The Shining Skull (32 page)

‘The kid’s quite happy. He’s in the flat, sleeping in Joe’s room and I’ve told him that his mum and dad said he had to stay
with us for a while. I’ve already sent Jacob’s wife a note saying he’d be returned when they pay me fifteen thousand. Jacob
can afford it easily and it’s the only way I’m going to get anything out of him. The main problem will be getting the kid
back home once I get the money. I think the best thing is to leave him somewhere where he’ll be found and get out of Devon
quick. I think I’ll go up to Manchester again and change our name. Don’t think too badly of me, Helen. I’m desperate and the
kid’ll come to no harm. Jacob will get the fright of his life, I’ll get the deposit for a house for me and Joe and the kid’ll
have an adventure, that’s all. I’ll keep in touch, I promise. Don’t judge me too harshly. I’m doing it for Joe . . . for our
future. It’s only right that he gets something from his father. Your loving sister, Jackie.’

He handed it to Heffernan who scanned it quickly. ‘Doesn’t sound as if she was planning to kill Marcus.’

But Wesley had started on the second, dated a day later.

‘I wish I hadn’t started this now. The neighbour in the downstairs flat started asking questions last night. I said the boy
was Joe’s cousin – they’re so alike. But he’s really different from Joe – you know the trouble I’ve always had with him –
he’s so good, does everything you tell him. I’m sure the neighbour sensed something was wrong – she’s a nosey old bag and
she’s always moaning about Joe’s behaviour. I’ve decided to move the kid to the boathouse where me and Jacob used to meet.
Nobody ever goes there so there’s no one to ask any awkward questions. I can lock him in there. I feel bad doing it but I’ve
got to think of me and Joe. A lot of the time he’ll have Joe with him for company so I hope he won’t get too scared. Please
don’t think badly of me. It’s the only way I can think of to get what’s owed to me.’

‘This one’s dated a few days later,’ said Wesley as he began to read the third and final letter.

He read it in silence. And when he had finished he looked up.

‘She didn’t kill him,’ he said softly. ‘Jackie didn’t kill him.’

Heffernan snatched the letter and began to read.

e-mail from Rev John Ventnor to Dr Neil Watson

Neil, you remember that old box in the vestry cupboard? It’s been there for years and I’ve always assumed that it belonged
to the Rev. Singleton, a former incumbent, as his initials were carved on the lid. Well, I was planning to show it to an antique
dealer, to see if it’s worth selling it for church funds, so I emptied it out. When I looked at it carefully, I saw that it
was a good deal bigger on the outside than the inside so I started to investigate and, to my surprise, I found that it had
a false bottom.

Of course I didn’t suspect for a moment that it was the box mentioned on that Joan Shiner website but in the false compartment
I found some material relating to Joan Shiner including a rather odd manuscript headed ‘The Seven Secrets’. On reading I was
rather amused to discover that Joan’s ‘seven secrets’ were related to local goings on rather than the mysteries of the universe.

The first ‘secret’was that the landlord of the Angel in Tradmouth was bedding the wife of a sea captain. The second was that
Sir John Bentham had had a love child by one of the maidservants . . . and so on and so on. All little scandals which makes
me wonder whether our Joan was practising a bit of blackmail in her spare time: perhaps that’s why she had so little local
opposition.

Her seventh ‘secret’, however, was serious stuff. Murder no less. And it makes me wonder whether Joan was killed herself in
order to keep her quiet. Accounts of her death suggest she might have been poisoned but this is pure supposition and as her
grave has, I am told, long ago toppled into the sea, we shall never know. I’m attaching the relevant section for you. Interesting
how she came to know all these things in such detail, don’t you think?
Perhaps she had special powers after all . . . or more likely good informants. Speak to you soon, John Ventnor.

Extract from Joan Shiner’s ‘The Seven Secrets’

‘Know the Seventh Secret: The boy Peter Hackworthy was done to death by his brother, Joseph, who, being eaten up with envy,
did kill the boy and caused Paul, his twin brother to take his place in his noted performances. Know also that Peter’s sister,
a maid-servant at the hall, did poison Lady Juanita who, by chance, discovered the truth and was about to reveal it to all,
and did bury the said Peter with my lady, Joseph, the carpenter, making a coffin large enough for two corpses.’

