The Shining Skull (3 page)

‘Did he know your father was dead?’

‘He said he didn’t. But there were obituaries in some national newspapers. My father was a very successful businessman,’ he
added with a hint of pride.

‘You suspect this man who’s claiming to be Marcus could be an impostor?’ Wesley asked. The mention of money had suddenly added
another dimension to the story . . . and not an attractive one.

‘When he was with me – when I was talking to him – I believed him. He seemed to remember things that nobody outside the family
could know. And he recognised things in the house. He asked if we still had the pianola – said it had fascinated him as a
boy, watching the piano keys move by themselves as if a ghost was playing. How could he have known about that if he wasn’t
who he said he was? And he asked about Dad’s yacht, the
Anna’s Pride
–
she was named after Dad’s first wife . . . his mother. I told him Dad had sold it shortly before his death. He said he remembered
Dad taking him out on it.’

‘You didn’t ask him to stay with you last night?’

Adrian shook his head. ‘No. He said it must have come as a shock to me and that it was best if he gave me some space. And
of course I had Carol, my wife, to think of. It’s hardly fair on her if a stranger turns up out of the blue like that. He’s
staying at a guesthouse in Tradmouth. He gave me his mobile number and told me to get in touch when I’m ready.’ He looked
Wesley in the eye. ‘He must be genuine, mustn’t he?’

Gerry Heffernan leaned forward. ‘There’s just one problem with your long-lost brother, Mr Fallbrook. Where’s he been since
1976? I presume you asked him.’

‘Yes. Of course I did.’

‘And what was the answer?’

‘He said he doesn’t remember much about the abduction. It’s all a haze. He vaguely remembers being with some sort of commune
then he thinks he was taken away from them . . . ’

‘Officially? By social services?’

‘I don’t know. It was all very vague.’

Heffernan and Wesley looked at each other. For an impostor vagueness was good . . . the vaguer the better.

‘He told me he had an accident fairly recently – he was knocked down by a car and he had concussion for a while. That’s when
it started to come back to him. He started to remember Devon. Tradmouth. And the name Marcus Fallbrook. He came down here
to try and put the pieces together. And he said that when he came to Tradmouth and took a boat on the river everything started
to flood back. Just the bit before his abduction . . . what happened afterwards is still a blur at the moment.’

‘How old was he when he was abducted?’

Adrian frowned. ‘About seven, I think.’

‘And is he calling himself Fallbrook?’

‘No, Jones. Mark Jones. My half-brother’s name was Marcus but it seems that he became known as Mark.’

‘You’re convinced he’s who he says he is, aren’t you?’ said Wesley gently.

Gerry Heffernan sniffed. It all sounded suspicious to him. But then so did a lot of things. His years in the police force
had
destroyed much of his faith in human nature. ‘So why has he waited so long before trying to find his family?’

Adrian looked a little confused. ‘As I said, he didn’t remember. People block out traumatic events, don’t they? I suppose
it took the accident to bring it all back. We didn’t talk for that long. I’m supposed to be getting in touch with him again
and . . . ’

‘And you thought you’d just put us in the picture?’ Heffernan said, watching the man’s face.

Adrian Fallbrook nodded. ‘To be honest I didn’t really know what to do. But as it’s connected with a crime – albeit an old
one – I thought I’d better have a word with someone. He’ll be a witness to an unsolved crime, won’t he? Or . . . ’

‘Or if he’s an impostor, he’s committing one.’ In Gerry Heffernan’s opinion the man sitting there in front of him didn’t know
what he believed.

It was Wesley who spoke, the voice of reason. ‘Perhaps we’d better have a chat with this Mark Jones. If he was the victim
of a kidnapping we’ll need to talk to him anyway. Kidnapping’s a serious offence. And if he won’t talk to us . . . ’

‘Then he’s probably an impostor.’ Adrian finished the sentence for him. ‘But how did he know about the house? The pianola?
How did he . . .?’

‘There could be any number of explanations. Maybe he had a relative who worked for the family or . . . ’

Adrian nodded. ‘Yes. We always had cleaners, nannies, gardeners and what have you. I suppose . . . ’

‘Just tell him we want a word. That should settle the matter once and for all,’ said Heffernan confidently. In his experience
most villains never spoke to the police voluntarily.

