The Shining Skull (13 page)

Suzy’s story came spilling out. She had been told to leave the money inside a rowing boat called
The Spider’s Web
which had been hauled up onto the bank, round a bend in the river and just out of sight of civilisation. Clever. Before calling
Gerry Heffernan to bring him up to date with developments, Wesley made a call to the patrol boat to tell them where the money
had been left. But he
advised them to do nothing to draw attention to themselves. Their main priority was to get the hostage back safely.

It wasn’t until the patrol boat called him to say that, with the aid of night vision binoculars, they had located the probable
spot where the drop had been made but there was no sign of a bag lying inside the rowing boat. Did Wesley want them to go
ashore and investigate further? After a moment’s thought, Wesley declined their offer. There was always a chance that the
kidnapper was still around and the last thing he wanted was to put the hostage in any danger.

He decided to call it a day and go home to get some sleep. Rachel was there to keep an eye on things. And he’d trust Rachel
with his life.

In the morning he would have to be wide awake and ready for whatever the next day would bring. He only hoped that it would
be the safe return of Leah Wakefield. The alternative was unthinkable.

The minicab veered to the left and came to a sudden halt at the entrance to a field, throwing Chantelle forward.

The driver said nothing while she righted herself with a stream of mumbled expletives. He sat, still and upright, breathing
deeply before opening the glove box.

‘What’s the matter? Why have you stopped? I’ve got to be at work and if I’m bloody late again, I’ll get the bloody sack. Come
on, my lover, get a move on, will you?’ She tried to sound casual but in reality fear was creeping in.

‘Did you hear what I said? Start the bloody car, will you?’ She looked out of the window, her heart pounding. She’d assumed
he was taking some short cut but now the truth was beginning to dawn on her. She was in the middle of nowhere with this silent
man. ‘Come on. Stop pissing about. Start the bloody engine, will you?’

When no answer came and all she could hear was the man’s heavy breathing, panic set in. Chantelle flung herself at the door
handle but nothing happened. The bastard had put the child locks on. She started banging on the window, screaming. ‘Let me
out. Let me out.’

He had got out of the car. Slowly. Moving purposefully as though he hadn’t heard her cries, like someone in a trance. The
back door swung open and Chantelle instinctively backed away, cowering in the back seat, her legs drawn up, her body pressed
against the upholstery as he loomed over her. She could smell sweat and something else . . . a chemical smell she couldn’t
quite place. He was murmuring something softly – words that didn’t make any sense. Babbling nonsense. She hid her face in
terror and let out another scream.

She was going to be raped, she knew it. But there was no way she’d make it easy for him. He had something in his hand. Something
that looked like a knife. Chantelle kicked out at him but he was on top of her, pinioning her arms and legs so that she was
helpless.

Then she saw the blade pointing at her head and she closed her eyes tight. She had heard that your life flashed in front of
you when you were going to die but her mind was empty of everything but the need to fight, to survive. With an almighty effort
she tried to move her legs but no sooner had she wriggled one free than it was trapped again. She was being bound with something.
Tape maybe. She felt tears of rage and helplessness well in her eyes as she pleaded to be released.

‘If you let me go I won’t tell anyone. Please . . . ’ Then she made one final throw of the dice. ‘Look, I’ll let you . . .
I’ll let you do it if you promise not to hurt me. Please.’

He was going to stab her. Or cut her throat. She shut her eyes tight. Nothing had worked . . . not pleading, not fighting,
not offering sex. She’d played all her cards and this was the end. This was death.

Then she heard the sound of snipping. Scissors, not a knife, she thought. He was cutting her hair. Her beautiful hair. She
lay there, bound and helpless, feeling her hair being pulled and tugged this way and that.

Then suddenly, in desperation, she reared up, hoping to unbalance him, to take him off his guard. But she misjudged the manoeuvre
badly and she felt something stab into her neck.

And as the blood began to flow, he continued hacking away at her hair.

