The Shining Skull (19 page)

John Ventnor gave him a sad smile and returned to his paperwork.

There had been no sign of the jet ski or its owner. It had vanished around the headland and the money with it. Gerry Heffernan
cursed himself for his stupidity, even though Wesley Peterson kept assuring him that nobody could have foreseen that particular
development.

After ordering a search of the surrounding coastline with the police launch, they returned to Tradmouth. Heffernan said nothing
on the journey back but Wesley could sense his despondency. He felt it himself. They should have been prepared for anything
but they weren’t. And Leah Wakefield might pay for their failure with her life.

The best that they could hope for was that the kidnapper would be satisfied with the hundred thousand pounds he had already
received in ransom and release Leah. Wesley had to cling to this hope. He found the thought of the alternative unbearable.

‘Well he’s got the money now so he’s no reason to keep hold of her. And he’s got the notes back so he thinks he’s left no
evidence. As far as he knows the Wakefields have obeyed his instructions to the letter and we’ve kept a low profile. He won’t
know they called us in,’ said Heffernan with an optimism he didn’t feel.

‘Hopefully,’ said Wesley absentmindedly. He hated to admit, even to himself, but he’d been impressed by the jet ski stunt.
It showed a certain level of panache. Their man was resourceful . . . a formidable opponent. ‘I’ve told a couple of the DCs
to check out all the local places that hire out jet skis. We might get lucky.’

‘We might.’ Gerry Heffernan didn’t sound altogether convinced.

He had opened his mouth to say something when Steve Carstairs burst into the office without even a token knock.

‘I’ve been to Afleck’s, sir. He gave me a picture of Gordon Heather . . . the nanny’s boyfriend. He didn’t work there long
. . . left after the incident with the kid. But he played for a local football team a few times. Afleck had a team photo.’
He produced the picture proudly and handed it to the DCI.

‘Well which one is he?’ Heffernan said impatiently.

Steve pointed. ‘There at the back.’

Wesley leaned over to see. ‘Not very clear, is it? But I suppose we can get it enlarged. See to it will you, Steve?’ He gave
Steve a businesslike smile as he handed the picture back.

‘And there’s something else. Afleck’s sure he spotted Heather in Neston.’

‘When was this?’

‘Around June, July.’

‘Was he certain?’

‘He claims he never forgets a face but he did admit he only saw him from a distance.’

‘Thanks, Steve. You’ve done well.’ Wesley always considered that a little praise never did any harm.

As Steve disappeared out of the door, he passed Trish Walton on the threshold.

‘Sir, Marcus Fallbrook’s nanny, Jenny Booker. According to her death certificate she died up in Somerset. Clevedon. After
Marcus was abducted she moved back there to live with her family. I’ve sent for the inquest records.’

Wesley gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Thanks, Trish. Let us know what turns up, won’t you?’

Trish nodded earnestly and turned to go.

‘Any word from Rachel yet?’

Trish turned back. ‘No. The kidnapper’s not been in touch yet.’

‘It won’t be long now, surely.’ Wesley hesitated. ‘How’s your new place?’ he asked. Trish looked at him, puzzled. ‘The cottage
you and Rachel are sharing . . . is it OK?’

Trish smiled. ‘Yeah. It’s fine. We’re getting on fine . . . Not that Rachel’s been around for the past few days.’ she paused.
‘I hope Leah Wakefield’s all right,’ she said before disappearing through the doorway.

‘Me too,’ Wesley muttered under his breath. ‘Why hasn’t the kidnapper been in touch with the family? He’s got the money now.
What more does he want?’

‘He’ll be counting it,’ said Heffernan. ‘Then he’ll be working out the best way to do the exchange. He’ll want to be well
away when she’s found, won’t he?’ He stood up and walked over to the ordnance survey map of the Tradmouth area that hung on
his wall. ‘Wonder where he’s been holding her. If nothing happens soon we’ll have to bite the bullet and start a proper search
of isolated premises. She could be anywhere but I’ve got a hunch that she’s not that far away. Meanwhile, I’d like a word
with Mark Jones – or should we be calling him Marcus?’

