The Shroud Maker (37 page)

When Petworth appeared he was slightly breathless, brandishing a bunch of keys. Tall, with a long face, he was dressed in a Palkin costume, padded around the middle to give him the appearance of the portly sea captain, his face half concealed by a bushy false beard.

‘Sorry about all this,’ he said, embarrassed, tugging off the beard. ‘My wife likes me to join in with the spirit of the thing and at least I’m not the only one who looks like a prat.’ In spite of the jocular words he looked worried. ‘What’s this about?’ he said as he unlocked the door.

‘I need to talk to Jason. You must know him well?’

‘Not that well.’ He sounded as if he was trying to distance himself and Wesley wanted to know why.

‘What school did you and Jason go to?’

‘Pridewell House in Surrey. Why?’

‘Ever heard the name Rory Wentworth?’

Petworth’s face turned a deep shade of red and he didn’t answer.

‘Did your friend Jason ever mention a family called the Graylems? They were killed in a boating accident.’

Petworth looked puzzled. ‘No. Who are they? Any relation to that poor girl who…?’

‘She was their daughter. Rory Wentworth met them on holiday in Southwold in Suffolk and, from what I can gather, there was some sort of falling out. Later that day there was an explosion and their boat was destroyed, killing Mr and Mrs Graylem and leaving Kassia orphaned. Rory and his father had left just before the explosion and nothing was ever proved.’ He paused to let the statement sink in. ‘Only Rory Wentworth went and changed his name to Jason Teague, didn’t he. Why didn’t you tell us?’

When Jonathan didn’t answer Wesley continued. ‘More recently four women have been murdered in French coastal towns, mostly in the south and west where Teague told us he worked on the yachts of the wealthy. The murders occurred in different regions so the police there didn’t notice a pattern until recently. Some of the women were seen with a man answering Teague’s description and the murders all bear a remarkable similarity to the death of Kassia Graylem.’

Jonathan Petworth sank down into the nearest office chair and put his head in his hands. After a few moments he looked up. ‘Honestly I had no idea. If I had…’

‘What can you tell us about Teague… or Wentworth?’

Petworth lowered his eyes. ‘OK, Rory and I were at school together but I’d never have described him as a friend.’

‘Where did he get the name Jason Teague from?’

‘There was a lad of that name at school. He was very religious; wanted to be a vicar and I presume Rory decided to use his name as some sort of joke. I believe the real Jason ended up in Scotland. Rory stole his identity. Look, I was shocked when he contacted me to ask for work. He was somebody I always steered clear of if you want the truth.’

‘That’s exactly what I want,’ said Wesley.

Petworth looked rather grateful that he’d been given permission to abandon his natural reticence. ‘I think Rory Wentworth is a psychopath. Or is it a sociopath? I’m not sure which. Not that I ever witnessed anything, you understand, but there was talk that he once hanged a rabbit, just to watch it die. And if he didn’t get his own way… He didn’t lose his temper but things happened to people who crossed him. One boy in our class who had a big mouth told Rory where to go and later he fell down the stairs. Swore he was pushed but there was never any proof. And one of the teachers received a parcel that blew up in her face. She’d been scathing about one of Rory’s essays and showed him up in front of the class. There was an investigation but again nothing was proved and I’m afraid the school hushed it all up for the sake of its reputation. Rory was asked to leave but his dad managed to sort things out for him and get him out of trouble so the school kept him on in the end. His dad was a barrister – very persuasive. He’d lost his wife and Rory was his only child so I suppose he felt the urge to protect him whatever he did.’ He looked at Wesley as if he was desperate for him to understand. ‘You can imagine how I felt when he turned up here asking for a job. I didn’t like to say no. I’ve got a business to run and…’

‘And what?’

‘He hinted that boats were vulnerable. Said he’d heard about a fleet of charter vessels tied up in a harbour in France being set on fire. He dropped it into the conversation casually but I knew what he meant.’

‘You should have told us.’

‘What proof did I have?’

Wesley felt sorry for the man. Rory Wentworth’s brand of terror had been subtle. Too clever to do anything that would bring him to the attention of the authorities until he got involved with Dennis Dobbs in order to earn a passage home, and even then he’d wriggled out of any charges. He was expert at playing the innocent.

And then there’d been the girl who’d disappeared aboard the boat on the south coast the year before the Graylems died; the girl seen sailing out alone by Rory Wentworth’s father. How far would a father go to protect his son? Wesley thought he knew the answer.

‘Did he ever borrow that costume you’re wearing?’

Jonathan looked surprised. ‘Yes, he borrowed it the other day because he wanted to go to the festival.’

‘Which day was this?’

He thought for a few moments. ‘Monday I think. Why?’

Wesley didn’t answer the question. Monday was the day Eric Darwell had been murdered, Darwell who had been seen in the company of a John Palkin lookalike.

‘Any idea where we can find him?’

‘Like I said, he mentioned going to the festival.’ Jonathan glanced nervously towards the steel staircase at the back of the open-plan room. ‘I’ve been letting him stay in the flat above here while that boat’s been sealed off. You can have a look up there if you like. I’ve got the key.’

He took out a key from a desk drawer and handed it to Wesley, who without a word made for the staircase. When he reached the flat he found it immaculately neat, as if all evidence of habitation had been removed. Even the towels had been stripped from the rail in the bathroom and placed in the wooden linen basket.

Rory Wentworth, alias Jason Teague, had gone.

