The Skeleton Room (21 page)

That was that. When the letter had arrived the police had lost interest, although they had gone through the motions of sending
Alex’s details to the Met.

She heard Rachel Tracey laugh and she looked up. Wesley Peterson had just come into the room and was standing by Rachel’s
desk, sharing some private joke. Trish gathered up Alexandra Stanes’s file and walked over to him. DI Peterson was always
approachable . . . not like some.

‘I’ve got the file on the girl who went missing from Chadleigh Hall, sir.’

Wesley took it from her and made for his desk. She followed him.

‘Anything interesting?’

‘She disappeared on the ninth of June. When were the workmen there?’

Wesley looked at Trish, impressed. If she had disappeared after the workmen had gone then it was unlikely that they were linked
with her disappearance. Unless she had struck up a relationship with one of them. But then how could he have walled her up
in the room once the work had finished?

‘I don’t know the exact dates. The headmistress just said the work was done in the summer term. Anything else?’

‘I doubt that she’s our skeleton, sir. It looks like she ran away all right. She took clothes with her and she even sent her
parents a letter from London a week later. Here.’

She handed him a copy of the letter. It was typewritten and short. Strange, he thought, that she should have gone to the trouble
of gaining access to a typewriter.

‘Dear Mummy and Daddy,’ it read. ‘Please don’t bother trying to find me. I’m very well and very happy. I won’t cost you anything
now. Alex.’

‘Short and sweet. Not “Don’t try to find me”, “Don’t
bother
trying to find me” – sounds as if she felt she was a burden to them. What do you think “I won’t cost you anything” means?’

Trish shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps they were always moaning about how much the school fees were or something like
that.’

‘So she decided to teach them a lesson. She said she was
very
happy. A boy, do you think?’

‘Well, it sounds like there was a boy or a man around somewhere. But that’s just a guess. There’s a statement in the file
from Alexandra’s best friend, a Carole Wilde. According to this Carole, Alex hadn’t said anything definite about a boyfriend
but she’d seen her talking to one of the young workmen on a few occasions. She said Alex wasn’t the gossipy type, she was
secretive, kept things close to her chest.’

Before Trish could say any more Gerry Heffernan emerged from his office. ‘Wes!’ he shouted, causing everyone in the room to
look up from their work. ‘What about them photos of Sally Gilbert’s bloke? Are you getting someone to show them around to
the people she knew or what?’

Heffernan sounded as though something was annoying him. And Wesley knew it couldn’t be anything that had happened that day.
He took the Alexandra Stanes file from Trish and followed the boss into his office.

‘Anything wrong?’

‘Wrong? What makes you think that? We’ve got two unsolved murders, an unsolved robbery and a room full of officers running
around like headless chickens. What could be wrong?’

Wesley didn’t answer. He knew Heffernan was letting off steam.

‘And bloody Harry Marchbank’s being let out of hospital tomorrow, so I’ve heard. Well, he’s not having any of my team to help
him with his little manhunt.’

Wesley nodded, suspecting that Marchbank’s recovery had triggered the boss’s bad mood.

‘Trish has found the file on the missing schoolgirl.’

‘Good. Bright girl, Trish,’ Heffernan muttered absent-mindedly.

Wesley gave Heffernan a quick résumé of the file’s contents before the chief inspector took it from him and placed it on his
desk, where it had many similar files for company.

Heffernan took a copy of the photograph found in Sally Gilbert’s handbag and waved it at Wesley. ‘Stick it on the board, will
you. And make sure everyone’s got a copy.’

Wesley stepped into the outer office and walked over to the notice-board where the photographs and details relating to Sally’s
death were displayed. On a blackboard next to it was chalked a list of suspects, Heffernan’s comments – some witty – beside
each one. Wesley found a spare drawing pin and attached the photograph of the mystery man to the board before clearing his
throat.

‘Can I have a quick word, please, everyone.’

Faces looked up from desks. He had his audience’s full attention.

‘This photograph was found in Sally Gilbert’s handbag. Now it’s important that we find out who this man is. He could be the
man Sally was seeing and we all know how important it is that we question him . . .’

‘Sir. I know him.’

It was PC Carl McInnery who spoke. Everyone turned
towards him, curious. ‘He works at Neston nick. He’s in Traffic. His name’s Mike Battersley.’ McInnery flushed behind his
freckles, as though uncertain whether he’d done the right thing.

