The Shining Skull (10 page)

Once they were both inside the house they each went about their task. Tim set up the equipment quietly and efficiently, testing
the system with his own mobile phone and when he’d finished he spent ten minutes telling Rachel how everything worked. She
listened intently and repeated the instructions, just to make sure they were fixed in her head.

When Tim was about to leave he gave her a smile and she couldn’t help noticing that he was rather attractive. In fact with
his
longish dark hair, his blue eyes and his infectious grin she found herself wondering why she hadn’t noticed him before. Then
Tim himself provided the answer. He’d been working in Exeter since he left university and he was new in Tradmouth.

Rachel was summoning the courage to suggest that if he didn’t know many people in Tradmouth, maybe she could introduce him
to what little there was of the town’s night life. Then she realised that she might be stuck there with the Wakefields for
the duration and by the time she’d thought of a way of opening up the prospect of a future assignation, he’d gone, taking
his copper piping and tool boxes with him. It was the story of her life.

Fortunately, the kidnapper hadn’t called before their arrival. This had been Wesley Peterson’s chief worry – that they’d be
too late and Suzy Wakefield would have hared off to leave a large sum of money at some unspecified destination with no backup,
police or otherwise. Desperate mothers aren’t renowned for their straight thinking.

Rachel, with her practised blend of sympathy and common sense, was used to putting the families of victims at their ease.
But waiting for a call from a kidnapper was a new experience for her. And Suzy Wakefield wasn’t making things easy.

As soon as she’d entered the house, she’d discarded the prickly nylon overall and concentrated on gaining Suzy’s trust. But
Leah Wakefield’s mother, fortified by vodka and coke, hardly seemed to notice she was there. Most of the time she sat in brooding
silence, lashing out occasionally with bitter comments about her former husband not caring about his daughter and haranguing
Brad Williams half heartedly for calling in the police when they’d been instructed quite clearly not to.

Rachel wouldn’t have trusted Darren Wakefield an inch and the same went for Brad Williams. But she had to accept that even
though she wasn’t going to take a liking to any of the ménage, she was there to help them . . . whether they wanted it or
not. In the meantime she could only make cups of tea, question Suzy and Darren tactfully, and await the kidnapper’s next call.

To Rachel, used to living in a cosy old farm house, the lounge of the Wakefields’ neo-Georgian mansion seemed to be the size
of a football pitch, thickly carpeted in cream with chandeliers and a huge mirrored drinks cabinet in the corner. As soon
as she spotted the cabinet she mentally practised saying the words ‘not while I’m
on duty, thank you,’ with professional coolness. But as a drink was never offered, she didn’t have the opportunity to use
them and establish the moral high ground.

As she sank into the white leather sofa, keeping an eye on the telephone, she glanced at her watch. It was four o’clock already
and the abductor still hadn’t made contact.

Whoever had Leah Wakefield was taking his time. Making them sweat.

Dr Una Gibson bent over the bones, running her fingers gently over the top of the skull.

Una was tall with unruly auburn hair, abundant freckles, an aquiline nose and that elusive quality, charisma. Boudicca in
a lab coat, someone had once called her when they were students.

It was several minutes before she completed her examination and turned to Neil Watson. ‘You were absolutely right. This poor
lad’s had his throat cut.’ She paused for a few moments. ‘At least I think it’s a lad. It’s sometimes difficult to sex adolescents
and I’d put the age as around thirteen from the eruption of the teeth, although he’s quite small for his age – poor nourishment
during early childhood at a guess.’ She stared at the bones for a few more seconds. ‘Yes, I’m as sure as I can be that it’s
a boy although the changes occur gradually during the pubescent years. See the pelvis . . . and the supra-orbital . . . and
the sloping frontal bone . . . and the chin looks more square than . . . ’

‘So it’s a boy or a very butch-looking girl?’

Una began to laugh, a hearty laugh that seemed rather inappropriate in the presence of death. A life-affirming laugh. ‘Got
it in one. But I’d put money on it being a boy. Where did you say he was found?’

Neil frowned. ‘That’s the peculiar thing. He was in the same coffin as a woman called Juanita Bentham. The plate on the coffin
lid said that she died in 1816 aged twenty-seven. No mention of our young friend here.’