Letter from Mrs Sarah Jewel of Brighton to Juanita Bentham, 28th July 1815

My dearest Juanita

I thank you most heartily for your letter and rejoice to hear that you are in good health. I know the Devon air is good, as
is all sea air. And yet, in spite of being in Brighton, I still suffer from that malady that has afflicted me since Charlotte’s
birth.

Mr Jewel has instructed me to travel to Bath to take the waters with fashionable society and it may be that I shall go. I
would that you could accompany me for I am loath to go alone, but it would be most wrong of me to take you from Sir John so
soon after your marriage.

It is most strange that I came across a name here in Brighton that you mentioned in one of your letters. The Amazing Devon
Marvel is to appear at a hall nearby. It seems this prodigious child is able to perform any calculation that is asked of him
by his audience and the Prince Regent himself, I hear has commanded him to perform before him. I am full of curiosity, although
I shall not attend myself of course. How strange that he comes from Stoke Beeching and that his father is a tenant of Sir
John’s.

And it seems that yet more curiosities come out of Devon. I hear tell of a woman called Joan Shiner who claims to be a prophetess
and talk of her has spread to us in Brighton. Did you not say Sir John’s sister has met with her? I long to know the truth
of it.

Your most loving friend, Sarah Jewel

He’d panicked. After shoving the hair roughly into a plastic bag, he’d driven away from that silent lane with the girl slumped
in the
back of the car screaming, the blood gushing from her neck. Then the screaming had stopped and the strange gurgling noises
she was making scared him.

He brought the car to a stately halt in a side road near to the hospital and undid his seat belt. Her breathing didn’t sound
good. She was lying on the back seat, her body twisted like a rag doll roughly discarded by some monstrous child. With a great
effort he pulled her out, her sticky blood oozing onto his hands, and dragged her towards the hospital entrance, hardly noticing
that she had lost both her shoes and the heels of her fishnet tights were disintegrating with the friction of her bare feet
on the concrete pavement.

Not daring to go too near the brightly lit hospital, he left her propped up near a bay marked ‘Ambulances only.’ She was bound
to be discovered there and taken care of.

When he considered that she was as comfortable as he could possibly make her, he bent and whispered in her ear. ‘I’m sorry,’
before disappearing off into the night.

Wesley Peterson was in that strange state between sleeping and waking, when the phone call came. When he put the receiver
down he turned to Pam who was lying beside him and kissed her on the forehead. It was the sort of apologetic kiss she had
become familiar with over the years.

‘Sorry. I’m needed.’

‘Must you go in? It’s Saturday.’ Pam knew that her question was a silly one. But she still asked it, probably out of habit.
She ran her fingers down her husband’s naked back and he turned towards her and smiled.

‘Sorry. The Barber was at it again last night. Only this time the victim’s in hospital.’

Pam’s hand went to her mouth. ‘You said it would escalate, didn’t you?’

He nodded solemnly. ‘Things like this usually do.’

She gave him an affectionate push. ‘You’d better go.’

He turned to her. ‘You haven’t told me what you found out about those Shining Ones on the internet last night.’

‘I haven’t had a chance. I was asleep when you got back.’

‘Well?’

‘It was started in the early nineteenth century by a local woman called Joan Shiner. Now I know where the rhyme comes from.’

‘What rhyme?’

‘Some of the kids at school have this skipping rhyme. I’ve never really listened to the words but it starts “Joanie Shiner
burning bright.” It’s most likely a local thing ’cause I’ve never heard it anywhere else. The kids probably picked it up from
their parents and grandparents.’

‘So what did you find out about this Joanie Shiner?’

‘She claimed that the secrets of the universe were going to be revealed to her and her followers said she could perform miracles.’

‘Were there many followers?’

‘There were quite a lot around here. She claimed that she was going to give birth to a baby but no baby ever appeared. And
when she died she prophesied that she would return and have a Shining Babe at the start of the second millennium.’

‘She’s taking her time.’

‘That’s what I thought. There were a lot of strange sects around at that time. For some, claiming to be some sort of prophet
was probably a good career choice.’

Wesley climbed slowly out of bed and made for the shower. Much as he’d have liked to involve himself with Neil’s little mystery,
he’d have to leave the question of the extra skeleton and the presence of the Shining Ones in Stoke Beeching churchyard, to
those with more time on their hands.