Wesley considered the suggestion for a moment. But much as he’d like to get out of the office, he thought their priority should
be Leah Wakefield. ‘I think we should sit tight here in case the kidnapper gets in touch again,’ he said. ‘I dare say Marcus
will be sticking around until the DNA results are back.’

Heffernan sighed. ‘If he’s genuine he will be. Otherwise . . . .’ He walked over to the window and stared out.

‘Anything the matter?’ Wesley asked.

‘I had a call from Joyce before. She’s decided on Sedan House. They can take her mum right away. She says it’s very nice.’
He didn’t sound very convinced. ‘She’s still feeling bad about it.’

‘From what you’ve said it sounds as if her mum needs to be looked after.’

‘Oh, I know all that, Wes. But now I’m feeling guilty about wishing her mum was out of the way and . . . ’

Wesley said nothing. If he was in Gerry’s shoes, if his attempts to establish a relationship with a woman were being hampered
by the constant demands of a senile mother in the background of her life, he too might have felt relieved by the old woman’s
removal from the scene. It might be selfish, but then Gerry Heffernan was only human . . . as was he.

‘Does her mum realise what’s happening?’

Before Heffernan could answer DC Paul Johnson knocked at the door. ‘Sir, a report’s just come in – a jet ski was stolen from
a lock-up garage in Stoke Beeching some time last night. Thought I’d better tell you, sir.’

‘Thanks, Paul. Get over there, will you? You never know, someone might have seen something.’

Paul nodded in his earnest way and shot off to do the DCI’s bidding.

* * *

Sedan House just outside Morbay was a large, neo-Gothic pile. The fact that the interior was modern and brightly decorated
did nothing to negate the sinister nature of its appearance. It was a house straight out of a horror film but the staff did
their best to make it cheerful for the residents, many of whom had little idea of where they were or why.

Edna Barnes touched her daughter’s face, her eyes clouded by cataracts and confusion. She muttered something about evacuees:
she’d had evacuees on her shattered mind for some time now, as though the events of the Second World War were more real to
her than the present day. Edna had once lived on a farm near Neston which had received wartime evacuees from London and now
she was back there, talking to the alien children who had turned up with their lice and city ways as though they were in the
room. Joyce knew that Edna had no idea who she was. Her daughter had no place in her little world. She was as much a stranger
to her own mother as were the nurses and care assistants she had only met that day.

Joyce felt her eyes prickle with unshed tears as she kissed Edna’s forehead and assured her that she’d visit tomorrow. She
had to get back to work. And she was going to see a play with Gerry that evening . . . his suggestion to take her mind off
things. The only thing that might interfere with their plans was his work: he had something big on but he hadn’t told her
what it was and she hadn’t asked. The thought of Gerry Heffernan cheered her a little – a small ray of light in the gloom.
He was a straightforward, uncomplicated man. No rose-tinted spectacles could render him handsome but he was decent and after
her ex-husband, decent would do nicely. The only shadow on the horizon was his reluctance to tell his daughter, Rosie, about
their relationship. But it was early days yet, she told herself optimistically.

She left her mother sitting on one of the high armchairs ranged around the walls of the communal lounge, muttering to herself
about how the evacuees needed a good bath. Hard as it was to leave her, she knew it had to be done.

She made for the front door, walking quickly. Then suddenly she felt the pressure of a hand clutching at her arm. She swung
round to see a woman standing there, staring at her with confused, pale-blue eyes. She looked considerably younger than her
mother but her face was thin and pale beneath her lank, mousy hair.

Joyce smiled as she tried tactfully to free herself from the woman’s grip. But the woman put her face close to hers.

‘Are you his mother?’ she whispered.

‘No. I . . . er . . . ’ All Joyce could think of was how to get away without upsetting her assailant. She looked around for
a member of staff but the hallway was empty.

‘I know where he is. I know where your Marcus is . . . ’

‘Please, I’ve got to go . . . ’

‘I said it was wrong. I said it was wicked. That poor little child . . . ’

Joyce took her hand firmly and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘Sorry, love, I’ve got to go.’

