The Shining Skull (11 page)

Once Wesley had consumed his first, surprisingly excellent scone, he came to the point of their visit. ‘I understand you were
a friend of the Fallbrook family at the time their son, Marcus, went missing.’

Linda raised her hand to her substantial breast. ‘It was a terrible business. Tragic. It killed Anna Fallbrook, you know.
They say stress can bring on cancer, don’t they? I lost touch with Jacob after Anna died although I did hear he’d married
again and had another son. The second wife died too, you know, quite recently. And Jacob just last month.’ She shuddered.
‘It’s almost as if there’s a curse on that family. Don’t you agree, Wesley?’

Wesley had to nod. He guessed it was expected of him.

‘Is there any particular reason you’re asking questions about poor little Marcus’s abduction after all these years?’ she asked.

The two policemen exchanged looks. There was no fooling this woman that this was just a routine enquiry. Gerry Heffernan leaned
forward. ‘Look, love, I’d be very grateful if you’d keep this to yourself . . . ’

‘I’m not a gossip, Chief Inspector,’ she sounded rather hurt.

‘Of course not,’ said Wesley quickly. ‘It’s just that it’s a rather delicate matter and it’s not easy for Adrian Fallbrook
. . . that’s Jacob’s son by his second wife.’

Linda tilted her head to one side expectantly. They’d come this far, Wesley thought, and if they didn’t confide in her he
suspected she wouldn’t confide in them. He took a deep breath.

‘A man turned up at the Fallbrooks’ house in Derenham.’

‘Mirabilis. They called it Mirabilis. Not very appropriate as it turned out. Tempting fate almost,’ said Linda solemnly.

‘Quite. Well a man turned up at Mirabilis a few days ago claiming to be Marcus Fallbrook.’

Linda frowned and took a shuddering breath. ‘Surely he’s lying.’

‘He agreed to take a DNA test. And he remembers a lot about the house and the family. He even looks like Adrian. There’s a
definite resemblance.’

She bowed her head. ‘Oh dear. If it’s true it makes Anna’s death more tragic, doesn’t it? If he was alive somewhere all the
time . . . ’

‘Yes,’ said Wesley softly watching Linda’s face. She was clearly upset. Grieving for her friend Anna Fallbrook even after
all this time.

‘You and Anna were close?’

‘We’d known each other since we were small. My parents were her godparents and vice versa. We were each other’s bridesmaids.
She was an artist, you know . . . very talented. She used to exhibit at local galleries.’ She looked Wesley in the eye. ‘Look,
if you want to ask me any questions about the Fallbrooks, I don’t mind. I’d just like you to get to the truth . . . for Anna’s
sake. She was a very special person.’

‘Thanks, love,’ said Heffernan, helping himself to another scone. ‘Tell us about the Fallbrooks, eh. What kind of family were
they?’

Linda Tranter sat in silence for a few moments, as though choosing her words carefully. ‘I wouldn’t have called them a happy
family. Jacob and Anna . . . ’ She sighed. ‘There was something wrong. I could sense it. But Anna never talked about it, even
to me.’

‘Is it possible Jacob was violent towards her or Marcus?’

‘Jacob never struck me as a violent man. But then you can never tell what goes on behind closed doors, can you?’

‘You don’t think . . . ’ Wesley hesitated. The question was delicate but it had to be asked. ‘Is it possible Jacob was abusing
Marcus in some way?’

‘You mean sexually?’ She shook her head. ‘It’s not something that ever occurred to me at the time but then in those days nobody
ever spoke about that sort of thing. The honest answer is that I don’t know. I suppose it could be a possibility.’

‘You didn’t like Jacob?’

‘To be honest, no, I didn’t.’

Wesley and Heffernan exchanged glances. The notion that all wasn’t well in the Fallbrook household opened up all kinds of
new possibilities, none of which had been mentioned in Barry Houldsworth’s notebooks.

‘Could there had been someone else? Could Jacob have been having an affair?’

‘If he was, Anna never mentioned it.’

Wesley thought he saw a flicker of wariness in Linda’s eyes – there for a split second then gone. Or it might have been his
imagination.

‘What about Marcus’s relationship with his parents?’

‘I think he spent most of his time with his nanny. What was her name?’

‘Jenny Booker.’

‘That’s right, Jenny. She seemed a sweet girl. But I don’t think she was the sharpest knife in the box. Anna mentioned she
had a boyfriend. She said he seemed rather peculiar . . . but I’m not sure what she meant.’

Wesley’s ears pricked up. Barry Houldsworth had mentioned the nanny’s boyfriend, Gordon Heather, and that he’d had no convictions
at the time. He’d been meaning to find out whether he’d blotted his copybook since but he hadn’t got round to it. He put it
on his mental list of things to do.