‘Anyone else know him?’

A couple more hands went up; people who’d seen him around but didn’t know him well.

Wesley thanked McInnery and stood staring at the photograph for a few seconds. Mike Battersley – the Mike who’d eluded them
since the investigation began – must be a prime suspect. But arresting a fellow police officer was not something Wesley was
looking forward to.

I thought little of Mercy Iddacombe and Captain Smithers. I had the care of nigh on five hundred souls in the village of Millicombe
itself and I spent a deal of time hunting in those days before the infirmities caused by a fall from my horse prevented it.

Mistress Iddacombe owned a fine house near the hamlet of Chadleigh. She seemed to me to be a most charming woman, and on those
occasions she honoured me with an invitation to dine she talked of the ships she had inherited from her late husband, the
cleverness of her son, James, the accomplishments of her daughters, Caroline and Mary Anne, and the virtues of the handsome
captain of the Jane Marie, Isaiah Smithers.

James said little but the two young ladies were, I admit, pleasing, Caroline being the elder and prettier. Mary Anne, I thought,
was a quiet creature, lacking her sister’s conversation.

So it was that I was surprised one wet May evening when Mary Anne Iddacombe called upon me to request that I marry her in
secret to Captain Isaiah Smithers.

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

Mike Battersley had been on night duty and the two uniformed officers from Tradmouth who called on him to say that Chief Inspector
Heffernan wanted a word about the death of Sally Gilbert found him asleep.

Battersley was a good-looking man in his early thirties whose dark hair and olive skin gave him a Mediterranean appearance
and the need to shave twice a day. He dressed quickly, asking no questions, and emerged from the front door of his small terraced
house bleary eyed and sporting an embryonic beard.

He said nothing in the police car. He had driven many people in trouble to Neston police station in the course of his work,
but he had never before been on the receiving end. He stayed silent during the long wait he had to endure at Tradmouth, not
speaking until he was facing Gerry Heffernan and Wesley Peterson in the interview room, tape rolling.

It was Gerry Heffernan who asked the first question. Mike Battersley knew Heffernan only by reputation – he appeared stupid
but he wasn’t. And he’d heard about the black inspector too. He was supposed to be clever – a cut above. The sight of the
two sitting there, ready to analyse his every word, made Battersley’s hands shake as he lit a cigarette.

‘We found your photo in Sally Gilbert’s handbag. Is there anything you’d like to tell us?’ Heffernan beamed at him across
the desk, inviting confidence.

‘I was seeing Sally but it was all over. I’ve not seen her for about three weeks. Honestly.’

‘But she still carried your photograph around in her bag. It can’t have been all over as far as she was concerned,’ Wesley
Peterson stated reasonably.

‘Who was it who finished the affair, Mike?’ Heffernan leaned forward.

‘Me,’ Battersley whispered.

‘Say that louder for the tape, please, Mike.’

‘Me. I’d got fed up with her. All she was interested in was spending money. She kept wanting to go to all these expensive
places and . . .’

‘Including Monks Island?’

‘Yeah. We had dinner there one night. In the end I reckoned it wasn’t worth it. I couldn’t afford
her on my salary. She needed a millionaire.’

‘She never paid her way?’ Wesley asked.

‘You must be joking. Spent all her money on clothes and make-up and she had a nice house too – all the latest stuff. Don’t
know how she managed it. I felt sorry for her poor husband, if you want the truth. If you’re looking for Sally’s killer I
reckon you should be looking at that poor sod. Don’t know how he stood it, myself. Her spending like there was no tomorrow,
then messing around with me. And even after he had her back she walked out on him. I bet she pushed him that little bit too
far and he snapped.’

‘Where were you on Friday twentieth July?’ Wesley kept his tone formal. He had a sneaking suspicion that Mike Battersley might
be right about Trevor Gilbert, but he wasn’t going to let him know that.

‘I’d been up all night scraping some young tearaway off the Exeter road. He’d nicked a car and turned it over – didn’t live
to tell the tale. I did some shopping when I came off duty then I went to bed around noon. Got up again around six and had
something to eat.’

‘Any witnesses?’

‘I live on my own.’