At that moment one of the care assistants, a plump girl with wavy fair hair and the round face of a story book milkmaid, entered
the hall and saw what was happening. She strode over and took the woman’s arm gently. ‘Come on, Helen. Let’s get you back
to your room.’

She flashed Joyce an apologetic look and led the woman away.

Tim had called at the Wakefield house again to make sure the recording equipment was working as it should be. Once more he
arrived in the guise of a plumber and Rachel thought he looked rather good in his overalls. But she suppressed the thought.
She had to concentrate on keeping Suzy calm during the long wait for news. An hour seemed like a month in the smoke-laden
atmosphere of the house. Rachel had long given up worrying about the dangers of passive smoking. If chain smoking calmed the
Wakefields’ nerves then she had to accept that her lungs were going to be exposed to an unwholesome cocktail of tar and nicotine
until the whole thing was over. And she hoped, prayed, that it would be over soon. She couldn’t bear watching Suzy Wakefield’s
pain for much longer.

The arrival of Tim was the high point of her day, her only contact with a world of sanity that lay somewhere outside the walls
of her luxurious neo-Georgian prison. But he hadn’t stayed long and she soon returned to her routine of helping around the
house, making cups of tea and watching the telephone.

She had just settled down with another cup of tea, helping herself to a chocolate biscuit as she watched Suzy pacing the floor,
puffing absentmindedly on cigarette after cigarette, when Darren
Wakefield burst into the room with a violent energy that alarmed her for a second.

‘He’s not been in touch.’ He turned to Rachel accusingly. ‘If he got wind the cops were watching . . . ’

‘That’s not possible, Darren. We were very careful.’ She spoke softly, as if calming a wild animal. ‘We’ve done nothing to
put Leah in danger, I can promise you that.’

‘And Brad’s not been in touch. What’s he up to, that’s what I want to know?’

‘He’s got business in London. He said he’ll be back soon,’ Suzy whinged. ‘Shut up and sit down, Darren. You’re getting on
my bleeding nerves.’

Darren did as he was told, landing heavily on the white marshmallow sofa with a rush of air like a deflating balloon.

‘I don’t trust that Brad. He’s got something to do with this, I know he has.’

‘Shut up. You’re talking crap.’ She began to chew at her nails. Why didn’t the kidnapper ring?

The blackened bones of the old ship – an ancient schooner beached and left to rot when its useful days had come to an end
– protruded from the sandy shore like the skeleton of some long beached and decayed whale. It had been hauled above the water
line where the tide never reached and it had sat for decades, a slowly decaying landmark for the living who used the river
for business or pleasure.

The
Lazy Day
, a white cabin cruiser, the marine version of the family hatchback, bobbed a few yards from the shore. At first her owner,
a businessman from London who had sped down the M4 on Friday night for a few days of relaxation on the River Trad, noticed
nothing unusual. It was only when he boarded his inflatable dinghy to row to the shore where his Range Rover was waiting to
take him to a Tradmouth restaurant, that his long weekend took a turn for the worse.

As he took the oars, he spotted what looked like a bundle of clothing caught on the mooring rope and tutted with disgust at
the idea that someone should have polluted the river – a designated area of outstanding natural beauty no less – with their
unwanted rubbish. He laid down the oars and clambered back on board the
Lazy Day
, intended to shake the offending object clear of his rope and push it well away from his property.

But as he stood on the deck and looked down into the water, he realised that he’d been wrong. The bundle of clothes had taken
human shape: a figure floating face down, arms outstretched. A young woman with long hair that floated like golden seaweed
on the surface of the water.

His first instinct was not to get involved, to push the body away with the boathook lying on the deck in the hope that it
would float off on the tide. But when he looked round his heart sank as he noticed a yacht nearby, a family on deck wearing
bright orange lifejackets. If they saw him . . .

He swallowed hard, pondering his dilemma, before taking his mobile phone from his pocket and dialling 999.

