The Skeleton Room (16 page)

As they left the building, Wesley turned and saw Dominic Kilburn watching them from the window. Staring, expressionless.

Wesley climbed into the car and drove away.

Sebastian Wilde of Nestec had seemed delighted to hear that some of his stolen computer equipment had been found. It was the
best news he’d had all day, he had told DC Paul Johnson, who had telephoned him with the glad tidings, and he was happy to
hear that someone from CID would be round in due course to give him some more details.

Paul reported back to the office that Trevor Gilbert still hadn’t returned to work in Nestec’s warehouse. But then a man whose
wife had just been found murdered was entitled to grieve in private.

Wesley sipped his tea from a flimsy plastic cup. He and Heffernan had called at the station to catch up with any developments
before they made their way to Prawlton Towers. But there was nothing new to discover. The questions piled up and the answers
came slowly . . . when they came at all.

There was no point in hanging around when they could be following up at least one of their cases, albeit one that dated back
a few decades. Gerry Heffernan suggested that they walk the half-mile or so to Prawlton Towers and Wesley didn’t argue. He
knew the virtues of exercise and thought that the boss looked as though he could do with some.

They walked purposefully through Tradmouth’s narrow streets until they reached the road leading to the castle, which had a
calf-aching gradient. Wesley walked on past tall, pastel-painted houses to his right – homes fit for retired sea captains
to live in – and a spectacular view over the river to his left. He walked ahead. Gerry Heffernan was lagging behind a little,
breathing heavily.

‘Hang on, Wes.’

‘You shouldn’t eat so many chips in the canteen,’ answered the doctor’s son, slowing his pace a little.

They continued to climb. Wesley, whose walk home each
day provided the necessary training for such a trek, was still slightly ahead when they reached the great oak door of Prawlton
Towers. He waited for Heffernan, taking the opportunity to examine the building.

His first thought was that Prawlton Towers was a monstrosity; a great stone edifice that had been designed by an architect
with a taste for Gothic horror. He could count three pepper-pot towers protruding from the roof, and there was always the
possibility that there might be more round the back. It was the sort of place that any vampire would snap up for a seaside
retreat. And as for its present function, Wesley thought it wasn’t the kind of place where he’d like to end his days.

The front door was opened by a woman with short dark hair. As with many overweight people, it was difficult to estimate her
age. Her plump face, above a cascading set of chins, was unlined, and her blue nylon uniform barely contained her expanding
hips, straining over her middle until the seams looked likely to give way at any time. She looked at them suspiciously with
small eyes that reminded Wesley of a pig’s. But he tried to banish the thought from his mind. He was judging her before he
knew anything about her – the true definition of prejudice. The woman probably couldn’t help how she looked.

She didn’t smile as they announced themselves but told them to wait while she went off to find the matron. She disappeared,
walking slowly with a rolling gait, leaving the two men alone in the hallway, taking in their surroundings.

The hallway must have been impressive at some time in the past but now the paint was flaking on the sweeping staircase and
the red patterned carpet had worn away in places to reveal the grubby woven canvas beneath its matted pile. The place was
cluttered with the detritus of the sick elderly: a brace of commodes; a stair lift; a trio of sagging wheelchairs upholstered
in split black plastic. The faint aroma of urine drifted in from somewhere.

‘Please God I’ll never end up in a place like this,’ Gerry
Heffernan mumbled under his breath.

Wesley gave a brief, bitter smile. He was about to say something when a woman appeared, as thin as her colleague had been
fat. She had a slit of a mouth, painted scarlet and tightly shut. Her eyes were watchful, suspicious. She looked like the
sort of woman who’d give nothing away, and Wesley had an uneasy feeling that she wouldn’t make things easy for them, especially
if Dominic Kilburn had already been in touch to ask her to make sure his father wasn’t upset.

Wesley gave her what he considered to be his most charming smile, but her expression didn’t change. He introduced himself
and Heffernan and assured her that they only wanted a quiet word with Mr Kilburn. Nothing to worry about. Just a chat about
a job he’d once done.

The matron pressed her lips tighter together and looked as though she was about to refuse. Then, unexpectedly, the lips twitched
upwards.

‘I don’t suppose it’ll do any harm. But remember, Mr Kilburn’s in his eighties and . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Well, he can be
a little confused.’

