The Skeleton Room (18 page)

‘Where are the other two?’

‘Out getting supplies.’ He thought it best to give the authorised version.

‘Would you like a coffee? You look as if you need one.’

‘Thanks. I was just checking the mower.’

He watched her reaction but detected nothing out of the ordinary.

‘That outhouse must come in useful.’

‘It was a bit of a mess but my nephew Jason cleaned it out for me. I said he could use it to store some things . . .’

‘What things?’ he said before realising he was sounding too inquisitive.

‘I’ve no idea. Why don’t you ask him?’ She smiled at him. ‘Put the bags over there, will you. It’s the same every time I go
to that supermarket. I always end up buying far too much.’

Mrs Sanders poured fresh coffee from a tall glass cafetière and told Sam to sit down. She was sure that he deserved a break.

Sam felt awkward at first, but there was something about Mrs Sanders; a cosy, motherly quality, that made him relax. They
were sitting on a pair of stools sipping their coffee when Sam spoke. ‘It’s a nice house.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘I love it. I nearly lost it once but . . . well, it worked out all right
in the end.’ She gave him a sad smile. ‘Have you any brothers and sisters, Sam?’

‘A sister, Rosie. She’s a music student. She finishes next year.’

‘What does she play?’

‘The piano and the violin.’

‘Your parents must be very proud of you both,’ she said quietly.

‘My mother died a few years ago. My dad’s on his own now.’

Before she could make the appropriate sympathetic noises the door to the kitchen burst open. Brenda, the cleaner, was standing
there, duster in hand. She looked at Sam and scowled, as though she had wanted Mrs Sanders to herself.

‘I’m sorry I’m late, Carole. I’ve just come from the Iddacombes and I had to pick Kayleigh up from her friend’s. I hope you
don’t mind. She won’t be no trouble.’

Sam noted the use of Mrs Sanders’ Christian name and wondered whether this was an example of the middle-class guilt Jason
Wilde had mentioned: an attempt at matiness.

But if Carole Sanders was put out, she did a wonderful job of concealing it. ‘Of course that’s all right, Brenda. You know
I’ll look after Kayleigh any time. No problem.’

‘Has Brenda worked here long?’ Sam asked when she was out of earshot.

‘Oh yes .. must be about five or six years now: Kayleigh was just a toddler when she first started. She comes to me three
times a week and she cleans for an elderly couple who live in a lighthouse.’ She smiled at the thought that an elderly couple
could choose such an eccentric home. ‘And she works at the Tradfield Manor Hotel as well. I look after Kayleigh for her sometimes.
I like to help her out when I can.’

Sam remembered the missing ten-pound note but thought it best to say nothing. It probably wasn’t his place to interfere.

He decided to change the subject. ‘Tell me, Mrs Sanders . . .’

‘Carole, please.’

‘Tell me, Carole, I was wondering why this place is called Gallows House.’

Carole looked at him for a moment before answering. ‘This used to be a farm and the old entrance stood next to a crossroads.
There was a gallows there where they used to hang local criminals . . . just over there where you’re putting up that fence.’
She pointed out of the kitchen window.

Sam shivered as though a sudden blast of icy air had disrupted the warm day.

Peter Bracewell’s house was well kept. The council had recently painted the outside a tasteful cream and the Bracewells had
done their bit by keeping the garden regimentally neat. Marigolds formed a guard of honour for Wesley and Rachel as they marched
up the front path, and no weed had dared to squeeze under the fence to infiltrate the well-manicured lawn. A brand-new Vauxhall
Vectra with gleaming green paintwork was parked in the drive: a rusty heap like the one sitting outside the house next door
would have looked out of place.

‘Wish my garden looked like this,’ Wesley mumbled.

‘It’ll be because he has to clear away people’s rubbish all day. I don’t blame him for wanting to come home to order instead
of chaos.’

‘Didn’t know you went in for psychology.’

Rachel smiled at him, a hint of a challenge in her eyes. ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’

The door was answered by a thin, dark-haired woman with sharply chiselled features who stared at them, expressionless, for
a few moments before stepping aside to let them in. Then, without a word, she poked her head out of the door as if to check
that no neighbour had witnessed their arrival. But judging by the state of the neighbouring houses, Wesley imagined that their
occupants would hardly be bothered by a visit from the police: in fact they probably regarded such visits as a hazard of everyday
life.

