The Shroud Maker (32 page)

‘We’d better pay Mr Joss a visit,’ said Gerry as he stood up. ‘Then we’ll have another word with Miles Carthage. He lied to us.’

Even this new revelation about Pixie’s involvement with Shipworld couldn’t take Wesley’s mind off the accident that had killed Kassia’s parents. As he drove out towards Neston with Gerry chatting and speculating beside him in the passenger seat, he kept visualising the explosion that had shattered the peace of the Suffolk evening and the distraught fifteen-year-old girl whose world had come to a terrible end.

When they reached Bolton Hall it struck Wesley that nothing much had changed since their last visit apart from the presence of a rusty yellow Skoda parked on the weed-infested gravel at the front of the house.

Scarlett Derringer answered the door wearing a short floral dress, baggy cardigan and flip-flops.

‘What’s new?’ she said as she let them in. ‘Have you got the bastard who killed Kassia yet?’

Wesley ignored her question. ‘Is Pixie in?’

Scarlett looked a little alarmed. ‘Why? He’s got nothing to do with it. Anyway, he was here on the morning you say she died.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘In the garden planting carrots. He’s still upset about Kassia so go easy, will you?’

‘You’re absolutely sure he was here on Saturday morning around six o’clock?’

Scarlett hesitated. ‘He never gets up early.’

‘What time did you first see him that morning?’

‘When I was getting breakfast. About nine… nine thirty.

‘So he could have already gone out and come back?’

‘I didn’t hear his car.’

‘Would you have heard it if he’d gone out?’

She looked away. ‘My room’s at the back of the house so… Look, Pixie always tells me if he’s going out.’

‘But you can’t really be sure,’ said Wesley like a cross-examining lawyer.

Scarlett looked horrified, as if she feared she’d just landed her friend in deep trouble.

‘We need to speak to him,’ Wesley said more gently. ‘Please.’

All of a sudden they heard a car engine start up. ‘Is that his car outside? The yellow one?’

Scarlett hesitated for a moment then she gave a small nod. Wesley opened the front door and rushed out, only to see the Skoda disappearing down the drive. Not being one for the drama of car chases, he made the call ordering all patrols to be on the lookout for Pixie’s vehicle. The state the car appeared to be in, it probably wouldn’t get far.

‘Do you know Pixie’s real name?’ he asked.

‘It’s Peter but nobody ever calls him that. Apart from his dad who he can’t stand. His mum used to call him Pixie when he was little. He prefers it. She died when he was fourteen,’ she added in a matter-of-fact voice.

‘People in this house don’t seem to have much luck with parents,’ said Gerry. ‘Yours are dead, so are Kassia’s. And now Pixie’s mum…’

‘Maybe that’s why we found each other. Orphans of the storm.’

‘What about Pixie’s dad?’

‘He says he’s a bastard who’s only interested in women and money. They don’t get on.’

‘Does Pixie work?’

‘He does a bit of computer stuff and some freelance copywriting I think. He’s really into all that fantasy stuff. ’

‘I thought you didn’t have a computer here,’ said Wesley.

‘I don’t and neither did Kassia. But Pixie does. Like I said, he needs it for work.’

‘What kind of fantasy stuff does he work on?’

‘Search me. I hate anything to do with computers.’ She looked Wesley in the eye. ‘I started off life as an IT specialist and had a breakdown. Not touched the things since.’

‘Mind if we have a look at Pixie’s room?’

‘It’s not for me to say, is it? But if I refuse, I suppose you’ll get a warrant and search anyway. Up the stairs, turn right. Last door on your left. And don’t make a mess.’

When Wesley and Gerry reached the room it was in virtual darkness. The threadbare curtains were drawn against the sunlight and the first thing Gerry did was to fling them open. A cloud of dust billowed down, making Wesley cough.

‘Right then,’ said Gerry as Wesley recovered his composure. ‘Let the dog see the rabbit.’