‘I suppose it was inevitable that Marcus spent a lot of time with Jenny and this boyfriend?’ he said.

‘I suppose it was. Jacob was a businessman and expected Anna to support him in the way wives used to in the olden days.’ She
smiled. ‘And Anna was on a lot of committees, and there was her art as well, which was very important to her.’

‘You think Marcus was neglected?’

‘I wouldn’t use the word neglected. Jenny was always there to entertain him.’

‘He must have been very attached to Jenny.’

‘I suppose he was.’ She hesitated. ‘Can I meet him? Can I meet this man who’s claiming to be Marcus?’

Heffernan cleared his throat. ‘We’ll certainly ask him . . . see what he says.’

‘A sort of test, you mean? If he doesn’t want to meet his mother’s oldest friend, he’s a fraud?’

Heffernan smiled. ‘You said it, love.’

‘I was thinking more of offering him support . . . a chance to talk about his mother and the family.’

‘Of course,’ said Wesley. ‘We’ll try to arrange something, shall we?’ he said as he stood up.

‘You do know that Jenny died, don’t you? She drowned about a year after Marcus disappeared. There was talk that she killed
herself but . . . I think the inquest gave an open verdict.’

Wesley gaped at Linda Tranter for a few seconds then sat himself down again.

From the Reverend Charles Boden to Sir John Bentham, 23rd July 1815

I met with Matthew Hackworthy this day and he informed me that his son, Peter, has been displaying the gifts the Lord has
graciously granted to him at The Fisherman’s Arms in Tradmouth which is, by repute, a low tavern frequented by all manner
of lewd and common persons. I reiterate, sir, that a boy of his tender years ought not to be used like some performing beast
for the enrichment of his grasping father and I beg you to put forward the good offer of my Oxford acquaintance. A little
thought will surely convince you of the rightness of this.

There is, sir, another matter that causes me concern. I have heard tell that your sister, Elizabeth, has visited the house
of Lord Penworthy to see the woman Joan Shiner. This worries me greatly as, in my opinion as a man of the cloth, the woman
is nought but a charlatan and a rogue. Does not the Good Book warn us to beware of false prophets?

I am, sir, your servant, Charles Boden

Rachel Tracey was bored. Nothing had happened and the strain of waiting – and reassuring the Wakefields that everything was
under control – was taking its toll on her nerves. She looked at her mobile phone. As soon as something happened she would
report in but in the meantime all she had to do was make endless cups of tea and clear up the half-drunk cups. Suzy Wakefield
had a nasty habit of stubbing out her cigarettes inside her cup and leaving the stubs floating like surfaced submarines in
the cold brown dregs of tea.

The Wakefields hardly seemed to notice that she had opened some windows to let some fresh air mingle with the fug of cigarette
smoke. She worried fleetingly about the dangers posed by passive smoking as she watched Suzy Wakefield clear away the remains
of the pizzas she had found in the freezer and cooked for their evening meal. Rachel and Brad Williams had finished theirs
but Darren and Suzy Wakefield had only taken a few bites.

Rachel thought of her own bed and sighed. She supposed she’d be comfortable in the Wakefield’s spare room – complete with
marble tiled en suite bathroom – but she doubted if she’d be able to sleep.

Suzy had returned from the kitchen and was pacing the floor again, cigarette in hand. Darren who had been sitting, head in
hands, suddenly jumped to his feet.

‘Why don’t they bloody ring? What’s keeping them?’ The question was greeted with embarrassed silence.

Rachel and Brad Williams caught each other’s eye and he gave her a weak smile. Rachel had been observing Williams and had
come to the conclusion that he either wasn’t particularly worried or he was hiding it well. She had seen him reach out a hand
to touch Suzy as she passed, locked in her own world of anxiety. She hadn’t responded but Rachel sensed there was more between
them than she’d been led to believe. Rachel wondered if they were or had been lovers. The slight, almost imperceptible, hostility
in Darren’s body language certainly suggested it.

Rachel was rather relieved when Suzy switched on the huge plasma screen television that hung on the wall over the fake Adam
fireplace. At least it would provide some sort of distraction. But no sooner had the strains of the
EastEnders
theme begun than the telephone started to ring.

For a few seconds everyone froze. Then they all looked at Rachel for guidance. She picked up the remote control from the coffee
table and flicked the TV off. They’d need all their wits and their concentration to get through this.

With nervous hands Rachel set the recording machine going, wishing Tim was there to make sure she was doing it right. Then
she nodded to Suzy who picked up the receiver and said a breathless hello before her emotions overwhelmed her.

