he stared at them for a
moment before dodging forward like an advancing rugby player, barging past Gerry and almost knocking him to the floor. Without
thinking, Wesley hurtled downstairs after him and grabbed at his grey hooded sweatshirt. He felt the cloth stretching in his
fingers, pulling him off balance. And as he stumbled and fell the man in front of him landed on the floor with a thud. With
nothing hurt but his pride, Wesley struggled to his feet, looming over the man who was lying there, staring up at him in terror.

‘It wasn’t my idea,’ Lee said in a self-righteous whine. ‘And I never meant that Neil to get hurt. It was all a mistake.’

And it was the builder rather than the widow who began to cry.

Fully dressed now, Harriet sprang down the stairs past them, taking them by surprise. And before Wesley could stop her she’d
dashed out to her car and started the engine.

One of the ewes up in the top field had shown signs of lameness that morning and Joe Jessop couldn’t relax until he’d checked
her out. If she was no better he’d call the vet. It would be more expense but the livestock came first. Always had.

Once he’d trudged up to the field, he ordered Fin to separate the ewe from the rest of the flock and made a quick examination
of her legs, before letting her run back to her companions. Joe hadn’t been able to see anything wrong but he would keep an
eye on her, just in case. Creatures in distress needed to be cared for.