The Skeleton Room (20 page)

‘So what’s the problem? Why are you keeping it a secret from Wes?’

She looked at Neil as though he was being particularly naive. ‘Well, the mother’s a cleaner so I thought there was a chance
that she’d nicked it from somewhere. Mind you, she’s reputed to have a lot of men friends and she did say it was an unwanted
present.’

‘Maybe it was.’

Pam shrugged. ‘Probably. But you know what Wesley’s like. Any possibility that it might be stolen goods and he’ll turn into
Mr Plod and say it puts him in an embarrassing position.’

Neil laughed. ‘I’ve always thought that honesty was one of Wes’s greatest faults.’

They were interrupted by a shy tapping on the café door. Neil gave Pam a questioning look before opening the door
wide to find Robin Carrington standing on the threshold, shifting from foot to foot self-consciously, as though he didn’t
know whether he had a right to be there. Neil invited him in, and as he entered he glanced awkwardly at Pam. He had expected
Neil to be alone.

‘Me and Pam are going up to the Wreckers for lunch. Do you want to come?’

Carrington hesitated, weighing up the situation. After a few seconds he decided that Pam was no threat – probably a colleague
or girlfriend of Neil’s – and he felt he could do with a bit of company. ‘Why not?’ he answered, trying to sound enthusiastic.

The three made their way up the steep cliff path towards the lane at the top. Pam was wearing a long cotton dress, loose to
camouflage her expanding waist. She held the hem over her arm as she climbed, and when she looked back she saw that Neil was
hovering behind her solicitously, ready to steady her if she stumbled. Carrington walked some way behind him. She regretted
that Neil had asked him. She could relax with Neil, whom she’d known for so long: but with Robin Carrington, the quiet stranger,
she would have to be on her best behaviour.

She was tired when they reached the Wreckers; the climb and the walk had exhausted her, and the ancient wooden settles in
the pub lounge weren’t the most comfortable of seats for a pregnant woman with an aching back. But Carrington’s presence forced
her to be polite and hide her discomfort.

When Neil went to the bar to order their food and drinks, Carrington looked at Pam and smiled. ‘You’re a friend of Dr Watson’s,
then?’

‘We met at university. He was sharing a flat with my husband. They were studying archaeology together. Are you here on holiday?’

‘No. I’m down here working.’

‘What do you do?’ Pam asked.

‘I trace people’s ancestors. I’m working for an American
family called Smithers at the moment – researching their family tree. In fact it’s lucky that I met Neil because the
Celestina
’s captain was an ancestor of my client. Apparently he married the daughter of the Iddacombes, the owners of a big house near
here – Chadleigh Hall.’

‘That sounds interesting,’ said Pam politely. The man was talking quickly, as though something was making him nervous. Perhaps
he was just awkward with strangers.

‘So your husband’s an archaeologist too?’

‘Not exactly. He’s a policeman. A detective.’

Maybe she was imagining it, but a momentary flash of shock crossed Robin Carrington’s face before the mask of politeness returned.
‘Really? I’ve seen a lot of police around here recently. A body was found in the cove, but I haven’t heard much about it since,
whether it was an accident or suicide or . . .’

‘I really don’t know. He doesn’t tell me everything.’ She didn’t feel like discussing Wesley’s work at that moment. She wanted
a break.

When Neil returned with the drinks he sat himself down and looked at Robin. ‘I went to see the Iddacombes this morning.’

‘They’re still about?’ Pam said, surprised.

‘Descendants of the hall’s owners. Come down in the world like most of us. They didn’t tell me anything that I didn’t know
already.’ He looked at Pam. ‘But they became very cagey when I mentioned that skeleton in Chadleigh Hall, so I reckon they
knew something about it. Maybe Wes should have a word with them.’

Pam noticed that Robin Carrington was looking decidedly uncomfortable.

Then he gave an awkward smile. ‘I found a book in Neston about the wreckers of Chadleigh and there’s a reference to the
Celestina
. I thought you might like to borrow it, Neil.’ He spoke with forced enthusiasm, and Pam had the feeling that he was trying
to change the subject.