Adrian Fallbrook looked as though a weight had been taken from his shoulders. ‘Yes. I’ll do that. Thank you.’

‘And of course there’s one way to find out if he’s who he claims to be. Is he willing to take a DNA test?’

Adrian considered the question for a moment. ‘I’ll ask him,’ he said before turning to go.

‘Nice to have a satisfied customer for a change,’ Heffernan whispered as Fallbrook disappeared down the corridor.

Moving the dead is a delicate matter. And Neil Watson didn’t like it. He didn’t like the sight of the soil-covered coffins
emerging from
the ground. And he was in constant fear that the wood, having been under the damp Devon earth for so long, would disintegrate
before his eyes, revealing the corpse within. The previous night he had dreamed that when a coffin was lifted, it fell away
and a stinking cadaver had tumbled to the ground on top of him, suffocating him with its terrible embrace. He had awoken sweating
with panic, wrestling with his duvet, relieved that the nightmare wasn’t real.

He was used to excavating burials but somehow this was different. He knew their names. They were loved ones whose nearest
and dearest had recorded details of their lives on the lichen-covered headstones. And worst of all there were the babies and
children; death had claimed the very young in those days as regularly as it now claims the very old.

Once the coffins were out of the ground they were reburied, with John Ventnor’s solemn prayers, in the place at the edge of
the churchyard which had been prepared for them. Neil found himself hoping that the Rector was getting paid for all the extra
work . . . but he doubted it.

As soon as Ventnor had done his bit, the ground was Neil’s, to investigate as he wished. According to old records there had
been an earlier church on the site. But he would have to wait until all the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century burials were
moved before he could dig deeper. He knew there might be medieval bones down there still, but somehow they didn’t bother him
as much.

He watched as a fragile coffin emerged from the ground. The contractors’ faces were masks of neutrality, as though they were
trying to demonstrate their indifference in the face of death. Neil looked over to the lych gate where his archaeological
colleagues were in a huddle, chatting amongst themselves, awaiting his signal to start work.

Suddenly Neil heard a voice at his shoulder which made him jump. ‘I’ve found out what it is, by the way.’

His heart was pounding. He hadn’t realised the place was getting to him so much. He swung round and saw John Ventnor standing
just beside him, smiling.

‘I found an old book on local history in the vestry. Apparently the symbol on the headstones was used by a strange sect who
called themselves the Shining Ones.’

Neil took a deep, calming breath. ‘So the people buried here were members?’

‘It’s a possibility. Why else would they go to the trouble of putting the symbol on their memorials.’

‘But would members of some sect be buried in the parish church?’

The Rector shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

At that moment the coffin, held just above the ground by straps prior to being placed onto something more substantial, began
to break up. First one side fell away, and the bottom began to creak and crumble, revealing the bones within, still festooned
with fragments of rotting cloth.

Neil stared, horrified, as the bones fell away one by one and tumbled back into the grave.

The Trad View Guesthouse was situated some way away from the river, up one of the steep, narrow streets that wound away from
the town centre towards the outer suburbs. It wasn’t one of Tradmouth’s most sumptuous guesthouses. But although it was short
on luxurious trimmings, it was clean, well run and reasonably priced. Wesley walked through the neat front garden and when
he rang the doorbell he was greeted by a plump woman with a fixed smile on her face. But her eyebrows shot upwards in alarm
when he showed her his ID and when he said he was looking for one of her guests, she began to assure him emphatically that
she kept a respectable establishment. The police had never come calling before in all the time she’d been in business.

Wesley was quick to reassure her that her guest, Mr Jones, had, as far as he knew, committed no crime. All he wanted was an
amicable chat. This seemed to put the landlady’s mind at rest and she became eager to co-operate, telling Wesley that Mr Jones
had gone out. He had told her at breakfast that morning that he wasn’t sure what he’d be doing that day but, as he’d taken
his car, she suspected he’d gone off sightseeing. Some people were like that on holiday, she said. They didn’t like to be
tied to definite plans like they were in their everyday life.

