The Shining Skull (18 page)

‘Where is he?’

Heffernan hesitated for a few moments. ‘God knows.’

Paul and Trish were walking towards them, hand in hand. The dog bounding ahead, making straight for Wesley and Heffernan.
Wesley bent down to greet the animal who jumped up at him ecstatically, washing his hands with its lolling tongue.

‘What’s happening?’ Heffernan said to Paul who was making a great show of calling the dog off.

‘Wakefield dropped the package in that boat over there, sir. I
think he put it inside some sort of waterproof bag,’ said Paul quietly, still in role.

There was a boat a couple of hundred yards away, pulled up onto the beach near the water’s edge – when the tide came in it
would float. There was no sign of anyone else about. Perhaps, Wesley thought, he was waiting until the beach was empty before
making the pick up.

‘We should go. There’s a couple of men undercover in the public car park. When our man arrives, he’s bound to park there.
They can pick him up when he returns to his car with the package.’ Heffernan sounded more confident than Wesley felt but what
he said made sense. Their man had to come by car or on foot – probably the former. And when he did, they’d get him.

All of a sudden the gentle lapping of the waves was drowned out by an approaching buzzing, like an angry wasp; a large, furious
insect that was getting nearer and nearer. They didn’t take much notice at first. Idiots in power boats – the lowest form
of marine life in Gerry Heffernan’s opinion – liked to exercise their anti-social toys from time to time.

But as the sound increased in intensity, they looked round.

‘I hate those things,’ Heffernan said absentmindedly as the jet ski skimmed across the waves.

The chief inspector turned away but Wesley couldn’t help watching as the machine made a beeline for the shore.

‘Hell,’ he exclaimed after a few seconds. He snatched the dog’s beach ball out of Paul Johnson’s hand and threw it with some
force towards the upturned boat. ‘Fetch,’ he said and the dog bounded off. ‘That goes for you and all,’ he shouted to Paul.
‘It’s him. The bugger’s come on the water. That must be why he changed the drop-off point.’

As Paul and Trish lurched after the over-excited spaniel, the jet ski shot out of the water and came to a temporary halt by
the boat before speeding out to sea again, the driver – a blur in a wetsuit – with a waterproof bag slung across his back.

‘He’s running bloody rings round us,’ Heffernan said, turning away.

Wesley didn’t reply.

Steve Carstairs edged his shiny black Ford Probe into a parking space. The car park at Afleck’s was hardly full so he’d been
spoiled for choice. He got out and locked the car door. You could never be too careful, he thought – and the car was his
pride and joy after all.

The great bulk of the wooden boat shed loomed before him and he was aware of the river lapping against the gravel shore. The
building looked rather neglected; uncared for as though nobody had the money or the inclination to renew its flaking paint
or clear away the rubbish and discarded equipment that had accumulated around its base. The same went for the collection of
splintering wooden outhouses that huddled round the main shed like children around a mother. To one side of the shed a small,
utilitarian brick office building squatted, its brutal 1960s architecture starkly out of place against the green, wooded shore
of the River Trad, an angry pimple on a beautiful face. Boats, in various stages of repair lay stranded on a wide strip of
concrete between the buildings and the river or on the wide seaweed-covered slipway that had been constructed for larger vessels
in more prosperous times.

The water lapped relentlessly against the shore but Steve couldn’t be sure whether the tide was going out or coming in – he
rarely concerned himself with the ins and outs of nature. A throaty whistle in the near distance told him that they weren’t
far from the steam railway which ran along the coast from Morbay to Queenswear. But railways were something else that didn’t
impinge on Steve’s life.

Steve took a deep breath, thrust his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and marched purposefully towards the office
entrance. This was a wild-goose chase, he thought, a total waste of time. But he supposed it had to be done. There was a chance,
albeit as slim as a catwalk model, that someone here might remember Gordon Heather from all those years ago.

There was no receptionist – it really wasn’t that sort of place – just a tall man in oil-stained overalls searching frantically
through a box file overflowing with what looked like invoices. Steve guessed that he was about sixty: he was wiry with sparse
grey hair cropped short and he had the lined, tanned face of a man who had spent much of his life out of doors.