She picked up her mineral water, longing for a glass of
wine, and sat back, wriggling her bottom until she was more comfortable. She’d make the most of her leisurely lunch, even
though she wasn’t keen on Robin Carrington’s company. A change was definitely as good as a rest.

Steve Carstairs planned to take a late lunch. He had something to report to Harry Marchbank – a spot of investigation he’d
been carrying out in his rare idle moments. The others had thought he was working on the Sally Gilbert case or the Nestec
robbery. But his last visit to Neston had been about something else altogether.

He had found Home from Home – motto ‘We match the homeless with a home’ – in a tiny back street in Neston. A pair of young
men in torn black garments, beads and dreadlocks, who were hanging around outside passing a joint to each other, confirmed
that he was in the right place. They had been too stoned, he thought, to realise that he looked more conventional than an
average Home from Home client: in their state they probably wouldn’t have noticed if he’d had two heads.

But the young woman on reception had all her wits about her and looked him up and down suspiciously. Steve knew her sort –
a bolshie, police-hating, feminist with a ring through her nose, probably a lesbian. Having labelled her so efficiently, he
was quite shocked when she smiled coquettishly at him, fluttered her eyelashes and proceeded to be helpful when he produced
his warrant card. They never liked to get on the wrong side of the police, she explained. They ran a service for those in
need, not criminals. The shock rendered Steve less aggressive than usual, and he managed to talk to the woman pleasantly
and even ended up asking her out for a drink, which she declined on the grounds that she was washing her hair. But you couldn’t
win them all.

But he did elicit some interesting information before his untimely rejection. Home from Home had come to learn of a cottage
just outside Millicombe that was empty – a
holiday home left unoccupied for most of the year. Nobody resembling Robin Carrington’s photograph had sought Home from Home’s
services – the woman was quite sure of that – but a couple of weeks ago she had told some ‘clients’ about Old Coastguard Cottage.
It belonged to some London lawyer and was used only for a couple of weeks a year: a criminal waste. The homeless couple and
their dog who had gone to view the property had returned, rather annoyed, saying that it appeared to be occupied by a young
dark-haired man with a silver-coloured car: Steve supposed this roughly answered Carrington’s description.

Armed with this interesting snippet of information, Steve returned to Tradmouth and nursed it until he could visit Harry in
hospital.

Feeling lucky for once, he hurried down the polished corridors of Tradmouth Hospital, like a dog anticipating a reward from
his master.

Marchbank was waiting for him, sitting propped up against the stiff white pillows, frowning impatiently. His flesh had lost
its pallor and he looked better; better and anxious to be out of there.

‘Steve, my old mate. Good to see you. They’re letting me out of here tomorrow – given me a clean bill of health. Well, not
clean exactly. I’ve had to put up with all these bossy females harping on, telling me I shouldn’t eat this and I shouldn’t
drink that.’

‘I’d tell ’em to piss off and mind their own business,’ Steve said cockily as he sat himself down.

‘Don’t tempt me. What have you found out for me, then? Any sign of Carrington?’

Steve gave him a smug grin. ‘It might be nothing but I’ve been given an address – a cottage near Millicombe: little place
called Chadleigh.’

‘And you think he’s there?’

Steve shrugged. ‘A man answering his description was seen there.’

‘Who by?’

‘Pair of drop-outs looking for a squat.’

Marchbank grunted in disgust.

‘The place is called Old Coastguard Cottage. It’s pretty isolated by all accounts – on top of a cliff near Chadleigh Cove.’

‘How did you find this out?’

‘It’s an empty holiday home. Some hairy squatters went along all ready to move in and found this young dark-haired bloke in
residence. Carrington’s young and dark-haired, isn’t he? And they said he had a silver-coloured car and all.’

‘It wasn’t the owner of the house, then?’

‘Apparently the owner only uses the place for a couple of weeks a year. He got fed up with the British weather and now he
spends his holiday in Tuscany – or so they told me at the squat agency . . .’

‘They’ve got an agency?’

‘You’d be surprised what they’ve got in Neston – end of the bloody hippy trail it is.’

‘So who does the cottage belong to?’

‘Now that I have checked out. Some bloke from London called Jeremy Nichols.’

Harry Marchbank sat back, a smug smile on his lips.