‘My husband’s through here,’ the woman said calmly in an accentless voice. Then she walked ahead of them, leading the way
into the living room.

A man sat on the settee, a dapper, long-faced man of medium height dressed in clothes that wouldn’t look out of place in a
golf club bar: a pair of beige slacks and a short-sleeved, open-necked shirt in a neat blue check. His grey hair was tidily
cut and he had an aura of cleanliness about
him, as though he’d just emerged from the shower. If Peter Bracewell dealt with dirt and rubbish all day, he certainly didn’t
bring his work home.

Or perhaps he did. Sitting on a low wooden coffee table was a blue leather handbag, polished up for the occasion and looking
shop-display fresh.

Bracewell saw that Wesley was looking at it. ‘I thought someone had chucked it out so I brought it home for my Sandra.’ He
glanced up at Sandra, who, hovering in the doorway, smiled shyly. ‘That’s new, I thought. Someone with more money than they
know what to do with has got sick of it and chucked it away.’ The man’s voice was nervous, uncertain. ‘I didn’t look inside
it till I got home and I’ve been meaning to take it into the police station but I haven’t had time.’

Sandra Bracewell offered tea. Wesley gave Rachel an almost imperceptible nod and she followed the woman out into the kitchen.
Peter Bracewell would probably feel more comfortable on his own.

Wesley sank down on the settee that was too low and soft for true comfort. ‘So when did you find it?’

‘Friday, it was. We do Monks Island on a Friday around four o’clock.’

‘And none of your colleagues saw the handbag?’

‘Yeah. Wayne, one of the lads, he saw it first and said it was too good to chuck out. I said Sandra was on about getting a
new handbag and I’d take it for her and clean it up . . . bit of a surprise for her birthday, like. Wayne didn’t want it –
he’s just split up with his missus. That’s it, really. I brought it home and shoved it in the shed. We went away to stay at
my sister’s in Weymouth for the weekend and I didn’t look at it again till yesterday.’

‘You didn’t open it when you found it?’

‘Why should I? It had been thrown out. I thought it’d be empty,’ Bracewell said convincingly, avoiding Wesley’s eyes.

Wesley knew he was only getting the authorised version
which would, no doubt, be backed up by Wayne if he were questioned. But it wasn’t the theft of a handbag he was interested
in. It was Sally Gilbert’s murder. He would get someone to speak to Wayne, but something told him one portion of the story
was true. They had come across Sally’s handbag in the hotel bins, probably discarded by the murderer in the hope that it would
be crushed and destroyed with the rest of the hotel rubbish.

‘Did you find the bag on top of the rubbish or . . .’

‘Oh yes. It was on top or we wouldn’t have spotted it, would we. There’s a lot of rich people stay in that hotel. It’s amazing
what they can afford to throw out.’

Wesley smiled. Any spoils from the bins at the Monks Island hotel were probably regarded as a perk of Bracewell’s job.

‘Can any member of the public get to the bins or are they kept in a locked area?’

‘Anyone can get to them if they wanted.’

A pity, Wesley thought. If access had been through the hotel the list of suspects would be somewhat shorter.

As Sandra Bracewell and Rachel returned with a tray of bone-china teacups, Wesley pulled on a pair of plastic gloves. No doubt
Peter Bracewell and others had deposited fingerprints all over the bag’s contents by now, but he felt he should play by the
book just in case. He leaned forward and opened the bag carefully, as though it were a bomb primed to go off. There wasn’t
much inside: a purse containing about twenty pounds; a small wallet bristling with bright plastic credit cards – Sally Gilbert’s
friends and husband had hinted that she was a woman who liked to spend money; a pair of unused, neatly folded tissues; a small
photograph of a man Wesley didn’t recognise who would no doubt be identified in due course; a small makeup bag whose expensive
contents looked newish; and a comb. Compared to most women, Pam included, she had travelled light. He closed the bag again.
There would be plenty of time to examine its contents back at the station.
Rachel produced a plastic evidence bag and he put Sally Gilbert’s handbag inside it, out of harm’s way.

