The Shining Skull (9 page)

Colin had sounded genuinely apologetic. Much as he’d have loved to oblige Neil, he was fully occupied with a drowned yachtsman
and two road accident victims so he really couldn’t fit in a suspected Regency murder. If it had been a present day murder,
that would have been a different kettle of fish altogether. As soon as Neil had ended the call he had stood in the vestry,
contemplating his next move.

After a few moments the answer came to him. It was so obvious, he didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before. He and Wesley
had been at university with Una Gibson – now Dr Gibson. She had specialised in human burials and she’d worked with him on
a couple of his past digs. She was a woman who knew her bones. And she was sure to oblige an old friend.

He made the call and, sure enough, Una said she’d drive down from Exeter where she was she was now teaching at the university.
She had to take a class at ten thirty but she’d be there that afternoon. She’d sounded keen. Perhaps she’d fancied him after
all, thought Neil, although he’d always sensed that she preferred Wesley. Or maybe it was just the bones she was interested
in. Neil wasn’t getting his hopes up.

It would be a while before Una could make it and, as the delicate work of moving the burials was proceeding smoothly, Neil
made a decision. He left his colleagues and the contractors to their grim task and made for the Rectory.

John Ventnor made polite noises, as though he didn’t mind at all being dragged away from composing his Sunday sermon. It was
only his eyes and the surreptitious glances at his watch that gave away his irritation at having been interrupted.

But Neil’s mind was focused on his quest and didn’t notice the nuances.

The Rector came straight to the point. ‘I hope you’ve come to tell me you’ve moved those bones out of the vestry. I want to
get the reburials finished as soon as possible and . . . ’

‘Don’t worry. It’s all under control,’ said Neil, dismissing the clergyman’s concern with a casual wave of the hand. ‘I just
wondered if you knew of anyone who could help me find out more about these “Shining Ones” you mentioned.’

John Ventnor shook his head. ‘I only know what I read in that old book I found. You’re welcome to borrow it if you like. It’s
in the study.’

‘Thanks. That’d be great. Is there anyone around here who’d know more about them?’

‘There’s a retired teacher called Lionel Grooby who takes a great interest in the history of the village. When I first came
here he was keen to let me know that he’d traced his family tree back to the Amazing Devon Marvel.’ There was a slight smirk
on Ventnor’s lips.

‘The what?’

‘The Amazing Devon Marvel. He was some sort of child prodigy – did mathematical calculations in public.’

Neil raised his eyebrows. ‘So this Grooby’s likely to know about these Shining Ones?’

‘I’m not sure but it’s worth having a word with him. Or you could try Tradmouth library. They’ve got a large local history
section.’ He smiled encouragingly, hoping that Neil would take the hint and leave him in peace.

But Neil didn’t move. ‘Er . . . that book. Can I borrow it?’

‘Sure,’ said the Rector as he made for the study door, trying to hide his impatience. ‘There’s not much in it about the Shining
Ones, I’m afraid. It just says the sect was started by a local woman and in its heyday, she had a lot of followers around
here.’

He disappeared into the study and re-emerged a couple of seconds later holding a dull brown book which he handed to Neil as
though it were a hot coal.

‘These Shining Ones didn’t go in for human sacrifice by any chance, did they?’ Neil asked, thinking of the boy whose throat
had been cut.

The Rector laughed. ‘In Stoke Beeching? I doubt it.’ He looked at his watch and suddenly assumed a serious expression. ‘I’m
sorry, Neil, but I really must get on. You’ll let me know when I can . . . ’

‘Sure. No problem,’ said Neil unconvincingly as he wandered off with the book tucked under his arm.

The call came through at one o’clock. A man called Brad Williams wanted a word with someone senior from CID.

Gerry Heffernan, muttering under his breath grudgingly agreed to talk to the presumptuous Mr Williams. It was probably a trivial
matter, he thought; something that could easily have been dealt with by uniform. Williams was probably the sort who tried
to get let off a traffic offence by claiming to be a close friend of the Chief Constable and Gerry Heffernan had no time for
people like that. As he waited for the man to be put through he tried to think up something clever to say – something that
would get Williams off his back while at the same time ensuring that he wouldn’t be reported to his superiors for rudeness.