‘Wes,’ Pam said to his disappearing back.

He halted and turned around. ‘What?’

She hesitated for moment. ‘I love you.’

He made his way back to the bed and gave his wife a long, lingering kiss before retracing his steps to the shower. Things
were looking up.

As he trudged down the hill to the police station, he wondered what had brought on Pam’s forgiving mood. Normally when he
had to work unsocial hours in term time she gave him a hard time. But recently – perhaps since Maritia’s wedding – things
seemed to have changed. Preoccupied with work and grateful for a peaceful life, he hadn’t given the matter much thought. But
all of a sudden he found himself wondering if something might be wrong; some illness perhaps that Pam was reluctant to mention.
But she had seemed fine that morning . . . in fact she’d never looked better. He put the thought from his mind. He had enough
worries to be going on with.

In the CID office it was impossible to tell that it was a Saturday morning. Rather than being a haven of weekend relaxation,
the place seemed rather busier than normal. The Barber enquiry had been cranked up a few notches after last night’s disturbing
development.

And then there was the Leah Wakefield case. The money had been collected but there had still been no message from the kidnapper
about Leah’s release and Wesley felt uneasy. The ransom was fifty thousand pounds this time. What was to stop whoever had
Leah demanding another fifty, then another?

Gerry Heffernan was already at his desk. He had the look of a man who hadn’t slept much, if at all.

Wesley sat down opposite him and leaned across his cluttered desk. ‘You OK?’

The DCI gave him a weak smile. ‘I went to look at a nursing home with Joyce last night. Sedan House . . . it’s on the outskirts
of Morbay.’ He shook his head. ‘I just hope I never end up in a place like that.’

‘Bad, was it?’

Heffernan shrugged. ‘More depressing than bad. All these old dears wandering about not knowing what day it is and sitting
round the walls of this lounge on those upright armchairs. Why do they always have those chairs in places like that?’

‘Have you told Rosie about Joyce yet?’

Heffernan shook his head sheepishly and Wesley rolled his eyes to heaven. The boss’s fear of his daughter’s disapproval was
beginning to irritate him.

‘Anything new come in?’ he asked, scanning the desk as though he hoped to find the answer to all their problems amongst the
chaos.

Heffernan scratched his head and yawned. ‘Still no word from the kidnappers. Rach is over at the Wakefield place and she’ll
let us know as soon as anything happens. We’ve traced the owner of
The Spider’s Web
– he has a yacht called
The Spider’s Nest
moored a couple of hundred yards out in the river . . . uses
The Spider’s Web
to get out to her.’

‘So who owns it?’

‘Her,’ Heffernan the sailor corrected automatically. ‘Boats are always she. She belongs to a solicitor – one of the Weltons
of Welton, Welton and Brace on the High Street.’

Wesley nodded. ‘I know them.’ Welton, Welton and Brace had ensured the release of many an offender Wesley would have preferred
to keep safely behind bars. But, as that was their function in life, he harboured no ill feeling. Everyone had their job to
do but his would be easier without Welton, Welton and Brace. ‘Where does he live?’

‘Derenham. Place overlooking the waterfront.’

‘Nice,’ said Wesley with a hint of envy. Places overlooking the waterfront in the village of Derenham came at a hefty price.
Perhaps, he thought, this Welton lived beyond his means and had had to resort to kidnapping to make ends meet. But after a
few seconds of pleasant speculation, he dismissed the idea as fanciful. ‘Are we going to have a word with him?’

‘I’ve already sent Trish and Paul over there to catch our Mr Welton while he’s in the middle of his croissants or whatever
solicitors eat on a Saturday morning. I want to know why his boat was singled out.’

‘It was in the right place at the right time?’ Wesley suggested.

Heffernan shrugged. ‘Probably. Let’s face it, if he was involved, he’d hardly use his own boat, would he?’