Wesley assured her that they would do their best not to upset the old man and the matron gave a brisk nod, satisfied for the
moment. She was giving them the benefit of the doubt. Innocent until proved guilty. But they would have to tread carefully
with old Mr Kilburn: if they upset him, his guardian dragon might not give them a second chance.

They were led along a dimly lit corridor. The plain doors of the residents’ rooms bore the names of their occupants on thin
pieces of paper tacked onto the wood with drawing pins, as though their occupation of the rooms was a temporary arrangement
and the names might have to be changed quickly. This intimation that the Grim Reaper was loitering in the shadows was hardly
encouraging for the residents, Wesley thought.

Mr Kilburn’s room was at the end of the corridor. Matron knocked in a businesslike manner and didn’t wait
for an answer before she opened the door: there was no lock – safety reasons. Wesley had the passing thought that he’d rather
keep his privacy and his dignity than have his safety policed like that of a child.

And it was as a child that the matron addressed Mr Kilburn. He was sitting in a tall, plastic-upholstered armchair, staring
at the newcomers with vacant, rheumy eyes. He had once been a big man but his body had shrunk, leaving his clothes hanging,
scarecrow-like, off his bony frame.

‘Now then, Jack,’ Matron began with forced jollity. ‘You’ve got visitors. The police.’ Wesley expected her to complete her
sentence with the words ‘isn’t that nice?’ but she stopped herself just in time.

‘Right, love,’ said Gerry Heffernan, who wasn’t easily intimidated. ‘If we can just have a chat with Mr Kilburn . . . We’ll
call you if we need anything, eh?’ He looked at her expectantly and she took the hint and disappeared.

‘Bet this place is worse than the army,’ Heffernan began. It was a fair bet that Kilburn had served in the forces.

‘Navy man myself,’ Kilburn answered, looking up with interest, his eyes now more alert.

‘Me too.’ Gerry Heffernan settled himself down on the edge of the bed.

Wesley thought it wise to let him do the talking. He could tell he was already striking up a rapport with the old man.

‘Served on the
Ark Royal
, I did, in the last lot.’

‘Really?’ Heffernan sounded impressed. ‘Bet you could tell some tales. I was in the merchant navy . . . first officer but
I got my master’s ticket.’

‘Aye-aye, Captain,’ the old man chortled, raising a bony hand in a feeble salute.

‘You had your own building business and all, didn’t you? We’ve met your son, Dominic. Done very well for himself. You must
be proud.’

The old man’s face cracked into a smile. ‘He’s a good
lad. Visits every Sunday, he does. He’s got his own hotels, you know.’

Jack Kilburn was looking quite happy. Either he’d forgotten they were the police or he was enjoying the company of a fellow
seafarer so much that he chose to ignore the fact for the moment.

‘I know. He’s bought Chadleigh Hall, hasn’t he? Going to turn it into a posh place with a golf course and . . .’

‘Oh, aye. Chadleigh Hall.’ The old man’s face suddenly clouded.

‘You did some work there once, didn’t you? Knocked down some walls when it was a girls’ school. Do you remember?’

There was a sudden wariness in Jack Kilburn’s eyes. ‘It were a long time ago.’

‘Did you ever meet a girl there called Alexandra Stanes? She was a pupil at the school.’

‘There were a lot of girls about giggling and flirting with our Dominic and that other lad who used to work for me then .
. . what was his name? Pete Bracewell, that’s it.’

Wesley wrote the name carefully in his notebook. ‘Where can we find Pete Bracewell now?’

‘How should I know? Worked for me for about five years then he buggered off somewhere – Dorset, I think. Last I heard he’d
got a job with the council – bin man. I said did he want to do an apprenticeship but he never did: quite happy labouring,
he was. Wasn’t very bright, was Pete.’

‘What about the girls? Do you remember any of them?’

‘They were just girls. Posh girls. Used to take one look at me and turn up their snotty little noses. Didn’t stop ’em giggling
when they saw the young lads, though.’

‘So your son Dominic was working there too?’ asked Wesley, doing some quick mental calculations. It was strange, he thought,
that Dominic Kilburn hadn’t mentioned the fact when they had asked about Chadleigh Hall during their visit to his office.
He guessed that Dominic would
have been in his late teens around that time – certainly old enough to be taking an interest in schoolgirls. Or to strike
up a relationship with Alexandra Stanes.

