The Shroud Maker (15 page)

‘Did you speak to her?’

‘No.’ Something about his denial didn’t ring true.

‘Where were you around six o’clock on Saturday morning?’

Carthage looked confused. ‘Here in bed asleep. Where else would I be?’

‘Any witnesses?’ Rachel asked.

Carthage shook his head. To Wesley his answer had sounded spontaneous and truthful. But he’d still drawn the victim. There had been a point of contact.

‘You’re into all this Palkin stuff?’ There was something dismissive in Rachel’s question.

Carthage seemed relieved at the change of subject and the light of enthusiasm suddenly appeared in his eyes. Perhaps more than enthusiasm: obsession. ‘His biographer, Josiah Palkin-Wright, once lived here. He was a descendant of the great man.’

Wesley returned his attention to the sketch book. ‘These pictures of the ship. They resemble a tattoo on the dead woman’s shoulder.’

Miles Carthage’s face clouded. ‘I’m not a tattoo artist,’ he said with a hint of disdain. ‘I know nothing about that.’

The rain would have put even the hardiest of swimmers off taking a dip in the unheated outdoor pool at Newlands Holiday Park. So, as the current residents of the park liked their comforts and there was a newly built indoor pool, it lay unused, enclosed behind its seven-foot-high white concrete walls, stained here and there with green moss that really should have been dealt with before the start of the season.

The wrought-iron gate, painted white but rusted in places, was shut for safety because it would never do for a young child to wander in there and fall into the water. And as none of the children spending their half-term holidays at Newlands were unaccounted for, nobody had ventured near the pool that day to check. That was why the body had floated there on the azure water for an hour or so before it was discovered.

The corpse was wearing a business suit. It was hard to tell the quality of the dark, pinstripe cloth because immersion in that much chlorinated water would have rendered even the dearest Savile Row tailoring shiny and shapeless. He was wearing a dark tie too, which floated out like a rope designed to pull the body ashore. Ties were hardly the garb of the typical Newlands Park holiday-maker so he looked strangely out of place there in the pool, even for a dead man.

When Gerry returned to the office after his meeting with CS Noreen Fitton, two items of news awaited him, neither of which was particularly enlightening. First, Jason Teague’s alibi had been confirmed and, second, the owner of a yacht moored close to the
Queen Philippa
had arrived in Tradmouth that day to find his inflatable dinghy missing. To begin with the man had been annoyed, thinking he’d been the victim of a theft, but when he’d learned about the murder he’d become subdued; the model of cooperation.

So far they’d had no luck tracing Kassia’s family and Greater Manchester Police were still trying to contact her friend, Lisa. Gerry complained that there seemed to be brick walls everywhere and shut himself in his office, only to be disturbed by DC Paul Johnson.

‘A body’s been found at Newlands Holiday Park, sir. Uniform have just called it in. They want CID there.’

Gerry, who’d just started to study a report on his desk, looked up. ‘Is that because it’s suspicious or is it a straightforward heart attack and the buggers are too idle to do the paperwork?’

‘The first, sir. Body was found floating in the swimming pool.’

‘Accident?’ Gerry asked hopefully.

‘Possible. But on the other hand it might not be.’

Gerry looked at his watch. He’d already called Joyce to tell her he’d be late. He’d thought about calling Rosie too, just to see how she was doing, but he knew she’d only accuse him of fussing. In theory, you had to stand back and leave daughters to their own devices. In reality it was difficult.

‘I suppose I’d better get over there and see what’s going on. Where’s DI Peterson?’

As soon as the question had left Gerry’s lips Wesley appeared, carrying a plastic cup from the drinks machine in the corridor filled with some brown liquid that might have been tea, or coffee. It was hard to tell.

As Paul hurried away, Wesley stopped at Gerry’s door, sensing something was happening. ‘Just the man I want to see,’ said Gerry. ‘How did you get on with Carthage?’

Wesley gave a quick account of his visit before Gerry reciprocated by bringing him up to date with the new developments in the Kassia Graylem case. Not that there were many.

He saved the news about the body at the holiday park till last, knowing Wesley would share his frustration. They needed to find Kassia Graylem’s murderer and a drowning in a swimming pool was an unwelcome distraction.

As he was speaking Trish appeared in the doorway. ‘I’ve been on to the Met, sir. They’re checking to see whether Chris Butcher’s name’s come up in any inquiries.’

‘Good. Anything else?’

‘I’ve managed to speak to Karen Gregson, Jenny Bercival’s cousin in Canada. She told me that Jenny was involved with a man. She said he was older and married and Jenny hadn’t told her mother about him. Karen had the impression that he was very controlling – said she had to dress a certain way and all that. Karen told Jenny to ditch him but she wouldn’t. Karen said she despaired of her.’

‘Any names mentioned?’

‘He was called William.’

‘No surname?’

‘Afraid not.’

Wesley looked at Trish. ‘What do you think? What kind of man could persuade a woman to behave like that?’

Trish’s cheeks reddened. ‘An extremely rich one?’ She gave a little giggle, as though she was embarrassed by her flippancy. ‘Or a charismatic one perhaps. Or perhaps she just accepted it. Low self-esteem maybe.’