‘I left him with Joe . . . it couldn’t have been for more than five minutes while I went to empty the bucket he’d been using
into the river. The money was due to be dropped and I thought I’d take the kid some food before I picked it up. He was crying
when I went in saying he was scared but I kept telling him it was an adventure, like camping, and he’d be home soon. To be
honest, I just wanted to pick the money up, get him back home and get ourselves up north ASAP. I locked the two boys in together
but when I got back to the hut and opened the door the first thing I saw was Joe standing there with a strange look in his
eyes. I don’t know how to describe it. Sort of cold, like he looked when he killed that white mouse he had. I looked down
and the kid was on the floor. I rushed over to see what was the matter with him then I saw the blood on his hair, all sticky
and matted. By this time I was panicking. I shook him but he was floppy so I tried to give him the kiss of life. All the time
Joe was standing there watching me and it was only then I saw he had a hammer in his hand. He must have found it in the boathouse.
He’s only ten and I want to think that he didn’t understand what he’d done but I know I’m kidding myself. I should have seen
it coming. He said he hated Marcus and he kept asking why Marcus had nice things and he hadn’t. I’ve never seen a child so
eaten up with envy but maybe that’s my fault, the way I’ve gone on about Jacob and the way he owes us. Perhaps I’m to blame
but when we say things we don’t always think of the effect they’re having on children, do we? We had to get away so we came
right up here to Manchester. I know I can trust you not to say
anything. It’ll be our secret. It’s all over now and Joe has to be protected at all costs. If they took him from me, I’d
kill myself. Please, Helen, understand. The kid’ll never be found, I’ve made sure of that. I’ll be in touch soon and let you
know when we get somewhere permanent to live.’

Gerry Heffernan buried his face in his hands. ‘We got it all wrong.’

Wesley said nothing. He stared at the words on the yellow paper.

‘He had us both fooled. I wonder how many other times he’s killed.’

Wesley looked up. ‘I keep wondering what happened to the girlfriend, Sharon.’

‘Maybe we should get onto Greater Manchester again and suggest they make some enquiries.’

‘I’ve already done it.’ Heffernan looked impressed.

‘Joe didn’t reckon on his mum confiding in her sister, did he?’

‘He probably didn’t know. If he did, I’ve a feeling Helen wouldn’t have lasted long. I suppose Jackie felt she had to confide
in someone and Helen was the only one she could trust. It must have preyed on Helen’s mind. She made that scrapbook.’

They put the letters carefully back into their envelope. Wesley wondered why Helen hadn’t destroyed them. Perhaps she had
kept them because she suspected her nephew might be a danger one day, to her or to someone else. Perhaps they were her ammunition
. . . until she had become too confused to use it. But even when she had descended into second infancy, she had kept them
close but well hidden, as though somewhere in the back of her poor, befuddled mind, she was aware of their importance.

‘Let’s get back to Tradmouth,’ Heffernan said.

As they made for the front door Joyce’s mother was still doing shuffling circuits of the hallway, muttering words that made
sense only to her.

‘Do you still believe Leah’s death was an accident?’ Rachel asked. In view of what Wesley had told her about Joe Quin and
the way he committed cold-blooded murder at the age of ten, she had her doubts.

‘According to Colin Bowman, Quin might have been telling the truth.’ He looked at her. ‘But it seems very convenient. Maybe
he pushed her against the wall. We’ll never know now, will we?’

‘So why are we going to the Wakefields to tell them a story we don’t believe ourselves?’

‘We promised to keep them up to date with any developments. That’s what we’re doing.’

Rachel fell silent and gazed out of the car window at the fields they were passing. Harvest was over now and the season of
harvest festivals and harvest suppers was in full swing. Living at the farm she had been in the centre of it all but now that
world seemed distant. She looked at the clock on the dashboard. ‘You don’t think we’ll be long, do you? I want to be off early
tonight. I’m going out?’

‘Anywhere nice?’

Rachel felt her cheeks burning. ‘I’m going out for a meal with Tim. You know . . . from Scientific Support.’

Wesley’s foot nearly slipped on the accelerator. He said nothing for a few moments, wondering how to tell her what he had
discovered . . . if indeed he should tell her. Perhaps it was none of his business. He opened his mouth only to find he was
lost for words.

Rachel carried on. ‘We’re going to try the Angel – they do good bar meals there and . . . ’

‘Rach, he’s married.’ When he’d blurted the words out, he immediately regretted his bluntness. He could have put it more tactfully,
phrased it in a way that would cushion the blow a little.

Rachel didn’t speak for a few moments. Then she said ‘What makes you think that?’

‘I overheard someone talking. I’m sorry but I thought you should know.’

As the car swept through the Wakefields’ gates Rachel remained silent. And on the journey back to the station, Tim’s name
wasn’t mentioned again.

The bodies were found three feet down in the garden of 17 Yarm Road. The decomposing corpse of an female in her sixties. And
the recently buried body of a blonde woman in early middle age, identified from a handbag buried near by as Sharon Carr.

The graves had been easy to find. It was obvious that the ground had been disturbed and a retired neighbour who fancied himself
as a one-man neighbourhood watch had told tales of nocturnal digging.

According to the neighbours, the mother, Jackie, had disappeared
suddenly a few weeks back – Joe had said she’d gone off to France with an unknown man. And Joe’s lady friend, the blonde
who had been such a regular caller, hadn’t been seen for a couple of weeks.