‘’Course he was working for me,’ the proud father said. ‘Took over the business when I retired, didn’t he?’

Gerry Heffernan leaned forward. ‘Bet your Dominic had a good time with all those girls,’ he said with a conspiratorial wink.
‘Young lad like that – bet they couldn’t leave him alone. I know when I was that age . . .’

But Jack Kilburn turned away. ‘I don’t remember. We had work to do and that headmistress was an old harridan. If we’d got
up to anything like that we’d have been out on our ears, I can tell you.’

Heffernan leaned back again. His ploy hadn’t worked.

Wesley decided on the direct approach. ‘Mr Kilburn, do you remember knocking a wall through in the headmistress’s study?
You see, a skeleton was found in a sealed-up room adjoining that study during the present building work and there’s evidence
that the room had been entered during the 1960s. What can you tell us about it?’

Jack Kilburn’s eyes flickered in panic. ‘Where’s that nurse? I want the toilet. Nurse!’ he shouted in a querulous voice, thin
and broken. ‘Nurse!’

The old man’s breathing was getting faster and shallower. ‘Nurse!’

‘I’ll get her,’ said Wesley, making for the door.

As Jack Kilburn was led off to answer the call of nature, Wesley had the uneasy feeling that he had used his frailty as a
weapon against them, to stop them getting at the truth. Kilburn hadn’t seemed confused during their conversation. On the contrary.
He had watched the old man’s eyes and seen understanding there. Understanding and fear.

Jack Kilburn knew more about Chadleigh Hall than he had admitted. In fact Wesley wouldn’t have been surprised if he knew the
whole story. But it was a matter of proving it.

*

They returned to the office at ten to five. The walk from Prawlton Towers into the town was downhill. Easy. But it still made
both men long for a decent cup of tea.

They walked into the office, only to find that most of the officers were out and about making themselves useful and asking
questions. Those that remained at the station had telephone receivers fixed to their ears or busy fingers running fast over
computer keyboards like those of expert pianists. At the end of the room stood a large notice-board with Sally Gilbert’s smiling
photograph pinned at its centre.

Wesley stood staring at the image for a few seconds, but his thoughts were interrupted by Trish Walton, who bustled over with
a sheet of paper in her hand. He gave her a welcoming smile. He considered Trish, like Rachel Tracey, to be a sensible, hard-working
policewoman. He just hoped that Steve Carstairs’ interest wouldn’t lead her from the path of righteousness. He was sure she
could do better for herself.

‘There’s been a message from Monks Island. Apparently Sebastian Wilde of Nestec was at the hotel there on the day Sally Gilbert
died. He went for a meeting with the hotel owner, who’s thinking of putting in one of Nestec’s computer systems. He was there
from eleven thirty to around three. The probable time of Sally’s death. Her husband worked for Wilde. It’s a link.’

Wesley nodded. ‘You’re right, Trish. It is a link. I’ll let the boss know.’

He walked slowly to Heffernan’s office, deep in thought. It seemed that all roads led to Nestec.

Rosie Heffernan sat at the piano and played a gentle Chopin nocturne, an antidote to her day: she had risen at five o’clock
and had spent the first part of the morning cleaning two sets of offices in the High Street; then she had come home to catch
up on her sleep before rushing off to the Tradfield Manor Hotel to entertain the ladies and businessmen who lunched by playing
a selection of light classics on the restaurant’s grand piano. She had arrived home at 4.30
feeling tired and sweaty. But a shower and a change of clothes had improved her mood.

Her fingers rippled over the piano keys. It was a familiar piece, one she had played for an examination. The music came to
a dreamy end and she sat perfectly still, savouring the moment, the satisfaction of a piece well played, until the sound of
her father’s key in the front door brought her thoughts back to matters domestic. Such as what they would eat for dinner.
Sam hadn’t yet returned so he wouldn’t have a say in the decision. But then Sam had never been fussy about what he ate.

‘Rosie. You in?’ Her father’s voice drifted through. ‘What’s for tea, love?’

Rosie smiled. Dad never changed. And Sam wasn’t much better. As with most men, their stomachs came first. When her mum had
been alive . . . She pushed the thought from her mind. Her mother was dead: killed in a hit-and-run accident. And they had
been left to get on with their lives.