The chief inspector had a point, Wesley thought. If Welton was the kidnapper, he wouldn’t wish to draw attention to himself.
It was something Trish Walton and Paul Johnson could deal with on their own, just a matter of taking a statement to the effect
that Welton knew nothing. But Wesley would read between the lines of the statement, when it arrived on his desk, examining
each phrase for the smell of a lie . . . just in case.

‘Are we going to see the Barber’s latest victim?’

‘She’s still in hospital but it’s just a precaution. She lost a bit of blood but the quacks say she’s not in danger. Mind
you, if she’d not been dumped outside the hospital it might have been a different story.’

‘It was bad enough when he was just chopping off their hair but this means we’ve got to find this joker and find him quick.
Any CCTV footage from around where she was dumped?’

Heffernan sighed. ‘There were a couple of cameras nearby.’ He paused before delivering the punch line. ‘Trouble is, neither
of them had any tapes in.’

‘I should have guessed. What was the excuse?’

‘Short staffed.’

Wesley rolled his eyes again. ‘If she was left at the hospital someone might have found her and dumped her there because he
didn’t want to get involved.’

‘Or our Barber knew he’d gone too far. He’d lost control and felt bad about it. We’d better get over there and have a word
with her before she’s discharged.’ He let out a long sigh and put his head in his hands.

‘What’s the matter, Gerry?’

‘It’s this business with Joyce’s mum.’ He looked up. ‘This Sedan House can take her right away so . . . ’

‘Difficult decision,’ said Wesley with genuine sympathy. He could appreciate Joyce’s dilemma. Sometimes guilt is the hardest
thing to conquer. It hangs round in the background like a smell from the drains, tainting life, taking the edge off any morsel
of enjoyment. He felt sorry for Joyce Barnes. ‘What about Leah Wakefield?’ he asked, thinking a change of subject was due.

‘Someone’ll let us know when there’s any developments,’ said Heffernan optimistically.

Half an hour later, after intense negotiations with a small but fearsome ward sister, Heffernan and Wesley were sitting at
Chantelle Wetherby’s bedside.

Neil Watson had rung Wesley’s home number, only to be told by Pam that he’d had to go into work. There was no resentment in
her words – or if there was, she hid it well.

He had tried to call Wesley at the station but he had been out on some unspecified mission, which meant that Neil would have
to talk to Lionel Grooby, the local historian, on his own. He had contemplated asking Pam to go with him as she seemed to
be interested but he told himself that she’d have the children to look after. Besides, he didn’t know if he’d quite forgiven
her yet. Even last night, things had been a little strained.

The excavation of the corner of St Merion’s churchyard earmarked for the new parish room was continuing, even though it was
the weekend. Nobody wanted the graves to be open for longer than was strictly necessary. After checking that everything was
going according to plan, Neil set off on his mission. His colleagues could be trusted to deal with things for an hour or so.
Neil had always believed in the wisdom of delegation.

Lionel Grooby lived in a most unhistoric bungalow, built in the
architectural nadir of the nineteen sixties. It stood on the outskirts of the village, separated from the road by a wide,
faux farmgate with a wagon wheel set in its centre in a misjudged attempt give it a hint of rural authenticity. But even this
gate and the rustic stone wishing-well in the garden couldn’t make the bungalow appear to be anything other than suburban.
Neil felt rather sorry that a man with a passion for history should be condemned to live in such a house. But perhaps he had
a wife who preferred that sort of thing. In battles of taste, women were usually the victors.

It was the retired schoolteacher himself who answered the door. Grooby – who insisted that Neil call him Lionel – was a sprightly
man, in spite of an overhanging gut which strained at the buttons of his checked shirt. Neil judged that he was a youthful
sixty-five.

He led Neil though to the lounge, a sunny room with a beige carpet, pink walls and an over-ornate three piece suite and invited
him to sit down before hurrying from the room. There was no mention of a wife and no sign of a female presence. Perhaps the
choice of the bungalow had been Grooby’s own, Neil thought as he looked around. Or the wife had gone long ago – departed for
the next life of absconded to pastures new. Neil hardly liked to ask.

After ten minutes Grooby returned staggering under the weight of several folders. He placed them on the coffee table and sat
down beside Neil, his eyes glowing with something akin to religious fervour.