The Skeleton Room (17 page)

Gerry Heffernan appeared in the doorway, a grin on his chubby face. ‘Hiya, love. Not got the tea on?’

Rosie gave her father an innocent smile. ‘Why don’t you make the tea, Dad? You’re a better cook than I am.’

Gerry Heffernan turned in the direction of the kitchen. Somehow he’d never got the hang of sexual equality – but he guessed
this was it. And he knew Rosie was right: since Kathy’s death his cooking skills had improved. It had been a matter of necessity:
man shall not live on ready meals for one alone.

‘I don’t know whether Sam’ll have room for anything when he gets in,’ Heffernan said. ‘He’s still working at that woman’s.
Mrs Sanders . . . the one who gave him lunch. If I know Sam he’ll have been gorging himself again.’

‘Some people have all the luck.’

‘She sounds a nice woman, that Mrs Sanders,’ he said casually.

Rosie didn’t answer. The previous night Sam had commented, almost as a joke, that he’d like to introduce his
new employer to their dad: she was a widow who worked part time in a Tradmouth office, around his age, comfortably off and
nice with it.

Rosie had left the room, stunned at her brother’s disloyalty to their mother’s memory. If Mrs Sanders, or any other woman
come to that, set foot in the house, Rosie Heffernan felt that she wouldn’t be able to handle it.

Logic told her that as she and Sam were away for most of the year, it would be good for their father to have company. And
yet the thought of somebody usurping her mother’s place almost made her feel physically sick, and she was surprised that Sam
didn’t feel the same. Perhaps men saw things differently.

She resumed her playing: something relaxing by Debussy that drifted through to the kitchen, where her father was wrestling
with some obstinate chicken pieces. But after a minute or so her musical flow was interrupted by a shouted request to switch
on the television. There was something on the local news he wanted to see.

Gerry came through from the kitchen and sat himself down on the settee, spreading himself out, making himself comfortable.

‘Everything okay in the kitchen?’ Rosie asked, her stomach rumbling.

‘Everything’s under control. Shhh . . .’ He put his finger to his lips. The item he had been waiting for had come on at last.

A young man was standing in a carpark with Monks Island clearly visible in the background. He held a microphone to his mouth
like a steel ice cream. ‘Police today appealed for anyone who saw this woman on or near Monks Island to come forward.’

A photograph of a smiling Sally Gilbert flashed up on the screen. ‘She was wearing a red top and cream-coloured trousers similar
to these.’ Another photograph flashed up of a top and trousers, the nearest copies the WPC given the job could find.

‘And she was last seen at the island’s famous hotel on Friday afternoon. It is thought she was killed shortly after leaving
the hotel around three o’clock, and the police are anxious to know if anybody saw her with anyone at or around that time.’

Another photograph appeared, this time a handbag, carefully chosen to match Lisa Marriott’s description of Sally’s. ‘The police
are anxious to trace the dead woman’s missing handbag. If anyone knows its whereabouts or can help in any way, please contact
the incident room on . . .’

Gerry Heffernan rose from his seat and scratched his backside.

Rosie looked at him. ‘Okay, Dad?’

Heffernan grunted. ‘That should get all the local cranks and weirdos reaching for their phones.’

He sat down again to watch the rest of the news while Rosie hurried into the kitchen, having detected a suspicious smell
of burning. If she wanted her food to be edible she’d have to do it herself. Her father’s mind was on other things.

Peter Bracewell kept to the same routine every night when he reached his three-bedroomed house on the outer edge of the Tradmouth
council estate. He got home, greeted his wife with no physical contact, stripped off his clothes in the bathroom and stood
in the shower for ten minutes, swilling away the dirt, other people’s dirt. The council provided him with thick overalls but
he still felt the filth from the bins he emptied – the congealed, week-old food; the discarded disposable nappies; the contents
of cats’ litter trays; and worse – permeated his hair and his clothes until he reeked of the unpleasant substances he handled
every day.

But he liked the job. He liked his mates at work. He preferred it to the first job he’d had when he was sixteen – working
as a labourer for Jack Kilburn, the builder. Jack had been a hard man to work for; vindictive and harsh. And
word had it that his son Dominic – hotel developer and local entrepreneur – wasn’t much better.

There was a plastic runner laid over the hall carpet, ready each night for Peter’s homecoming. He went straight upstairs to
perform his nightly ritual and emerged from the bathroom half an hour later like a butterfly from a cocoon; cleansed and purified.
It was only then he could begin to relax.