‘He’s unlikely to have been her son then. Mind you, fourteen-year-olds have been known to have babies. Perhaps we should do
DNA tests . . . ’

‘Too late, she’s already been reburied in another part of the churchyard. And anyway, I don’t think he’s her son. A young
baby might be buried with its mother but a teenager in the same coffin . . . ’

‘You’re probably right,’ Una conceded. She had a sudden thought. ‘It must have been a big coffin.’

‘I didn’t look at it very carefully, but now you come to mention it, I think it was a bit deeper than usual.’

‘Specially made.’ Una raised her finely plucked eyebrows. ‘Wasn’t there a Sherlock Holmes story about someone being buried
underneath a corpse in a specially made coffin? A perfect way to dispose of a body.’

‘Wesley Peterson’ll know the story. He always liked Holmes.’

‘How is Wesley? Do you see much of him?’

‘Yeah. He’s fine.’

A secretive smile crept across Una’s lips. ‘I always thought he was rather nice. He married that girl from the English department,
didn’t he?’

‘Pam, yeah. They’ve got two young kids.’

‘Nice,’ Una muttered. Neil couldn’t decide whether the word was said with envy or contempt.

Neil thought he’d better change the subject. ‘So can you tell me any more about how the poor lad died?’

Una returned her attention to the skeleton that lay before them on a clean white sheet. ‘In my opinion he was killed with
some kind of sharp knife. His murderer probably cut his throat from behind in which case he must have been right handed.’
She pointed to the marks on the bone. ‘See, the marks are slightly deeper on the left-hand side. A great deal of force was
used. The poor lad was almost decapitated.’

Neil shuddered.

‘I wonder who he was.’

Una touched his arm. ‘Can’t help you there, I’m afraid. You could always get Wesley to give you a hand.’She grinned. ‘In which
case, let me know, won’t you. It’d be good to see him again.’

‘I reckon he’ll be busy at the moment. Some nutcase is going round abducting blondes and chopping all their hair off. It’s
been in all the papers.’

Una’s hand went up instinctively to her own abundant curls. ‘So what’s your next move? Any thoughts on how we can identify
our victim?’

‘I’m told there’s a retired teacher in the village who seems to be the keeper of the flame as far as Stoke Beeching’s local
history is concerned.’

‘Then it might be worth having a word with him.’

Neil shrugged his shoulders. The retired teacher, Lionel Grooby, probably bored for England but it would do no harm to ask
a few questions. ‘I’ll try and see him tomorrow.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Fancy a drink?’

Una hesitated for a moment. ‘Why not?’

It was a short walk from St Margaret’s church to the police station and Wesley had done it in record time, Gerry Heffernan
panting behind him, trying to keep up.

‘You should take more exercise, Gerry,’ Wesley commented as he ascended the stairs to the CID office, two at a time.

Heffernan’s reply was mumbled and incomprehensible. Wesley assumed it was something rude.

Once back in the office, Wesley made straight for his desk where the files on the Marcus Fallbrook case had been placed neatly
in the top drawer. He took out the top file and opened it up before searching through the papers for the ransom note.

He pulled it out and placed it on the desk before pulling the plastic bag containing the note Leah Wakefield’s family had
received from his pocket. The two notes lay side by side and Wesley looked from one to the other. He’d been right. The paper
was the same and the wording was almost identical. The only difference being the victim’s name and the amount of money demanded.
The sum had increased considerably: whether this was because of inflation or the perceived financial position of the victims’
respective families, he wasn’t sure.

His heart was beating fast as he made his way to the office where Gerry Heffernan had taken refuge. He’d want to know about
this.

Heffernan was talking on the phone when he opened the office door. When he put the receiver down, he looked straight at Wesley.
‘That was Rach. Nothing doing yet. He’s taking his time.’

Wesley placed the two notes on the boss’s desk. ‘Look at these. What do you see?’

Heffernan stared at them, scratched his head and swore softly under his breath. Then he looked Wesley in the eye. ‘Are you
thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘Well the paper seems identical and the wording’s similar but it’s impossible. It was 1976.’

‘So our man was youngish then and he’s decided to have another go. Maybe he’s been doing the same thing abroad somewhere .
. . or he’s suddenly fallen on hard times and remembered his nice little earner.’