Gerry rested his chin on his hand, a wistful expression on his face. ‘Charisma. Now that’s something we’d all like to have.’

‘But is it something money can’t buy? Or does having a few million in the bank help?’ said Wesley.

Gerry smiled. ‘You’re probably right there, Wes.’

‘I’m sure there’s a connection between Kassia Graylem’s murder and Jenny’s disappearance.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Could that be what Butcher’s wife meant by last time?’

‘It’s worth bearing in mind, Wes.’ Gerry stood up. ‘I suppose we’d better show our faces at Newlands Holiday Park.’

Wesley put down his half-finished drink and went to fetch his jacket.

It didn’t take long to reach the holiday park which stood, surrounded by fields, on the main road out of Tradmouth. Wesley swung the car through the wide gateway and drove between the rows of neat white chalets. The rain had stopped and there were lots of people about: families with young children valiantly making the best of the British weather. In typical fashion, the drama caused by the arrival of police vehicles seemed to be causing stranger to speak to stranger, sharing speculation about what was going on up near the swimming pool. Crime was often a wonderful icebreaker.

They drove on and saw a trio of police cars parked up near the white wall that enclosed the open-air swimming pool. A constable was standing by the wrought-iron gate set into the wall and when he saw Gerry he stood to attention.

‘Hope we’ve not been called out on a wild goose chase. What have we got?’ Gerry asked with a hint of impatience. Behind him Wesley tried to peer through the gate. Inside he could make out the unnaturally blue water of the pool and dark uniformed figures gathered around something on the ground.

Wesley looked about. ‘Dr Bowman on his way?’

The constable nodded. ‘The dead man was floating face down in the pool when he was found. Could have been drunk and fallen in.’

‘Any ID on him?’

‘There’s a wallet and a mobile in his pocket. And he’s wearing a suit.’ He said this as though a suit was some kind of exotic costume.

Gerry rolled his eyes and looked at Wesley. ‘Suppose we’d better make sure there’s not a dagger sticking out of his back.’

The constable opened the gate for them to enter the pool area. It opened with a sinister creak and banged shut behind them.

The dead man was lying on the concrete paving slabs and Wesley noticed that the uniforms of two of the officers standing nearby were as sodden as the corpse’s dark suit. They had clearly gone in to retrieve the body. He was just glad he hadn’t had to do it – but then it was one of the advantages of rank that you could delegate that sort of thing.

‘Could have been an accident.’ The constable had followed them in and was hovering anxiously behind.

‘We’ll wait for Dr Bowman’s verdict on that,’ said Wesley.

The waterlogged contents of the dead man’s pockets were lying near the corpse in a clear plastic bag. Wesley put on his crime-scene gloves and picked it up, slid out the wallet and took a look inside. The contents were wet but still perfectly recognisable

Apart from sixty pounds in notes, there were three credit cards in the name of Eric Darwell. An inner pocket contained a driving licence bearing a photograph of the dead man and a Manchester address.

He found some other items snuggling in the inner recesses of the wallet: two supermarket loyalty cards and a library card. There was also a photograph that had been protected by being in a sealed section of the wallet; it was of a smiling woman with a rather prominent chin who appeared to be in her thirties and wore her dark hair short. Another picture showed the same woman with a toddler, a boy, and one more was of the dead man with them both, the three of them smiling happily against a background of a tall Christmas tree. He turned the photo over and saw ‘Christmas 2011’ written in ballpoint pen on the reverse. He handed it to Gerry.

‘Looks as if he’s a family man.’

‘Greater Manchester Police’ll send someone to the address so we’ll soon find out.’

‘Rather them than me,’ Gerry muttered. Wesley knew how he felt. Breaking bad news was something every police officer dreads.

Wesley turned to the constable. ‘Does anyone know what he was doing here?’

The constable nodded eagerly. ‘I spoke to the girl on reception and she says he was staying in one of the chalets near the road. She was keeping an eye on him because he’s here alone and she thought that was a bit odd. I mean there’s a lot of kids here and you can’t be too careful, can you.’

‘Indeed you can’t,’ said Gerry, staring down at the body.

‘He claimed he was down here for a few days on some sort of business,’ the constable chipped in. ‘Said he couldn’t get a hotel or B&B because of the festival so he asked if they had a vacancy. But Siobhan on reception didn’t believe him.’

‘Why not?’ Wesley asked.

‘She didn’t say.’

They heard a voice greeting the officer guarding the gate, a good-natured greeting, positively hearty. Colin Bowman had arrived to a fanfare of creaking hinges as the gate was pushed open.

Gerry straightened himself up. ‘Hello, Colin. Looks like we’ve got a drowning. We’re busy with this murder down in Tradmouth so if you confirm he fell in the pool by accident after having one over the eight, I’d be eternally grateful.

Colin donned his surgical gloves and calmly placed his case on the ground. He stood beside Gerry gazing at the body for a while before kneeling down to make his examination. He spent a lot of time loosening the tie and unbuttoning the shirt so that he could assess the neck and chest and then carefully rolled the body on to its side and studied the head. There were a few sighs and tuts as he worked. Wesley and Gerry stood perfectly still awaiting the verdict.