The words came pouring out, gabbled, her voice brittle with fear. ‘Is she all right? Let me speak to her. Please . . . ’

Then came a stunned silence. And from the crestfallen expression on Suzy’s face, Rachel knew it wasn’t the call they’d been
expecting. She heard Suzy say ‘No. No, don’t come in tomorrow. I’ll let you know.’ Another silence. Then a curt ‘Yes, of course
you’ll be paid. Look, I’ve got to go.’

She replaced the receiver carefully, terrified of leaving it off the hook so the call she was waiting for couldn’t get through.

Rachel, who had been listening to the call on headphones, gave

Suzy a sympathetic smile. ‘Your cleaner?’

Suzy nodded.

‘You did the right thing. The fewer people who know about this the better. But, er, perhaps next time it would be better if
you just said hello and waited to see what the caller had to say.’

‘Yeah. Right. I was in such a state, I wasn’t thinking.’

Suzy flopped down on the sofa beside Rachel. She looked exhausted. And it was early days yet. These things sometimes took
time – not that Rachel had had any experience in dealing with kidnappers’ ransom demands. She was as much in the dark as the
Wakefields. And, like them, all she knew came from TV police dramas. But she guessed that kidnappers liked to spin out the
agony. To play the long game.

Then a sudden thought hit her. She looked at Brad Williams. ‘Money. If they want the money tonight have you got it ready?
We don’t want to put Leah at risk by leaving a bag full of torn up newspaper. It’s Saturday tomorrow. The banks are shut.’

Brad Williams smiled. ‘I thought of that. I’ve brought some cash with me. Forty-five grand in used notes. And, if necessary,
I’m sure we can rustle up the extra five grand from somewhere, eh Darren?’

Rachel raised her eyebrows. She had never encountered anybody who could carry around tens of thousands of pounds with such
casual nonchalance before. Perhaps she had led a sheltered life.

The time passed slowly. The television had gone on again and the sound of arguing London voices filled the room as Suzy paced
to and fro, chain smoking. Rachel had advised her against consuming more vodka and cokes in case she had to drive. Nobody
was watching the goings-on on the screen but at least it provided a relief from the oppressive silence.

Rachel looked at her watch. Had something gone wrong? Or
was this just the kidnapper’s way of keeping them on edge and desperate. And the desperate will agree to anything.

It was half an hour before the telephone rang again. And this time it was the call they’d been waiting for.

Neil Watson felt a little nervous as he stood on Wesley’s doorstep. It was a while since he’d seen Pam. In fact, although
he hated to admit it, he’d been avoiding her. Of course Wesley had never found out about the incident with Jonathan and, as
far as Neil knew, the problem had gone away of its own accord. Everything had returned to normal and Neil was the only one
who possessed the uncomfortable knowledge. But he’d much rather have remained in ignorance.

When Pam answered the door, she gave him a coy smile.

‘Hi. Er . . . Is Wes in?’

She stood aside to let him in and touched his arm as he passed her. ‘How are you, Neil? OK? We’ve not seen you for a while.’

Neil wasn’t listening to the words she spoke. He was watching her face. Her eyes were pleading with him; pleading for him
to say nothing; saying it had been a disastrous mistake. Asking forgiveness. He took her hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m fine.
You?’

She smiled with relief. ‘Yeah. Me and Wes are both fine. And the kids. You know Michael’s just started school?’

‘Yeah. Wes said.’ Being one who followed the advice of W.C. Fields and never concerned himself with children or animals, he
was anxious to change the subject. ‘I wanted to tell Wes that I’ve just seen an old friend of ours. I don’t suppose you remember
Una Gibson, do you? She studied archaeology with us. We used to call her Boudicca because of her red hair. I’ve just been
for a drink with her but she had to get back to Exeter.’

‘I think I know who you mean.’ She stood aside. ‘Go through. Wes is watching something about a shipwreck.’

Wesley stood up as Neil entered the living room, abandoning the murky underwater scene on the TV screen. As the two men greeted
each other Pam scurried out to fetch a bottle of wine from the kitchen.

Neil sat down, hoping that sharing his dilemma with Wesley would make things clearer in his mind. He told him about Una and
the skeleton that shouldn’t have been there. The small adolescent male whose skull had grinned at him from behind Juanita
Bentham’s.

‘Sounds interesting,’ was all Wesley could think of to say. ‘Let me know what you find out, won’t you?’

Neil nodded, slightly disappointed. He had hoped for a little more enthusiasm. ‘I’m meeting a bloke called Grooby tomorrow
– he’s a local historian. I want to check out these Benthams and find out who Juanita was and where she came from. I know
the Benthams were squires so I’m hoping their lives were quite well documented. It’s the Regency period . . . hardly the dark
ages.’ He looked at Wesley hopefully. ‘Fancy coming with me to see this Grooby. It’s Saturday tomorrow. They give you weekends
off, don’t they?’