Wesley nodded in agreement at her psychological assessment of the average holiday-maker and asked her to call him when Mr
Jones returned.

He decided to return to the police station. It was high time he found out about the kidnapping of Marcus Fallbrook. Presumably
it would have been dealt with by the Tradmouth CID officers of
the day. There would be records somewhere. And it would be best to speak to Mark Jones with the facts clear in his mind.

He found Gerry Heffernan at his desk, looking through the statements made by the Barber’s victims. Looking for something,
anything, that would betray the man’s identity before he did more than just hack his victims’ hair off. Wesley knew Gerry
well and he could sense his fear, his dreadful foreboding that next time somebody might get seriously hurt.

‘Anything new?’ Wesley asked as he entered the chief inspector’s office and sat himself down.

Gerry Heffernan let out a large sigh, like a balloon slowly deflating. ‘Nothing. I’ve had people checking out all the leads
and every patrol in the area’s been looking out for dark-blue saloons.’ He rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘Do you know how many
dark-blue saloons there are in South Devon?’

‘I can imagine.’ Wesley was anxious to change the subject. ‘Look, Gerry, what do you know about the Marcus Fallbrook kidnapping?’

Heffernan shook his head. ‘Before my time, I’m afraid, Wes. I joined the force about eighteen months later.’ He blushed. ‘While
all that was going on I was at sea.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘Happy days. In fact it must have been around that time I had
appendicitis and had to be winched off and taken to Tradmouth Hospital.’ Another smile. ‘Every cloud has a silver lining,
eh.’

Wesley smiled dutifully. He had heard the story of how Gerry had abandoned the sea for the nurse he later married many times
before. Kathy had died several years ago but Gerry still thought of her . . . often.

Heffernan continued. ‘When I joined the force I remember people mentioning a little lad who’d been kidnapped and never found.
But, as I said, it was before my time so I don’t know the details.’ He thought for a moment. ‘There’ll be the case files of
course. But if I were you, I’d have a word with Barry Houldsworth. He used to have my job in those days and he’d have been
in charge of the case. DCI Houldsworth – bit of a legend, he was.’

Wesley leaned forward, curious. ‘Why’s that?’

Heffernan grinned. ‘You’ll see. Did you see this man who’s claiming to be Marcus Fallbrook?’

‘I went to the guesthouse but he was out for the day. The landlady promised to ask him to get in touch when he gets back.’

‘And if he’s genuine he will and if he’s not . . . ’

‘We won’t see him for dust.’

‘Just a matter of waiting, then.’

‘And finding out everything I can about the case in the meantime. Where can I find this ex-DCI Houldsworth?’

‘Try the Bentham Arms in Stoke Beeching.’

Wesley didn’t reply. He didn’t fancy hanging around a country pub on his own, enduring the stares of curious locals just on
the off chance someone might be there. ‘Where does he live?’

‘I told you, try the Bentham Arms. I heard his wife left him a few years ago. Said she couldn’t compete.’

‘With the job?’

‘That and the nation’s breweries and distilleries.’

Wesley thought for a few moments. ‘If this Marcus Fallbrook business is a hoax, it’s a cruel one. What if the mother had still
been alive?’

‘But she isn’t, is she? And the dad died recently. Maybe he knows that. Maybe he’s done his homework.’

Wesley stood up. ‘It’s about time I did mine.’

‘Take care,’ said Heffernan as Wesley left the room, his words heavy with meaning.

Wesley turned to look at him, puzzled and saw that he was smiling.

The newspapers were calling him ‘the Barber’. He didn’t like that. They didn’t understand. They didn’t realise that it was
necessary.

He stared at the computer screen. He had hoped there would be something new . . . more instructions. But there had been nothing
today so he left the homepage with its image of a yellow beach beneath an unnaturally blue sky and walked over to the window.

He looked out at the row of shabby Georgian houses opposite, their stucco façades flaking with age and the salt breeze from
the sea. They would have been there when she walked the earth for the first time. She might have seen them: she might even
have stood there on that very street. She had attracted crowds in Morbay back then.

A woman with long fair hair was walking down the street, displaying too much midriff and a lot of leg. He licked his lips.
The hair didn’t look natural but she would do. If circumstances presented her to him.