He opened the conversation with a wary, ‘Hello, Mr Williams. DCI Heffernan here. What can I do for you?’ So far so good. Surely
the man couldn’t take offence at that.

Gerry leaned back in his swivel chair, waiting to hear a sorry tale of a theft of a mobile phone or a trivial theft from the
caller’s, undoubtedly large, yacht. He took a deep breath and prepared to make soothing noises and standard answers.

But what the man said stunned him into silence for a few seconds.

‘Did you hear me? Hello, are you still there?’

‘Yes, Mr Williams. Can you repeat what you just said?’

‘I don’t want to speak too loud,’ the man said in a stage whisper. ‘They don’t know I’m ringing you. But I think you should
know. Leah Wakefield’s been kidnapped. There’s been a ransom demand.’

‘Leah Wakefield? The singer?’

‘Yes. I’m her manager.’ Something, a slight wariness, in his voice suggested that he was holding something back. ‘Look, I
want this dealt with discreetly. They say they’ll kill her if the police are called. Her parents don’t want the police involved
but I thought . . . ’

‘You were quite right to call us. The family can’t deal with this on their own.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Can we meet somewhere?
Not the house – they could be watching the house.’

Once the arrangements were made Gerry Heffernan put the phone down and sat staring at the instrument, wondering if he had
imagined the whole conversation. A kidnapped star. A secret meeting with her manager. The whole thing had a slightly surreal
feel about it for a man more used to collaring various representatives of South Devon’s rogues’ gallery of petty criminals
and murdering inadequates. Perhaps it was someone’s idea of a joke. Not that he could see the funny side.

He stood up, sending a pile of papers on his desk flying onto the floor. He’d deal with them later, in the meantime he needed
to share his strange knowledge with Wesley Peterson. He knew he could rely on his second-in-command to tell him straight if
he thought the whole thing was some sort of hoax.

The meeting place was St Margaret’s church. As Gerry Heffernan sang in the choir there he knew every inch of the place. And
he knew that the flowers were arranged on Friday afternoons, ready for Saturday weddings and Sunday services so any suspicious
stranger would stand out in the cool, gloomy interior like a shark in a goldfish bowl.

Wesley said little as they walked together down the narrow streets to the church. Heffernan guessed that he was keeping an
open mind, not judging until he knew all the facts.

When they reached the church, Heffernan hesitated for a second before raising the heavy iron latch. The sound echoed through
the building, announcing their arrival like a fanfare. They stepped inside and allowed their eyes to adjust to the gloom.

St Margaret’s church smelled of wax polish. Several grey-haired ladies were bustling around with bright flowers.

Wesley gave his boss a nudge. He had just spotted a man who looked as though he didn’t belong there. Dressed in an expensive
soft leather jacket, he lounged in one of the back pews watching the scene of calm industry as an anthropologist might watch
the activities of some newly discovered Amazonian tribe.

They began to walk towards the stranger, moving casually so as
not to draw attention to themselves. As they approached the man stood up. He looked jumpy, nervous.

‘You the police,’ were his first words, spoken in an instinctive whisper.

Both men showed their ID discreetly and introduced themselves before sitting down, Heffernan beside the man on the back pew.
Wesley sat on the pew in front and twisted round. Gerry Heffernan spotted a lady he knew from the choir carrying a bucket
of lilies and he gave her a friendly wave. He waited until she was well out of earshot before speaking.

‘So when did Leah Wakefield go missing? What happened exactly?’

‘She, er . . . walked out on Wednesday evening. Suzy – that’s her mum – presumed she’d gone to a friend’s or a hotel.’

‘How did she leave? Did she drive or . . . ?’

‘According to Suzy, she’d had a bit to drink. I presume she phoned a taxi or . . . ’

‘OK. We can find that out from her mobile phone company,’ said Wesley. If this case was genuine, they’d have to explore every
avenue. ‘So she just left the house without saying where she intended to go?’

As Williams leaned forward, Wesley caught a whiff of his expensive aftershave. ‘That’s right. Suzy phoned round all the places
she might have been. No luck. Then she got a phone call. Suzy said the voice sounded electronic and she couldn’t tell if it
was a man or a woman. It said Leah wouldn’t be harmed if she did as she was told.’ He hesitated. ‘And it said not to tell
the police.’