That night – after an evening meal of egg and chips cooked by his devoted wife, Sandra, who had returned a couple of hours
before from the Tradfield Manor Hotel, where she worked part time in the wages office – he settled down to watch the local
news. The first item was about the Sally Gilbert murder – an appeal by the police for witnesses. Then a photograph flashed
on the screen and he sat forward, hoping Sandra hadn’t noticed his sudden interest. But she was too busy clearing the table.
He strained his ears to listen to the rest of the news item, then slumped back in his armchair. He had to think.

When Sandra was safely in the kitchen washing the dishes, Peter Bracewell crept outside and made his way down the narrow back
garden towards the shed that was his refuge from the world. He kept his treasures there. Things he had found. Things of interest.
Things of value. All cleaned up and neatly filed away. And he had amassed quite a collection over the years; everything from
antique clocks to silver spoons and old porcelain. It never ceased to amaze him what people threw away.

But he hadn’t intended to keep his latest acquisition for himself. It wasn’t to be stashed away and gloated over. Sandra had
been going on about wanting a new handbag for her birthday and the one from Monks Island was real leather and virtually new.
It had probably cost a hundred quid or more – none of your plastic rubbish.

He had wiped it and polished it before wrapping it in tissue paper, ready to present it to Sandra on her birthday in two weeks’
time. Its contents lay discarded in one of the
shed drawers, and now Pete hardly dared to open it and take a look at them.

He knew what the name on the credit cards would be: Sally Gilbert.

George Marbis passed from this world with my assurance of forgiveness as comfort. Now that I was aware of the evil he had
revealed, I preached often against the crime of wrecking and the importance of Christian charity to any in need of help. I
informed the constable, who assured me that he would be vigilant and would call soldiers from Plymouth if he learned of a
ship being lured to the shore and plundered. Although I am sorry to say that he failed in his duty and it was put about later
that he had joined the wreckers himself on many occasions.

But now I would relate the tragic story of the
Celestina
, wrecked on our shore some fifteen months after George Marbis’s death. It is a sorry tale but one that must be told. I first
met the
Celestina
’s master, Captain Isaiah Smithers, about a year after old John Iddacombe died, leaving Mistress Mercy Iddacombe a wealthy
widow with a fine town house, an estate at Chadleigh and seven fine ships sailing out of Tradmouth. It so happened that she
was in need of a new master to take command of the
Jane Marie
, one of her ships sailing for Newfoundland, and young Isaiah Smithers – a mate aboard a Tradmouth schooner, who was seeking
his first command – came to her attention.

He was a handsome, well-set young man, and Mistress
Iddacombe took a great liking to him. There was much talk, in fact, that the pair were lovers, for Mistress Iddacombe, although
many years older than the young captain, was a comely woman. Of course, I dismissed such tales as the idle gossip of evil
minds. But then there is rarely smoke in the chimney without a healthy blaze in the hearth.

From
An Account of the Dreadful and Wicked Crimes of the Wreckers of Chadleigh
by the Reverend Octavius Mount, Vicar of Millicombe

Wesley Peterson climbed from his bed, intending to creep out to the bathroom. Pam appeared to be asleep and he didn’t wish
to disturb her. But his efforts were in vain. The bright sunlight streaming through the bedroom curtains had woken her already,
and as soon as she heard her husband’s soft footsteps on the carpet she opened her eyes.

‘What time is it?’

‘Five to eight. Go back to sleep. Have a rest. School’s out so you’re a free woman. Make the most of it.’

‘Fat chance. I’ve got to see to Michael.’

He couldn’t argue with that. A toddler has no thought for a pregnant and exhausted mother. It’s an age of total selfishness,
of looking after number one. Some people, Wesley thought, never grow out of that phase – notably most of the criminals he
had met during the course of his career. Michael, however, would eventually mature and blossom into a kind, considerate human
being – if they were lucky.

But it was too early in the morning for philosophy. And he was running late. He cleaned his teeth with one hand and held his
electric razor with the other.

He left Pam in bed and crept downstairs to make himself some breakfast. Nothing fancy; cornflakes and orange juice from a
carton which proclaimed itself to be pure. There was just time to make a pot of tea. He took some up to Pam on a tray. He
would probably be home late that evening so
he felt he had to do his bit.

Pam sat up and attempted a weak smile. She still looked washed out but Wesley imagined that things would start to improve
now that she no longer had to work every day.

He kissed the top of her head. ‘Have you found a babysitter for tomorrow night?’

She looked puzzled for a moment. ‘Tomorrow night?’

‘The meal at the Tradfield Manor.’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve asked Gaynor down the road. It’s a while since we’ve been out for a meal. I’m looking forward to it.’ She leaned
back on her pillow. ‘Did I tell you that I’m meeting Neil today?’