Letter from Elizabeth Bentham to Letitia Corly, 20th September 1815

If you have a mind to attend Mrs Shiner’s meeting, I will indeed see you at the Assembly Rooms in Tradmouth. Yet I warn you
that she is no sorcerer. Rather she is a prophetess, a messenger from the Most High who has been entrusted with great revelations.
She is not to be mocked as my sister-in-law, Juanita, mocks her.

There is, we are told, a box in which she has placed seven secrets and it is said that she will open it when her Shining Babe
is born. It has been promised that I should be present when it is opened. I do not know whether I am excited or afraid.

Yesterday Juanita chided our carpenter, Joseph (the brother of Peter Hackworthy our Amazing Devon Marvel) for kicking a dog.
Joseph is an unpleasant young man who dismisses his brother’s talents as the devil’s work. Our Rector still urges Peter’s
father to send him to be educated but to no avail.

I beg you to write soon and tell me if you are to attend Mrs Shiner’s meeting.

Your affectionate friend, Elizabeth Bentham

It was Leah Wakefield all right. The body hadn’t been in the water long enough for the tide and sea creatures to disfigure
the face so she was quite recognisable. The Wakefields had been informed and, according to Rachel, they were distraught.

The pathologist, Colin Bowman, guessed that Leah hadn’t drowned, despite being found in the river. Death, he said, had probably
been caused by a head injury. But whether this injury was due to a fall or a blow with some kind of blunt instrument, he
wouldn’t say until the postmortem. But one thing was certain – her abductor hadn’t carried out his threat to cut her throat.
He pale, slender neck remained unmarked by violence.

The owner of the
Lazy Day
seemed appalled that his weekend of pottering about on the River Trad had been tainted with such brutality. Wesley’s gut
feeling told him that the man could be eliminated from their enquiries; after all, he had been in London at the time of Leah’s
abduction. And besides, he’d hardly attach her body to his own mooring rope if he had had anything to do with her death.

After sending the team out to search for witnesses, any boat owners around the creek who might have seen anything suspicious,
Wesley slumped down opposite his boss. He needed time to think. ‘Any ideas?’ he asked.

‘Our man’s probably local and he knows the river,’ was Gerry Heffernan’s verdict delivered with the certainty of holy writ.

‘Colin reckons she was dead before he picked up the cash. He let the parents go through all that for nothing.’ Wesley found
the idea repugnant. Whoever they were looking for was cold and heartless. Cruel beyond belief.

‘But is it the same person who abducted Marcus Fallbrook? That’s what I want to know.’

‘Houldsworth was sure that nobody knew the contents of the Fallbrook ransom note, apart from the family and the officers working
on the case. If that’s the case, we’d better start tracing everyone who was around at the time.’

Heffernan sighed. ‘We’ve already got a list and nobody stands out as a potential murderer. I know some of the blokes who were
on the case: they’re mostly retired now or working in other stations and there’s not a psychopath amongst them as far as I
know. As for the family, the ones who were around at the time are all dead. There’s always Gordon Heather, of course.’ He
picked up the photograph of the football team which was lying on the desk. The image was indistinct but it was the best thing
they had. Gordon Heather didn’t have a criminal record so there was nothing on the police computer about him.

‘Afleck told Steve that he thought he saw Heather recently in Neston. He might have been imagining it. But if he wasn’t .
. . ’ Wesley let the sentence hang in the air. If Teddy Afleck had been right, Gordon Heather was at the top of their suspect
list. He had
been on the spot when Marcus Fallbrook had been kidnapped and he could have returned to abduct Leah Wakefield. He had failed
with Marcus – the boy had survived somehow and was now back in the bosom of his family . . . if the impending DNA results
confirmed that he was who he claimed to be. But what if Heather had decided to try again . . . and this time his victim wasn’t
so lucky?’

‘Why the time gap?’

‘Maybe he’s been out of the country. Or he’s suddenly fallen on hard times and needs the money again.’

Heffernan nodded. ‘Is Rachel still with the Wakefields?’

‘Yeah. She’s bringing them to Tradmouth for the formal identification. They’re distraught . . . blaming us.’