‘But could it be the same man? Has Marcus Fallbrook’s kidnapper just abducted Leah Wakefield?’

Heffernan stood up and began to pace up and down the office. ‘I’ve no idea. But I’ll tell you what though, Wes. A seven-year-old
kid would be a lot easier to handle than that little madam Leah Wakefield. Even if Mark Jones is Marcus Fallbrook and they
let him go for some reason, there’s no guarantee that they can risk releasing the girl.’

He had just put Wesley’s thoughts into words. The spoiled Leah, darling of the album charts and, more recently, the tabloids,
would be more of an irritation and a danger to a kidnapper than an terrified seven-year-old prep school boy. Suddenly he was
afraid for Leah Wakefield. Very afraid indeed.

He sat down, trying to get things straight in his mind. ‘Look, Gerry,’ he said after a few moments. ‘If this Mark Jones is
really who he says he is, he might be able to help us. Perhaps he can give us some lead about the kidnapper . . . if it is
the same one.’

‘No reason to believe it isn’t. If he was in his late teens or early twenties in 1976, he’s be in his late forties or early
fifties now. And more experienced . . . less likely to cock things up.’

‘I presume the wording of the note wasn’t publicised at the time.’

‘I doubt it. But we can double check with Barry Houldsworth. Why don’t you give Mark Jones a ring, arrange to have another
chat? The sooner the better in my opinion.’

‘Yes, I’ll do that.’ Wesley looked at his watch. ‘It’s quarter to four. Remember we’re seeing Linda Tranter at four . . .
Della’s old colleague.’

Gerry Heffernan nodded. ‘If this woman knew the Fallbrooks at the time she might be able to tell us something that isn’t in
the files.’

‘Something Barry Houldsworth never got to hear about?’

‘I’ve always had this theory, Wes, that people only tell the police the sanitised version of events. If you know everything’s
going to be written down and likely to be read out in court, you don’t share the gossip and speculation, do you . . . the
things people chat about when they’re off their guard?’

Wesley grinned. ‘And that’s what we want, isn’t it . . . a bit of gossip and speculation?’

A couple of minutes later they were on their way to see Linda Tranter, Della’s former teaching colleague, now retired. She
lived in the Upper Town, on the road leading to the castle. The Upper Town lived up to its name. Its streets wound round the
contours of the steep land that tumbled down to Tradmouth’s medieval heart. Seen from the river, the neat pastel-coloured
houses looked like toys clinging precariously to the hillside but as Wesley walked along the street, admiring the spectacular
view of the river to his left, the buildings seemed all too solid. He passed a terrace of houses which, he guessed would once
have housed the families of sea captains, before arriving at a double-fronted detached house, its white stucco façade gleaming
like a wedding cake.

As they climbed Mrs Tranter’s steep garden path, the fluffy clouds raced away and the sun came out, suddenly turning the river
from grey to dull blue with diamond ripples dancing on the surface. But they had no time to appreciate the beauties of nature.

Mrs Tranter must have been watching for them from her window because the door was opened a split second after Wesley had rung
the door bell. She ushered them in as if she was anxious to get them out of view before the neighbours saw the police were
calling.

Linda Tranter was a large lady with a taste for bright, Indian clothes. A skirt printed with golden elephants swirled around
her substantial ankles and an emerald green silk scarf was tied around her steel-grey hair, holding back a long ponytail.
The words aging hippie leapt into Gerry Heffernan’s mind but in his experience aging hippies were a harmless breed, being
too busy with artistic pursuits and New Age activities to hold up banks or commit multiple murders.

‘You must be Della Stannard’s son-in-law,’ she gushed at Wesley. ‘She rang me yesterday out of the blue and said you’d be
in touch. I’m delighted to meet you.’

Wesley smiled amiably like a good son-in-law should. After he’d introduced Gerry Heffernan, Linda led them into a cluttered
living room, filled with souvenirs of travel, mainly, Wesley guessed, to the Indian subcontinent. The two policemen, realising
that some things couldn’t be rushed, made themselves comfortable on the worn corduroy sofa and awaited the arrival of tea
and
scones. There were some things you couldn’t fight against and the hospitality of a retired widowed lady was one of them.