‘No.’ Wesley felt slightly put out that his wife had made an assignation and not told him about it.

‘He rang yesterday and asked me over to Chadleigh for lunch. He wants to show me what he’s found in his shipwreck.’

‘What about Michael?’

‘I’m leaving him with Mrs Miller.’

Wesley nodded. One more day with the childminder couldn’t make much difference to his son’s development. He looked at his
watch. It was time to go. He experienced a split second of reluctance to leave. But there was work to do: two murders and
a hijacking.

After instructing Pam to drive carefully, Wesley Peterson walked to the police station, enjoying the early morning sun and
the scent from the tubs and window boxes he passed on his downward journey into the ancient centre of the town.

He could see the wide river glinting ahead of him. Ships had sailed out from Tradmouth bound for the Crusades and in the Middle
Ages the river had bristled with the masts of wooden merchantmen bringing wine from Bordeaux. In the time of Good Queen Bess
captured Spanish galleons had been towed triumphantly into port; and in later years ships had sailed out with cargoes for
the settlers in the New World and had returned with catches from the rich fishing
grounds of Newfoundland. Now, however, the River Trad teemed with yachts, pleasure craft and ferries. Times had changed.

When he arrived at the office Rachel was already sitting at her desk, cool and unharassed. She looked up and smiled, but before
she could say anything the telephone on Wesley’s desk began to ring.

He picked up the receiver and announced his name.

‘I’m ringing about the woman who was killed. Sally something.’ The voice was certainly a man’s but it was high and squeaky,
taut with nerves.

‘Sally Gilbert. Do you have something to tell us?’

At that moment Steve Carstairs came in, talking loudly to a giggling Trish Walton, showing off. Wesley put a finger to his
lips. Steve fell silent and gave Wesley a resentful look.

‘Is there something you want to tell us?’ he repeated patiently. This one probably needed time.

‘It’s just that I think I found her bag. I saw it on the telly last night and I thought I’d better ring.’

Wesley reached for his pen. This sounded important. ‘Where did you find it?’

‘In a bin. I work for the council. I . . .’

‘Where was this bin?’

‘Monks Island. The hotel bins. It was a brand-new handbag just stuck on the top of all the rubbish so I thought . . .’

‘You thought nobody wanted it so you’d take it. Present for your wife?’ It was a guess.

‘That’s right. I thought someone with more money than sense had decided they didn’t like it and thrown it out. It’s surprising
what people get rid of.’ The man sounded almost pleased that Wesley understood. ‘I thought it’d be empty but then I looked
inside and there was all this stuff. I was going to give it in to a police station but . . .’

‘But you never got round to it?’ How many times had Wesley heard this line before?

‘That’s right. I won’t be in any trouble, will I? I mean, there was only a purse with twenty quid in it and some make-up and
keys and a photograph. The money’s still in the purse.’ He hesitated, as though deciding whether to admit to something. ‘There’s
some credit cards and all. I didn’t look at the name till last night when I saw it on the telly. But it says Mrs S. Gilbert.
That’s her, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Wesley answered quietly, awaiting more revlations.

‘I haven’t taken anything. It’s all still there. I was going to bring it in at the weekend.’ The word ‘honest’ was hanging
in the air.

‘I’m sure you were, Mr, er . . .’

‘Bracewell. Peter Bracewell.’

‘Right, Mr Bracewell, if you give me your address, someone’ll be round to pick up the bag and take a statement.’

As Wesley wrote down the details, he wondered where he had heard the name Peter Bracewell before.

Then he remembered.

Neil Watson sat on the edge of a worn chintz sofa in the drawing room of Bear Head Lighthouse, sipping tea from a bone-china
cup with an uncomfortably small handle. He put the cup back in the saucer, fearful of spilling the hot tea on his jeans. He
was aware that his fingernails were dirty, an occupational hazard.

He looked out of the window onto the calm sea, thinking how different the tranquil scene would be in rough weather. The
Celestina
had sailed these waters – and she had been swallowed by them.

‘I believe that the ship we’re investigating used to belong to one of your ancestors,’ he began.

Mr and Mrs Iddacombe glanced at each other. ‘That’s right,’ Mr Iddacombe answered wistfully. He was a tall man whose pale
bald head reminded Neil of an egg. He had a youthful look but he must have been seventy if he was a
day. ‘Mr Carrington told me about it when he phoned. He said he’s been doing a family tree for someone in America who’s related
to the captain of the
Celestina
and that’s how he came across our family. I’m surprised he’s not come to see us himself. We did ask him.’