But Joe was such a nice, unassuming chap, always ready to pass the time of day. He’d led an exciting life before settling
down in the suburbs – he’d been a roadie for various rock stars until a year or so back. But in spite of these exalted connections,
he wasn’t at all stand-offish.

He was the last person you would have thought. He simply wasn’t the type.

Suzy Wakefield sat alone with a gin and tonic in her trembling hand. The two police officers had been nice, full of sympathy
and gentle words even though the woman, Rachel, had looked as if she had something on her mind. But their sympathy only made
it worse. She almost wished they had been nasty. She deserved nasty.

Darren was still hanging about. She wished he’d go. If he knew the truth he’d walk out of the door and never come back again.

She dabbed her nose with a crumpled tissue. It would be her secret. She’d take it with her to the grave and, now he was dead,
there was no way anybody could find out. She’d have to live with the dreadful knowledge that she’d destroyed her own flesh
and blood for the rest of her days. She wished Brad would come round with the white powder that took the pain away for a while;
she was running short. But she knew that, after a while, even that wouldn’t work. Nothing would. Only death.

She cursed the day she’d met Joe by chance in Neston. She’d recognised him at once – Joe the roadie – always friendly – always
ready to oblige. They’d gone for a drink and she’d poured her heart out to him. Fool. Then he’d suggested staging the kidnapping.
She’d suspected Brad was going to do it as a publicity stunt – she’d overheard Leah talking to him on the phone – but what
if she’d got in first? What if they all thought it was for real? Why shouldn’t she get her hands on some of the money, the
money Brad had cheated out of them, after all her efforts? Darren didn’t need it. He was very cosy with his new tart. But
she did. She not only needed it, she deserved it.

She’d told Joe what she’d found out – how Leah was going to
meet Brad who was to stage the kidnap and take her to a cottage belonging to some friends of his from London until her dramatic
reappearance a few days later. Leah was doing it for the publicity. It was all planned. Until Leah didn’t turn up for the
assignation in the car park and Brad began to panic.

Suzy had called Joe, just to make sure everything had gone to plan and Leah was all right. Then she’d heard those words that
made her heart plummet in her chest. Joe hadn’t got her. He’d been late going to the meeting place and she hadn’t been there.
He’d assumed Suzy would contact him to make fresh arrangements if she still wanted to go through with it.

Then the calls had come . . . and the notes. Leah had been kidnapped for real. The joke had backfired.

And now they were saying Joe, nice unassuming Joe who always had such a cheerful smile, was some kind of psychopath. They
said Leah’s death had been an accident – but she knew that it wasn’t. Bodies had been found buried in Joe’s garden up in Manchester.
It had been on the news.

As she absentmindedly popped the third paracetamol tablet, then the fourth, then the fifth, then the sixth, into her mouth,
she closed her eyes.

It would soon be over and the pain would be gone for ever.

‘They found the money in a holdall in his loft,’ said Wesley.

Heffernan nodded. ‘It was bound to turn up sooner or later . . . like the bodies of his mum and girlfriend. I reckon he was
a psychopath. Classic case.’

Wesley said nothing. Maybe the DCI was right. Joe Quin – alias Mark Jones, alias Marcus Fallbrook – had had a certain charm
and complete plausibility with no empathy for the feelings of others. And from what Wesley had heard about the psychopathic
personality, this was par for the course.

‘But why did he need to kill his mum and Sharon?’ Heffernan asked, puzzled.

‘Maybe Jackie found out what he was planning and tried to stop him. Perhaps after all those years of shielding him, she thought
enough was enough. Maybe Sharon found out that Jackie was buried in the garden so she was sent to join her. Let’s face it,
we’ll never know.’

‘He was a ruddy good liar, Wes. He had us fooled.’

Wesley didn’t answer. He felt angry with himself for having been taken in. He looked at his boss who’d just taken a cracked
mirror out of his desk drawer.

‘I’m getting off early, Wes . . .

Taking Joyce to see her mum.’ ‘Talking of secrets and lies, have you told Rosie about Joyce yet?’

Heffernan’s face turned red. ‘I’ll do it this weekend. OK?’

‘Coward.’

‘Why don’t you get off too? You look knackered.’

Although Wesley suspected that he was being dismissed because Gerry wanted to avoid the subject of Rosie’s wrath, he didn’t
need telling twice. He left the police station and drove to Tradmouth Primary School. Perfect timing.

He parked the car a little way away from the school entrance, not wanting to become entangled with the mothers on the school
run. They scared him more than hardened criminals.

As he made his way to the school gates he realised that he was the only father there amongst the gaggle of mothers with pushchairs
exchanging the news of the day, which he thought rather surprising in this day and age.

Suddenly the children emerged like young animals released from captivity. He could see Michael charging out of the school
door armed with a painting that looked almost as big as he did and he stepped forward with a glow of paternal pride.