Wesley turned to Peter Bracewell. ‘The dead woman’s friend said she’d seen her put a letter in her handbag. Did you find it?’

Bracewell shook his head.

‘You used to work for Jack Kilburn, the builder.’ He watched Bracewell’s face for signs of unease.

‘That was a long time ago. Must be over thirty years – first job I ever had. Why?’

‘Do you remember doing some building work up at Chadleigh Hall near Millicombe? It was a girls’ school then.’

Bracewell hesitated, playing with the wedding ring he wore. ‘I remember working there but that’s about all. It was just another
job.’

There was something in Peter Bracewell’s body language, in the way he looked Wesley unblinkingly in the eye, which made it
obvious that he was lying . . . or at least not telling the whole truth.

‘Have you heard that a skeleton was found there in a sealed-up room on the first floor?’

Bracewell swallowed hard. ‘Yes. It was in the local paper.’

‘We have evidence that the room was opened up in the 1960s as part of the building work.’

There was no mistaking it. Peter Bracewell was squirming in his seat.

‘And the skeleton was that of a teenage girl. Did you have anything to do with the girls at Chadleigh Hall? I must say I wouldn’t
blame you if you did. All those pretty girls who hadn’t seen a male in months.’

Wesley noticed Peter Bracewell glance at his wife. Sandra Bracewell gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

‘I just got on with the job. I don’t know anything. I can’t even remember much about it after all these years.’

‘You worked with Jack Kilburn and his son, Dominic?’

Bracewell nodded.

‘Didn’t you get on with them?’

‘They were all right.’

‘Was it just the three of you?’

‘Yeah. At that time there was just the three of us.’

‘So why did you leave?’

‘I was offered a job along the coast with my brother-inlaw. I moved on.’

‘Did you ever meet a girl at Chadleigh Hall called Alexandra Stanes?’

Peter Bracewell’s body stiffened. ‘Can’t say I did.’

As Wesley gathered up Sally Gilbert’s handbag, he knew that Peter Bracewell was hiding something.

When Neil Watson returned from the Iddacombes’ lighthouse, he experienced a sudden urge to see their ancestor’s ship for himself.
After enduring the long ritual of donning a diving suit, he plunged beneath the waves and floated weightless in the silent,
murky world, watching as his companions swam gracefully, kicking their flippers as they glided like sleek seals, down to where
the bones of the
Celestina
lay.

He breathed deep, even, audible breaths. He felt more relaxed than he had on his first dive and realised that he was almost
beginning to enjoy the underwater experience, even though he still found it frustratingly slow.

When he had first been down to the wreck, he hadn’t been able to see much because clouds of sand had been billowing from the
seabed like a thick fog. But today conditions were better: he could see the blackened skeleton of the
Celestina
resting on the bottom and, although the wreckage was well scattered, he could just about make out the shape of the great
broken vessel.

The more experienced divers were blowing away the sand around the protruding timbers with a machine that resembled the hose
from some monstrous vacuum cleaner,
causing more of the ship to emerge slowly from the muddy seabed. He watched Jane as she measured, photographed and labelled
an object the size of a house brick before marking its position on a chart. Then she worked carefully in the heavy silence,
coaxing the thing, misshapen with the concretion of centuries, free from its resting place.

After twenty minutes Neil signalled to Matt and they swam back to the surface together.

‘We seem to be finding a lot of those iron ingots in what we think was the hold,’ said Matt as they climbed aboard the dive
boat.

‘No gold, then?’

Matt grinned and shrugged his shoulders.

Neil shielded his eyes and looked towards the shore, where he spotted a familiar figure by the café.

After discarding his diving gear, he climbed into one of the inflatables and steered it towards the beach.

When Wesley returned to the station, he found Gerry Heffernan pacing up and down the office impatiently looking at his watch.
As the day was hot he wore no jacket and his sleeves were rolled up as though he were about to begin some heavy manual task:
digging in the literal rather than the abstract sense.

Wesley walked in carrying Sally Gilbert’s handbag in its plastic evidence bag. He had already been the butt of a few good-natured
jokes from his colleagues. Bob Naseby on the front desk had concluded that as the bag didn’t match his shoes he should go
home and change. Wesley had laughed – he felt that it was expected. Perhaps he should have let Rachel carry it.