The checks they’d already done on the names Rory Wentworth and Jason Teague had failed to come up with much. But they hadn’t been asking the right questions and, as far as the French police were concerned, their murder suspect had vanished without trace and had given a number of false names to what few witnesses there had been.

Wesley had put the team to work on contacting other forces to see whether anything was known about what Rory Wentworth had been up to since the Graylems’ boating tragedy. Each inquiry hit a brick wall and it seemed that, from the age of eighteen, Wentworth had succeeding in slipping off the radar, living a nomadic existence, probably cushioned by funds from his wealthy father who, they discovered, was now living abroad in some unspecified tax haven.

From what they now knew about him, Gerry reckoned there was only one place he would feel truly at home: aboard a boat. The
Queen Philippa
had been left unguarded for several days now, and Gerry suspected that was where he’d head for.

They made their way to the embankment. After the revelations of the past hour Wesley feared that if they were to corner Wentworth and make an arrest things might turn nasty so he’d put more officers on standby. If the suspicions of the French police were to be believed, Rory Wentworth was a prolific killer and a more credible one than Miles Carthage. Wentworth would have thought nothing of disposing of Andre Gorst when he’d attempted to blackmail him or killing Eric Darwell when he’d come to Tradmouth asking awkward questions. Carthage, on the other hand, would have retreated into his own sad, twisted world of beauty and fantasy.

Now everything was becoming clearer. The quarrel before the Graylems’ accident. The possibility that a gas bottle had been tampered with to cause the explosion. The boy who showed no emotion other than a cold, carefully controlled fury when his desires were thwarted. The boy could use charm to get what he wanted. And if charm didn’t work he would take cool revenge on anybody who crossed him. He had derived pleasure from killing, just as he’d killed that rabbit as a schoolboy. Hanged it and watched it slowly strangle to death.

He recalled the Bethams’ account of the row Kassia’s father had had with someone on the morning before the explosion and guessed that the Graylems had thwarted Rory in some way. They had died because they hadn’t realised that the boy they’d befriended was dangerous. He wondered why Kassia had kept quiet about it all these years. Perhaps it was the lack of proof. After all, even the police had accepted the explosion was an accident.

Wesley wished he’d checked the background of the man who’d called himself Jason Teague more thoroughly rather than allowing himself to be sidetracked by Dennis Dobbs’s smuggling activities.

He suppressed this nagging twinge of self-doubt and pushed his way through the crowds with a new determination, ignoring the dirty looks and exclamations. They had to find out whether the
Queen Philippa
was still there at the end of the jetty where Kassia Graylem had last been seen alive. If their man had made his escape by boat, they’d seal off the whole area until he was found, Palkin Festival or no Palkin Festival.

Even if the crowds didn’t part for Wesley and Gerry, they parted for their uniformed back-up who were following behind. They’d reached the embankment now. The river was alive with small craft, decked with bunting, swarming around the Royal Navy frigate moored in the centre of the water like flies around a corpse. Gerry surveyed the scene and mumbled something about needles and haystacks.

When they saw the
Queen Philippa
wasn’t at her mooring, Gerry swore under his breath and shaded his eyes, scanning the river in the hope that the boat would have just cast off and be within hailing distance of the bank. But she was nowhere to be seen. Rory Wentworth had gone, lost amongst the crowd of vessels.

‘Can you see it?’ Wesley asked, realising as soon as the words had left his mouth that it was a stupid question. If Gerry had spotted the
Queen Philippa
he would have shouted in triumph and called out the river patrols. ‘I thought it was still sealed off.’

‘Depends what you mean by sealed off. There was some crime-scene tape saying “do not cross” but we’ve hardly got the manpower to mount a twenty-four-hour guard.’ Gerry reached for his phone and put in calls to the Marine Unit and the harbour master. They needed help.

Gerry stood on the deck of the police launch as the agile craft wove through the sea of bobbing vessels in a mist of salty spray. He ignored the people on the leisure craft who waved to them merrily, glasses in hand, out for a day of pleasure on the water.

The crew were on the lookout for the
Queen Philippa
. Once patrols had made sure that she hadn’t sailed upstream to hide in one of the creeks between Tradmouth and Neston eight miles inland, they’d contacted the harbour master, who was having his work cut out on the busiest day of his year. He handled this new burden with calm resignation and informed them that the
Queen Philippa
hadn’t made contact to say she was leaving the river. Someone was stationed in his office with binoculars and he promised to call if the vessel was spotted amongst the hectic assortment of river traffic. It was the best he could offer.

The coastguard had been alerted too as, during the chaos of the festival, it would be all too easy for a yacht to slip out of the river into open waters and make for another port – or even the French coast – unhindered. And Rory Wentworth was an expert yachtsman who made his living from the sea and knew it like a lover.

Everything seemed to fit together now. Kassia died because she’d recognised the man who had probably killed her parents. Wesley wondered if she’d challenged Rory, maybe threatened to get the case reopened. Or perhaps she’d just seen him aboard the
Queen Philippa
and approached him out of curiosity or a desire to get to the truth, unaware of the reality behind his amiable mask. He’d have taken pleasure in disposing of her as he’d taken pleasure in killing those women in France.

Wesley guessed that Kassia had given Eric Darwell the photograph missing from her album –
Me, Dad, Mum and Rory
. At her request Eric probably set to work finding out the truth about him, relishing the prospect of a few extra days in the Southwest and not realising for one moment that he was placing himself in danger.