Heffernan was silent for a few moments. He was blaming himself, going over in his mind what he could have done differently
that would have ensured the girl’s survival. But he couldn’t find an answer. ‘I was supposed to be seeing Joyce tonight,’
he said. ‘We were going to see a play – the Tradmouth Players are doing some comedy or other and a friend of hers is in it.
I wondered . . . ’

‘What?’

‘That greasepaint found under the nails of the Barber’s latest victim . . . I’ve been wondering whether he could be a member
of some local dramatic society.’

Wesley shrugged. It was a possibility. But today’s developments had put the Barber investigation on the back burner. ‘I’m
sure Joyce’ll understand.’He looked at his watch. ‘I’d better ring Pam to tell her I’ll be late.’ He thought for a few moments.
‘I’ll get copies of Heather’s picture circulated. If Afleck’s right and he’s still around . . . .’

Wesley left the chief inspector deep in thought, his chin resting on his hands, staring into the space beyond the chaos of
his desk top. He returned to his desk, wondering where to start. If the Fallbrook case was linked with Leah’s murder, it might
be worth talking to Mark Jones – or was he calling himself Marcus Fallbrook these days? – to see if any more memories had
returned. He wondered whether to suggest hypnotism. He’d had a case not long ago where it had unlocked hidden traumatic memories
and led to the conviction of a killer. Perhaps he’d mention it when he talked to Jones. Test the waters.

As soon as he sat down at his desk, Trish Walton came hurrying in: her purposeful expression suggested that she had vital
news to impart.

‘I’ve traced the records of Jenny Booker’s inquest,’ she said sitting down heavily on the chair beside Wesley’s desk as though
she needed to rest her weary feet. ‘When she went back to live with her family after the kidnapping she became depressed .
. . blamed herself for what happened. She left a note saying she couldn’t live with the guilt any more.’

‘That suggests that she was involved in some way. Or that she’d inadvertently given the kidnapper access to the kid. Any mention
of Gordon Heather?’

‘Only in passing. I get the impression that she didn’t see him again after she went home.’ She paused for a few moments, as
though she was saving the best till last.

‘I rang Jenny’s parents . . . talked to her mother. They haven’t moved house and all Jenny’s stuff’s still there – they couldn’t
bear getting rid of it. There are some letters Jenny sent them around the time of the abduction and she said if it helps us
find the truth about what happened to Marcus Fallbrook, she wouldn’t mind us looking through them as long as we left everything
as we found it.’

Wesley thought for a new moments. ‘Clevedon is it?’

Trish nodded.

Wesley sat forward. ‘I don’t suppose she’d send the letters down, would she?’

Trish shook her head vigorously. ‘She said there’s no way she’d let anything belonging to Jenny out of the house.’

‘Tricky. Thanks, Trish. I’ll think about it.’

He watched Trish return to her desk, wondering whether a trip up to Somerset would solve their problems. Or whether it would
be a complete waste of time.

A fine veil of drizzle had just begun to fall and Neil was glad that it was four thirty, almost time to finish for the day.
He and his colleagues had done some serious digging in the base of the now empty graves in Stoke Beeching churchyard and the
knowledge that whatever they found would be archaeology rather than exhumations made the atmosphere lighter.

The discovery of some masonry, possibly belonging to an earlier church, had improved his mood no end and as he walked the
short distance to Lionel Grooby’s bungalow he felt positively cheerful.

When Grooby opened the front door, Neil noticed that he
looked tired. But the man stood aside to let him in and offered tea, which was refused.

Neil came straight to the point. ‘I wonder if I could have a look at that correspondence you mentioned when I last called
. . . the stuff concerning Juanita Bentham.’

Without a word, Grooby hurried off, leaving Neil alone in the cramped living room. While Neil waited, he began to look around,
examining the collection of unexciting prints of local scenes which hung against the green patterned wallpaper.

Out of idle curiosity, he opened the door which he supposed led to a kitchen or dining room and was surprised to see a well-equipped
office. The files on the shelves bore the names of local towns and villages. Grooby took his interest in local history seriously,
Neil thought. Maybe too seriously.