Neil was surprised too but he thought it best to say nothing.

‘Your family used to own Chadleigh Hall, I believe?’

‘That’s right. My father moved out just before the Second World War, then it was used by the Americans as a base. After that
it became a girls’ school and now it’s going to be some sort of hotel, isn’t it, dear?’ He looked at his wife for confirmation
but she didn’t answer.

‘Did you ever live there?’

‘When I was very young but I don’t remember much about it.’

‘And have you heard about this skeleton that’s been found?’

There was a crash as George Iddacombe’s teacup fell onto the parquet floor.

‘I’m sure it’s nothing to do with us,’ the woman said quickly before shouting, ‘Brenda . . . Brenda. Can you come in here
with a cloth?’

Shortly after Mrs Iddacombe gave her imperious order a young woman scurried in. The Iddacombes ignored her as she cleaned
up the mess. But Neil’s eyes were drawn to her. She was skinny with mousey hair tied back in a ponytail and a wide mouth.
She wore a top that seemed too small for her, stretched tight across her swelling breasts, and a skirt that had ridden up
to reveal an expanse of pale thigh. Neil imagined her naked for a second then turned his mind to other things. He’d been too
long without female company.

When Brenda, whoever she was – presumably some kind of maid or cleaner – had gone, the Iddacombes poured more tea as though
nothing had happened.

‘Had you heard any stories that could relate to the
skeleton? Sometimes these old houses have their legends and . . .’

George Iddacombe looked as though he was about to speak but his wife got in first. ‘Of course not. There was nothing like
that.’ Marjorie Iddacombe stood up stiffly. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Dr Watson . . .’

Neil knew when he was being dismissed and wondered why.

He made a hasty exit, looking back at the lighthouse and its squat white tower which had once kept ships from going aground
but which had been replaced years ago by something more modern.

The Iddacombes knew something about Chadleigh Hall, he was certain of it.

Sam Heffernan was left alone again in the half-finished garden. His colleagues had the habit of disappearing at regular intervals
and returning some time later reeking of smoke and beer. Today they had absented themselves early, telling Sam that they had
to pick up essential supplies. He suspected those supplies would be liquid and come in a pint glass.

He felt it was time he had a break. Last night his body had ached from the unaccustomed effort of digging. He had lain in
a hot bath to ease his stiff muscles until his flesh had wrinkled and his sister had battered on the door demanding that he
let her use the bathroom. It was good to be home but it still wasn’t the same as it had been when his mother was alive. There
was a gaping hole in his life where she had been, always fussing, always caring, laughing at each teenage rebellion. Kathy
Heffernan had been special. But now she wasn’t mentioned in the house. Nobody spoke her name for fear of causing pain.

He noticed that the sun lounger was back in place near the kitchen door and he wondered if Mrs Sanders’ nephew, Jason Wilde,
was spending another day skiving at his aunt’s place. But there was no sign of him.

The other day Sam had had the impression that there was something in the outhouse that Jason hadn’t wanted him to see. And
now that he was alone, he had a chance to satisfy his curiosity. Sam was his father’s son: he disliked unsolved mysteries,
and Jason had been up to something. Presumably Keith and Andy had seen nothing suspicious when they had fetched the mower:
but then they probably hadn’t been looking.

He strolled towards the outhouse, looking around to check that Jason hadn’t emerged from the back door or that Mrs Sanders
wasn’t watching from the kitchen window.

But there was no sign of life, so he opened the splintery door and stepped inside. The only light seeped in through a small,
filthy window, curtained with cobwebs, and it took Sam’s eyes a few seconds to adjust. He could make out the shape of the
mower standing beside an ancient rusty wheelbarrow and other relics of the house’s gardening past. Beyond them he could see
that a pathway had been cleared through the disused flower pots, leading to another door. Sam tried the door and it opened.

This new chamber had no window and was as dark as a tomb. But in the pale light that trickled in from the doorway he could
just make out some shapes. Where he had expected to find assorted outdoor junk, he could see the dim outlines of large cubes.
Boxes. He opened the door wider to let more light in but it was still too dark to make out the printed words on the sides.

Without a torch it was useless. He closed the door behind him and crept out into the fresh air.

Just as he retreated from the outhouse, Mrs Sanders appeared around the corner of the house, laden with bulging supermarket
carrier bags, staggering under their weight. Sam rushed forward to help her, and she allowed him to take the bags.

‘Thank you, Sam. That’s very kind of you. How’s the pond coming on?’

‘Fine,’ he lied. Without Keith and Andy he hadn’t made much progress.