‘Carrington’s alibi was provided by Jeremy Nichols – he’s a solicitor but not the kind who’s the cop’s best friend, if you
see what I mean. I bet he’s lent him his holiday cottage. Now why didn’t I check it out? If I’d known Nichols had property
down here . . .’

‘And Nichols knows Carrington’s wanted for questioning?’

‘He’ll deny it, of course.’

‘So what are we going to do?’

‘When I get out of here I’ll pay a visit to Old Coastguard Cottage. Maybe make an arrest.’

‘I don’t know whether Scouse Gerry’ll let me . . .’

‘There’s no need for you to come. This one’s mine. Just tell me exactly where this place is.’

Steve obliged. But then he looked at Harry Marchbank’s face and saw an expression of vicious anticipation. Perhaps he’d better
go along with him. Just in case he went too far.

‘How’s your day been, then, Steve? Got the knickers off that Trish yet?’

Steve grinned. ‘Not had a chance. We’ve been that busy. There was a murder last Friday – some woman got herself pushed off
a cliff and . . .’

‘It’s a popular pastime around here, getting pushed off cliffs.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I remember a few years ago there was a woman got shoved off a cliff around this time of year,’ Marchbank laughed.

‘You joking?’

Harry shook his head. ‘Nah. You look it up in the records.’

Steve looked at his watch. He was late. It was time to get back to the station before he was missed.

Trevor Gilbert sat in his tiny office overlooking the loading bay. He could see everything from there. And everyone in the
warehouse could see him through the glass wall. Sometimes he felt like a Roman god looking down on the ant-like mortals below
. . . but today his visibility made him feel vulnerable. He felt as though they were all watching and wondering. Wondering
about Sally . . . and whether he’d killed her.

He hadn’t let on to the police how he’d really felt. He hadn’t told them about those moments of stark hatred when he’d known
she was with another man . . . or talking over his faults and sexual inadequacies with that smug, empty-headed Lisa Marriott.
He had longed to put his hands around Sally’s throat and squeeze the life from her. He had longed to see her face contort
into a mask of horror when she realised he wasn’t the meek, accommodating creature she thought she had married. When she saw
that the loyal
dog had reared up to savage its mistress.

For years she had got the better of him: spending huge sums to get the house exactly as she wanted it; buying designer clothes
they couldn’t afford; demanding a new car to impress the neighbours; arranging loans; getting them into debt. And as soon
as she had surrounded herself with all these possessions, she had left to seek pastures new, bored with her old life. Trevor
had gone along with it all because he had loved her.

But now he had got used to the idea that she was gone it almost felt as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders.
She wouldn’t distress him any more.

Trevor jumped when the telephone rang. He had almost forgotten he was back at Nestec; back in the real world and not the cocooned
world of tea and sympathy . . . or whisky and oblivion. He stared at the instrument for a while before answering it.

He put the receiver to his ear and muttered a hello.

‘I’m trusting you, Trevor,’ hissed a muffled voice at the other end of the line. ‘Remember what I told you before. Keep your
mouth shut. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ Trevor whispered before replacing the receiver with a trembling hand.

Trish Walton looked around the office for Steve. But he wasn’t there. He had gone out on some mysterious lunchtime mission.

She bit into the cheese sandwich she’d bought in the canteen and opened the brown cardboard file on her desk. The chief inspector
had asked her to find it and it had taken several phone calls to various stations before she had managed to track it down.
It smelt rather musty, as though it had been stored in some dank cellar for many years. But then it was dated 1964 – a long
time before she was born – so what else could she expect?

The name ‘Alexandra Stanes’ was scrawled in bold letters on the front. She put her sandwich to one side and
leafed through the loose sheets of paper. The missing-person report. The description of the sixteen-year-old girl who had
disappeared after a school tennis match on the ninth day of June 1964. The statements of her classmates and teachers. It seemed
that she had been rather preoccupied during the match and had lost two sets to love, even though she was one of the school’s
best players. Then, when the match was over, Alex, as she was known, had got changed and disappeared, taking a few clothes
with her, never to be seen again.

A week later her parents, who lived in the Midlands, had received a letter with a London postmark, saying that Alex was safe
and well. But they never heard from her again.