The man looked up. ‘What can I do for you?’ He had a mouth that naturally formed itself into an amiable smile and he sounded
welcoming which meant he’d probably taken Steve for a boat owner in need of help with vital repairs.

Steve flashed his warrant card with the studied arrogance he’d observed in the more successful TV cops. ‘I’m looking for a
Teddy Afleck.’

‘You’ve found him. Look, if this is about those stolen outboard motors, I’ve had someone round already. They’ve not come my
way and if they did, I’d be straight onto your lot.’

The man sounded as though he meant it. But as Steve rarely came across honest men, he was uncertain how to react. It was a
few seconds before he collected his thoughts and focused on the reason for his visit. He’d been instructed by Inspector Peterson
that, as nobody was supposed to know that Leah Wakefield had been abducted, he wasn’t to give too much away. This one wasn’t
going to be easy.

‘It’s not about the outboard motors. I believe someone called Gordon Heather used to work here.’

Afleck frowned. ‘Now that’s a name from the past. What are you after him for?’

Steve drew himself up to his full height. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, sir. It’s in connection with an ongoing enquiry.’

Afleck’s eyes met his. ‘You mean you’ve been told not to tell me. This is very intriguing.’ He smiled as if he was enjoying
a private joke. ‘Fire away, then. What do you want to know?’

‘Can you tell me how long he worked here?’

Afleck scratched his head and frowned, putting on a fine show of racking his brains. ‘It must have been about a year . . .
eighteen months. I don’t think it was any longer. He went back up north.’

‘So how come he ended up here in the first place?’

‘Search me. I think he came down here on holiday and liked the place . . . decided to stay. Then he met this girl.’

Steve’s brain made the connection. ‘She worked as a nanny . . . name of Jenny Booker?’

‘That’s right. Little lad she was looking after was kidnapped . . . Never found him, poor little sod. His dad and my dad were
business partners, you know. Not that I had much to do with old man Fallbrook by then. He was never one to get his hands dirty
– he buggered off when the hard times came.’

Steve could detect a note of bitterness in his voice but he decided to ignore it and move on. Old business grudges were irrelevant.
‘What happened to Gordon Heather?’

‘Like I said, he went back up north not long after the kid disappeared. I don’t know if he went off with the girlfriend or
. . . ’

‘She died not long afterwards. There was talk that she killed herself.’

Afleck’s face was suddenly solemn. ‘That’s awful.’ He shook his head. ‘What a waste of a life. Not that I ever met her of
course. And if she fell for our Gordon she can’t have been the sharpest rivet in the hull.’

There was a short, heavy silence while both men searched for something appropriate to say. Steve wasn’t comfortable with the
subjects of love and death. Cars and football were more his thing.

‘I must say I’m surprised he’s come back here . . . after everything that happened.’

Steve looked up, puzzled. ‘How do you mean, come back?’

‘I saw him a few weeks back.’

‘Where was this?’

‘Now was it Tradmouth or Neston?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Neston, it was . . . near the river.’

‘And when was this exactly?’

‘I never put it in my diary if that’s what you’re getting at. But it must have been around June . . . July.’

‘Did you speak to him?’

‘Didn’t get a chance. He was on the opposite side of the road. He got into a car but before you ask me, I can’t tell you what
make of car it was. They’re all the same to me. Now if it was a boat . . . ’

‘Did he see you?’

Afleck shook his head. ‘Shouldn’t think so. It was a fine day so there were a lot of people about. And he looked as if he
had a lot on his mind.’ He gave a small, bitter laugh. ‘In a world of his own, he was.’

‘But you’re sure it was him?’

‘Oh aye. I never forget a face. He’d changed, mind . . . his face was a bit chubbier and his hair was longer and he looked
like he was going a bit thin on top. Still, it’s thirty years since I saw him last and age comes to us all, doesn’t it?’

Steve, who hadn’t yet experienced the creaking approach of time’s winged chariot, said nothing.

Afleck suddenly moved over to a massive oak bureau that almost filled one wall of the office. He opened the top drawer and
began to rummage inside, his face a mask of intense concentration.
Eventually he seemed to find what he was looking for and extracted something from the drawer’s chaotic interior with a triumphant
flourish.

‘Want to see a picture of him?’

Steve nodded meekly. He’d been about to ask for a description but this was even better.