‘They always say that,’ said Wesley, trying to sound as if he knew what he was talking about. The truth was that he had never
dealt with a kidnapping before in his life and he felt apprehensive, wary of the unknown. ‘Don’t worry, we can be very discreet,’
he added reassuringly. ‘What happened next?’

‘Suzy got another call. It told her to go to the old gibbet on the crossroads not far from Derenham. Where the roads to Derenham,
Tradmouth and Burnington meet. More a T-junction than a crossroads, I suppose,’ he added, his nervousness having rendered
him pedantic. ‘Suzy and Darren went there and found this note.’ He produced a plastic bag containing a plain envelope and
a sheet of yellow paper.

Wesley took it from him. In the corner of the bag he saw a
crudely hacked crescent of fingernail immaculately varnished in opalescent blue. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

Williams swallowed hard. ‘They said they’d send proof they had her. Suzy says that’s exactly the colour of nail varnish she
was wearing when she disappeared. It’s an unusual shade. Leah’s favourite.’ He waved his hand impatiently at the sheet of
paper. ‘Read the note.’

Wesley read out loud. ‘If you love Leah and you want her returned you must pay fifty thousand pounds for her continued survival.
We’ll say where and when. Wait for instructions and don’t tell the police. If you do we’ll cut her throat.’ He turned to Gerry
Heffernan whose face gave nothing away.

Dredging his memory, Wesley tried to think why Leah Wakefield’s ransom note seemed so familiar. He had read something very
similar recently, he was sure of it. Maybe it was the Marcus Fallbrook case. The notes sent to the Fallbrooks had been on
the same coloured paper and he was sure that the wording was similar. He’d have to check it out as soon as he returned to
the office. There was always the possibility that he could be wrong.

‘Have the family heard anything more?’ Heffernan asked.

Williams shook his head. ‘They’re taking their time. Bastards,’ he spat. ‘You should see the state Suzy’s in . . . ’

‘I can imagine,’ Wesley said quickly. ‘Look, we should get all incoming phone calls monitored . . . and someone should be
with the family.’

‘They said not to call the police. What if they’re watching the house?’

‘We can do discretion, you know.’ Heffernan sounded almost hurt. ‘We’re hardly going to scream up to the front door with our
sirens blazing.’

Williams eyed the chief inspector, unsure whether to believe him. With his large, unkempt frame and his broad Liverpool accent,
he hardly looked like the ideal undercover man.

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘I presume the Wakefields have tradesmen in . . . cleaners?’

Williams nodded.

‘In that case we can fix things so that even if they’re watching the place, they won’t suspect a thing.’ Wesley glanced at
his boss. ‘We’ll use officers who are used to undercover work. OK?’

Williams hesitated for a moment then nodded.

‘And you’d better let Mrs Wakefield know the situation. We don’t want any complications. Will you do that? Go back now and
sit tight.’

Wesley’s words seemed to have the right effect. Williams nodded meekly and, after he had written down the Wakefields’ address
on the back of one of his business cards, he stood up.

‘Don’t say a word to anyone else, will you?’ Wesley reminded him gently. ‘We need to ensure that we don’t make waves if we
want to get Leah back safely.’

‘Too right,’ said Williams with feeling. ‘I’ve got a lot of money riding on that little cow.’

With that he stood up and sauntered out of the church, letting the door slam behind him.

Acting was one of Rachel Tracey’s many talents. She had been at one time a member of the divisional amateur dramatic society
and, more recently, her mother had persuaded her to take a small part in a recently discovered Elizabethan play that had been
performed at the Neston Arts Festival earlier in the year.

Now she was to tackle the role of cleaner to the Wakefield family and, to convince any malevolent onlooker, she had borrowed
a nondescript twelve-year-old Ford Fiesta from one of the young women in the control room, donned a blue nylon overall and
scraped her hair back off her face as though preparing to get stuck in to cleaning the Wakefields’ many bathrooms.

Fifteen minutes later, by agreement, a dark-haired young man called Tim from scientific support arrived to set up the equipment
that would allow them to record and monitor any phone calls. He arrived in a battered white van and ostentatiously carried
sections of copper pipe into the house, his electronic equipment concealed in what a casual observer would assume to be a
set of plumber’s tool boxes.