Wesley was about to explain why he couldn’t commit himself but a sudden attack of discretion stopped him. The less people
who knew about Leah Wakefield’s kidnapping, the better. Even friends and family might let something slip in earshot of the
wrong person. ‘I don’t know. There’s something big going on at work and I might be needed.’

Neil’s eyes lit up. ‘What is it? A bank robbery or . . .?’

‘Something like that,’ Wesley said quickly. ‘But if it turns out that I’m free, I’ll give you a ring, shall I?’

Pam returned with the wine and three glasses but when she offered it round, Wesley and Neil refused. Neil was driving and
there was a possibility Wesley might have to go out later if an expected phone call came. Pam poured herself a glass and took
a sip of the ruby liquid, savouring it for a few seconds before telling the two men that there was orange juice in the fridge
and water in the tap. Neil noticed the absence of dirty looks and snide remarks when Wesley mentioned the possibility of work
disrupting his evening. It would take a while to get used to the new, chastened Pam.

Neil drew a piece of paper from the pocket of his jeans and unfolded it. ‘Have you ever seen anything like this before?’ he
asked passing it first to Wesley, then to Pam.

Wesley shook his head. ‘What is it?’

‘It was carved on one of the memorials we’ve been moving. Family called the Benthams – the local squires apparently. The Rector
thinks it’s the emblem of some sect or cult called the Shining Ones.’

‘Never heard of them,’ said Wesley. ‘Sorry.’

‘We could see if there’s anything about them on the internet,’
Pam suggested. She walked over to the computer desk in the corner of the room. ‘Want to give it a try?’

Neil nodded, wondering why he hadn’t thought of that himself. But at that moment the telephone began to ring. Wesley hesitated
for a few moments before answering it. He’d been looking forward to doing a spot of impromptu historical research and he just
hoped it was someone selling double glazing so he could tell them where to stick their windows, rather than the call he was
expecting.

But his luck was out. He put the receiver to his ear and heard Rachel’s voice. She sounded strained, as though she was trying
to keep calm against great odds. The call, she said, had finally come. An androgynous voice, filtered through some electronic
gadgetry, had instructed Suzy Wakefield to go to Whitepool sands where she’d find further instructions left beneath an upturned
blue dinghy next to the café. She was to bring the original note found at the gibbet and leave it with the ransom money. The
call had been traced to a phone box in Morbay, a different one this time. An unmarked police car had gone straight to the
spot but by then the caller was long gone.

He told Rachel he’d be right over.

‘I’ve got to go. Sorry. Don’t know what time I’ll be back, I’m afraid.’

‘I’ll let you know what we find out about the Shining Ones,’ said Pam calmly, reaching up on tiptoe to kiss him on the lips.

Neil gave him a nervous smile as he made for the door.

The voice had asked whether they had the money. When Suzy Wakefield had answered in the affirmative, she was given clear instructions.
She was to put the cash in a waterproof bag and go down to the beach alone at ten thirty. She was to walk straight to the
café where she would see an upturned blue dinghy lying to the right of the front door. If she lifted the boat, she would find
a plastic bag underneath containing her instructions. She was to follow them to the letter or she would never see Leah alive
again. She was to return the instructions and the original note with the money and she wasn’t to carry a mobile phone. Under
no circumstances were the police to be informed: if they were contacted, Leah Wakefield would die immediately. Her throat
would be cut. The last words chilled Suzy’s soul. But she had to be brave. She had to do it for Leah’s sake.

Her mind began to contemplate potential disasters. What if the tide had come in and swept the dinghy out to sea? What if some
kids had decided to have a beach party? They could have moved the dinghy. They could have found the note and discarded it.
The beach might be a hive of activity when she got there. The kidnapper might have chickened out if he’d found that there
were lots of people about walking dogs or lighting barbecues. All these nightmare scenarios flashed across her troubled mind.
It didn’t matter that the tide never came up as far as the café or that, as it was nearing the end of September, it was far
too cold for beach barbecues: Suzy knew that everything that could go wrong, would go wrong.

DS Rachel Tracey was being very supportive in a practised, professional sort of way. But it wasn’t like having a close friend
or family member there. All she knew of Leah was what she’d read in the tabloids. Everybody thinks they know a celebrity,
she thought, but it’s the image they know, not the person.

By nine o’clock everything was arranged. The original note had been photocopied at the police station and returned to Rachel
to be dropped off with the money. The kidnapper was clever: he or she knew that, were the police to get their hands on it
after Leah’s release, it could yield valuable forensic evidence. But at least this precaution suggested that the abductor
didn’t know that the police were already involved . . . which was good.