Afleck thrust a dog-eared black and white photograph into his hand. Eleven men in football kit sat in three rows, arms folded.
Their ages ranged from teenage to middle-aged. ‘That’s me,’ Afleck said proudly pointing to a younger self with a shock of
longish dark hair. He must have been in his late twenties or early thirties at the time, Steve guessed . . . possibly his
sporting swan song. ‘And that’s Gordon. He didn’t play for us long – pub team it was. The Queenswear Arms. We were a man short
cause one of the regulars broke his leg so Gordon filled in a few Sundays. But he was no George Best so it didn’t become a
permanent arrangement.’

Steve looked at the man Afleck was pointing out. He stood at the end of the back row looking like the outsider he was. He
seemed young, hardly out of his teens, and he was good looking in a girlish sort of way. ‘Mind if I borrow this?’ said Steve
with the casual authority he had observed in his superiors.

‘I want it back, mind.’

‘No problem,’ said Steve automatically. He looked Afleck in the eye. ‘I get the impression you didn’t like Heather much.’

‘You could be right there. He was an odd bloke . . . something very strange about him.’

‘You said he came from up north. Whereabouts?’

‘Yorkshire, I think. Leeds.’ He leaned forward. ‘Look, why are you asking about all this now? Has something happened? Are
you reopening the Fallbrook case?’

Steve Carstairs drew himself up to his full height, remembering DI Peterson’s instructions. ‘It’s just routine, sir. Thanks
for your time,’ he said and hurried out of the office clutching the photograph before Afleck could think of any more awkward
questions.

Now that the grisly exhumations were completed and the coffins were all reburied, Neil Watson was looking forward to doing
some proper archaeology.

His colleagues had gone to the Bentham Arms that lunchtime
but he’d decided not to join them. He had seen John Ventnor entering the church half an hour earlier and, as he hadn’t seen
him leave, he assumed that he was still in there.

He tried the church door and found that it opened smoothly and silently. If he’d been so inclined he could have crept up on
John Ventnor who was, presumably, in the vestry. Perhaps, he thought, the Rector should be more concerned about his personal
safety . . . or maybe he just left that sort of thing to a higher authority.

He gave a perfunctory knock on the vestry’s open door and the man at the large oak desk looked round, startled. ‘Neil. Come
in. You gave me a shock.’

‘Sorry. Have you got a few moments?’

Ventnor sat back in his chair. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked with a professional sympathy that made Neil slightly uneasy
about imposing on the man’s time for no better reason than idle curiosity.

‘I went to the Bentham Arms last night.’

Ventnor inclined his head. ‘Oh yes?’

‘I went up to the attic. Ever been?’

The Rector suddenly looked wary. ‘Can’t say I have.’

Neil pulled a sheet of paper from one of the pockets of his combat jacket. ‘Recognise any of this?’ He handed the paper, decorated
with the strange hieroglyphs he’d copied from the wall of the Bentham Arms’s attic, to Ventnor and waited for the verdict.

After a few moments Ventnor handed the paper back to him. ‘I’ve seen something like this before. When Miss Worth’s cottage
was cleared out they found some framed embroideries . . . samplers I suppose you’d call them. Only instead of the usual alphabets
or pious verses, they were full of this stuff.’

‘What happened to them?’

The Rector frowned. ‘I suppose they went with all the other stuff to the house clearers . . . They’ll be in some antique shop
by now, I suppose. Could be anywhere.’ He hesitated for a couple of seconds then he raised his hand. ‘No. I tell a lie. I
think someone said they’d been sold separately to someone local. Lionel Grooby might know. He seems to be the fount of all
knowledge about that sort of thing around here.’ Something in the way he said these last words told Neil that there was some
animosity between Ventnor and Grooby. Or maybe animosity was too strong a word . . . irritation perhaps . . . or just a mild
dislike.

‘I was going to have a word with him anyway,’ said Neil.

Ventnor cleared his throat. ‘I’m going to bury those bones later . . . ’

Neil said nothing. The question of the boy who had been Juanita Bentham’s companion in death still nagged at the back of his
mind . . . like unfinished business. ‘I’ll be going then,’ he said, picking up the copies he had made of the strange symbols
and putting them back in his pocket.