Then something caught his eye. Hanging on the wall to the side of the desk were two samplers. Neil recognised the strange
symbols that had been embroidered onto the canvas in what looked like pale silk. He had seen something similar before in the
attic of the Bentham Arms. He stepped into the office to get a better look and was surprised to see that the silk resembled
human hair.

The sound of Grooby’s return made him move quickly back towards the door but he was too late. Grooby had caught him in the
act of trespass.

Neil did his best to look confident, which he’d found from experience usually did the trick on such occasions. ‘Are these
the samplers from Miss Worth’s house? John Ventnor told me about them but he didn’t know you’d bought them.’

Grooby opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out.

‘They look as if they’re made with human hair.’

‘I . . . I don’t know.’

Neil looked him in the eye. The man hadn’t mentioned his intrusion: perhaps attack was the best form of defence.

It seemed to work. Grooby held out a bundle of letters. ‘Here’s the correspondence I mentioned. If you’d like to . . . ’

‘Mind if I take them away and read through them?’

Grooby made no objection and Neil suspected that he was too timid and polite to refuse . . . which suited him fine.

‘I checked out the website you mentioned – that woman in California who’s claiming to be a reincarnation of Joan Shiner.’

‘Did you?’ Lionel Grooby looked uneasy.

‘Her followers believe that the Shining Babe’s going to make an appearance at the start of the third millennium and it needs
a shawl made from the hair of the chosen.’

Lionel Grooby said nothing and Neil sensed the subject of Joan Shiner was closed.

He turned to leave. ‘Thanks for the letters,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring them back as soon as I’ve finished with them.

He walked down the garden path towards the road, the letters clutched in his hand. And when he looked round to bid Grooby
a final farewell, he was surprised to see that the man looked worried . . . very worried indeed.

Pam didn’t utter a word of complaint when Wesley told her that if he had to travel to Clevedon to see Jenny Booker’s family,
he might be very late home. The fleeting thought that there might be another man in her life flickered briefly into his mind.
But he dismissed the idea as quickly as it had arrived. Pam wasn’t the sort of woman who went in for deception: she was one
of the most open people he knew. And besides, with two young children and her teaching career she simply wouldn’t have time.
The idea was laughable.

On his return to the CID office he had spent some time studying the ransom notes; those sent to Marcus Fallbrook’s parents
and the copies they’d taken of the ones sent to Leah Wakefield’s family thirty years later. There was no question that they
were virtually identical, which couldn’t be a coincidence. There was a link and Wesley Peterson was determined to find out
exactly what it was.

If Mark Jones – or Marcus Fallbrook – was genuine and if he could remember something about his abductor, Wesley was certain
that it would lead them to Leah Wakefield’s killer. Gerry Heffernan agreed that it was high time they spoke to him again so
at five o’clock, with hunger just beginning to set in, the two men drove out to Derenham – to Mirabilis – down narrow lanes,
dark and glistening with recent drizzle. Neither spoke much during the journey. They still hadn’t recovered from the shock
of seeing Leah’s body – from the discovery that their hopes of finding her alive were dead.

Carol Fallbrook greeted them in her usual businesslike manner but Wesley sensed an unease behind her studied politeness. She
led them through to the large living room where Adrian Fallbrook
sat, completely relaxed, in a sagging armchair. Mark sat opposite him, a glass of whisky in his hand and the two men looked
at home in each other’s company – brothers reunited. Perhaps the Fallbrook story would have a happy ending after all.

Adrian stood up when the two policemen entered and held out his hand. Mark stayed where he was, staring into his glass.

‘You won’t have heard the good news,’ Adrian began.

Heffernan and Wesley looked rather puzzled. The only news on their mind was the discovery of Leah Wakefield . . . and that
certainly wasn’t good.

‘The DNA test. The results have just come back. There’s a ninety-three per cent chance that Marcus and I are half-brothers
and that’s good enough for me.’ He looked at Marcus and smiled proudly. ‘We’re going out for a meal tonight to celebrate.
It’s not every day you find a brother you never knew you had, is it?’

‘You must be delighted,’ said Wesley tactfully, glancing at Carol who was looking anything but delighted. But then she’d just
lost half her husband’s inheritance. People had killed for less.