Gerry took the chest of drawers and Wesley the wardrobe. It wasn’t long before he found something that looked out of place amongst the frayed jeans and faded T-shirts. He took the cardboard folder off the wardrobe shelf and opened it.

Nestling in the file beside Miles Carthage’s lavish illustrations, Wesley saw a wad of A4 sheets typed with text, scarred with scribbled notes and amendments. He began to turn the pages and realised that it was the same text they had read on the Shipworld website. Nothing they hadn’t seen before. Without a word he passed the file over to Gerry.

‘Give Traffic Division a call will you, Wes. We need Pixie picked up as soon as possible. And tell the lazy buggers to get their fingers out and treat it as urgent.’

Wesley did as he was asked, then finished searching the wardrobe and made for the door.

Gerry turned his head. ‘Where are you off to?’

‘Kassia’s room.’

‘It’s already been searched.’

‘I know. But I saw a photograph album in there. I’d like to have another look at it.’

He crossed the landing and opened the door to Kassia’s room. Once inside he could tell things had been disturbed by the search team, little items out of place and the duvet turned back.

He took the pink album from the drawer where he’d found Lisa’s card and the notes from Miles Carthage and flicked through the photographs of Kassia and her parents with their boat until he came to the empty space where one had been removed.
Me, Dad, Mum and R.

When he came downstairs, he told Scarlett he was taking the album back to the station and gave her a receipt which she stuffed into the pocket of her cardigan as though she didn’t know quite what to do with it. Over the years he’d learned it was as well to do things by the book whenever possible.

They were about to leave Bolton Hall when a call came through to say that Peter Joss, a.k.a. Pixie, had been picked up on the main road into Tradmouth.

‘Now that’s perfect timing,’ Gerry said as he settled down in the passenger seat looking pleased with himself.

Captain Garcia of the
Maudelayne
had arrived at the mortuary, still in costume which caused some raised eyebrows amongst the staff. He’d been taken to the viewing room where he confirmed that the dead man was his crew member, Andre Gorst.

Colin Bowman’s first thought was that the head injury could have been accidental or caused postmortem, but on closer examination he concluded that it looked suspicious.

He went to his office and made himself a cup of Earl Grey before calling Gerry Heffernan to tell him the news.

Andre Gorst had been identified and it was possible that he’d been murdered. But then, Gerry observed, a man like that was bound to make a lot of enemies.

However, Gorst wasn’t going anywhere. And Peter Joss was waiting in the interview room. When Wesley and Gerry joined him he looked up, almost as if he was pleased to see them.

‘You create the text for Chris Butcher’s Shipworld website?’ said Wesley once the introductions had been made for the tape.

‘It’s gainful employment – better than benefits. And I worked as a copywriter in London in another life so I’m bloody good at it,’ he added with a hint of pride.

‘I thought it was fans who sent in material,’ said Wesley.

‘They sometimes do.’ He smirked. ‘But most of it needs editing or completely rewriting. That’s why I’m needed. To keep the story on track.’

‘What about the death of Alicia?’

‘What about it?’

‘You described Kassia’s death. Almost as though you’d been there.’

‘I didn’t need to see it to describe it. I knew what she was wearing ’cause she always wore that blue dress for concerts and I knew she’d been found in a boat. All it needed was a bit of text description.’

‘Didn’t you think it was in bad taste?’

For a moment he looked uncomfortable. ‘All writers are vampires living off other people’s misfortunes,’ he said. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t my idea.’

‘Whose was it?’

‘Miles Carthage. Now there’s a weird man.’

‘What do you mean by weird?’ Wesley asked.

‘He’s… obsessive.’

‘Think he’s capable of murder?’ Gerry asked.

‘Wouldn’t surprise me.’ He paused. ‘But what would I know?’

‘We’ve found the e-mails you exchanged.’

For a second Pixie looked worried. ‘So?’

‘He gives you the instructions. Thinks up the storylines.’

‘He’s well in, isn’t he.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He’s related to Chris Butcher… not that he doesn’t have talent.’

This was something new. ‘How is he related to Butcher?’ asked Wesley.

‘I don’t know exactly. All I know is that he’s family.’

Wesley and Gerry exchanged looks.

‘Did you know Kassia used to pose for him?’

‘Yeah. He told her she inspired him and she was flattered.’

‘You never thought to mention it to us?’

‘I didn’t think it was important.’

‘Why did you run when we came to Bolton Hall?’ Gerry asked.

‘I didn’t. I needed to go to Neston from some bird netting. The buggers are destroying my veg patch.’

‘Have you been in touch with Miles recently?’ said Wesley.

‘Yeah. He’s come up with a big new storyline. A huge battle between Palkin’s forces and the Devil Elves of Bretania. Look, you don’t think he’s got anything to do with Kassia’s murder, do you? Because if he did, I feel bad about not doing more to stop her going there. I thought he was harmless but… ’

‘Ever heard of Jenny Bercival?’ said Gerry.

Pixie shook his head. ‘No. Who is she?’

Wesley believed him.

‘We need to talk to Miles Carthage,’ said Wesley as they walked back to the CID office.

Gerry sighed. ‘We’ve got an appointment with Andre Gorst first. Apparently dead men can’t wait.’

The postmortem confirmed Colin’s suspicions. Andre Gorst’s lungs, now sitting in a steel dish, had been filled with river water. He’d drowned but, like Eric Darwell, he’d been rendered unconscious before falling or being pushed into the River Trad.

Gorst’s head injury, Colin reckoned, had been caused by some sort of cosh, not a baton or anything like that, something more shapeless. Maybe a sandbag, or another equally heavy object. He had met his death sometime last night, probably between ten p.m. and two in the morning. Colin apologised for not being more specific.

Gerry had sent a team out to seek potential witnesses amongst the yachtsmen whose vessels were moored by the embankment and the Palkin Festival revellers. It had been raining last night but he still hoped someone had seen something.

‘Well, one thing’s for sure,’ Wesley said as they walked towards Albany Street, pushing their way through the crowds lured out by the early afternoon sun. ‘He did see who dumped that viol and I think he tried to blackmail them.’

‘I knew he was lying to us,’ said Gerry. ‘If he hadn’t been, he’d still have been alive.’ There was no regret in Gerry’s voice, just a simple statement of fact. ‘After what he did to our Rosie, maybe the bastard deserved everything he got.’

Wesley said nothing.

There was no answer at Miles Carthage’s flat so Wesley and Gerry returned to the police station. They’d try again later. Wesley tried to call Chris Butcher to ask about Pixie’s claim that Carthage was a relative, but all he got was his voice mail.

When Wesley sat down at his desk he saw Rachel watching him.

‘What’s that?’ she asked.

It was a few seconds before he realised what she was talking about. The bright pink photograph album decorated with kittens that he’d taken from Kassia’s room was sitting on the edge of his desk, looking out of place amongst the files and reports.

‘I found it in Kassia’s room. It contains pictures of her and her parents at their boat.’

Rachel raised her eyebrows. ‘It survived the explosion?’

Wesley picked up the album and flicked through the pages. ‘According to the report, Kassia had a new camera with her when it happened, along with the viol which she was carrying because her and her dad had been busking in the town. If she hadn’t stopped to take some pictures she would have been killed. It’s my guess that these pictures were already in the camera and she had them printed later. I was intending to go through them but then Peter Joss was brought in.’

‘Want me to have a look?’ She was looking at him hopefully.

‘No, it’s OK. I’ll do it later.’

She turned away. For everybody’s sake, he needed to get this sorted once and for all.

Nobody had seen anything suspicious on the night of Andre Gorst’s death, or at least nobody was admitting to it. But they’d keep plugging away, asking questions and checking CCTV footage. It was often the tedious routine stuff that produced results.

Wesley sat at his desk, turning the pages of the photograph album. Maybe he was wasting his time and it was irrelevant. But he still wondered why that one picture was missing.
Me, Dad, Mum and R.