‘So there’s nobody who can confirm your story?’

‘No.’

‘Why did Sally keep your affair so secret? She never made much effort to keep it from Trevor and yet you never met her friends.
Why was that?’

‘Because I was still with my wife at the time. She threw me out three weeks ago when she found out I’d been seeing Sally.
Okay?’

Wesley looked him in the eye. ‘You must have been angry with Sally for breaking up your marriage.’

Battersley stubbed out his cigarette violently.

‘Did you send her any letters?’

‘Why should I do that?’

‘Did you send her a letter a few days before she died asking to meet her?’

‘No. Of course I didn’t.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘I told you. About three weeks ago.’

‘Did you and Sally quarrel?’

Battersley looked awkward. ‘Doesn’t everybody?’

‘Were the quarrels ever violent?’

Battersley shook his head. He looked tired and unshaven. He looked as though he’d had enough.

Gerry Heffernan pointed an accusing finger. ‘I think you arranged to meet Sally Gilbert at Monks Island. I think you had a
row. I think you shoved her off the cliff top and stamped on her hands when she tried to hold on. I had a little look at your
record before you were brought in. Nasty temper you’ve got. You were disciplined for punching a fellow officer a while back
when you were working at a nick in Plymouth. Did Sally say something that made you lose your temper, Mike?’

‘No.’

‘Come on, Mike, we’ve all been there. Women can be very unreasonable, can’t they. Is that why you did it, Mike? Wouldn’t she
let go? She still carried your picture about . . .’

‘I didn’t see her that day. Why won’t you believe me?’

Mike Battersley’s clenched fist came down on the table with a bang, making three discarded plastic cups jump up and land on
their sides. Cold coffee spilled out and oozed across the table. Wesley took a clean white handkerchief from his pocket and
cleaned up the mess.

‘Temper, temper,’ said Heffernan, a slight smirk playing on his lips. ‘I think we’ll take a break now. Let’s hope that by
the time we come back, you’ll have decided to tell us the truth.’

Gerry Heffernan stood up and swept from the room like a galleon in full sail. Wesley nodded to the constable sitting
by the door, who returned the suspect to an unwelcoming cell.

Wesley caught up with his boss in the corridor. ‘What do you think, Gerry? Is he our man?’

‘If it’s not the husband, it’s usually the boyfriend.’

‘I suppose so . . . statistically speaking. But we’re not dealing with statistics, are we?’

‘My money’s on Battersley – he’s got a temper. And if it’s not him, I’d say it’s Trevor. Neither of them have got alibis and
they’ve both got thumping great motives. It’s just a matter of finding out which one and locking him up.’ He looked at Wesley
and saw doubt in his eyes. ‘You’re not convinced by my brilliant argument?’

‘Why arrange to meet at Monks Island? That shows some degree of planning. Has Trevor Gilbert’s place been searched?’

‘Yes. There’s nothing incriminating and Forensics haven’t come up with anything to link him to Monks Island.’

Wesley nodded. He had some sympathy with Trevor Gilbert.

‘Mike Battersley’s car’s being examined now and his house searched.’

‘Let’s hope they find something.’

Heffernan scratched his head. He’d hoped to be back in time for a civilised meal with his son and daughter, but it looked
as if he’d be working late.

On their return to the CID office, Trish Walton bustled forward, a piece of paper in her hand. ‘There’s been a phone call
from Lisa Marriott. She says to let you know that she’s found the envelope. Does that make sense?’

Heffernan looked blank. Wesley thought for a few moments. Then he remembered.

He turned to Heffernan. ‘The envelope Sally Gilbert received just before her death. The letter she seemed so excited about.
Lisa said she took the letter with her and left the envelope. She thought it looked official – as if it was
from a solicitor or someone like that. We didn’t find a letter in her bag,’ he added significantly.

‘Right, Trish, ring Lisa Marriott back and tell her to hold on to it.’ Heffernan looked at his watch. ‘We’ll be round soon
– probably tomorrow at this rate. Okay?’

Trish hurried off. Heffernan watched her brush against Steve Carstairs’ desk. Steve looked up at her and winked and she gave
him a coquettish smile in return.

‘Well, Wes, I think that while Mike Battersley’s down in the cells contemplating the error of his ways, we should pop over
to Nestec and have another word with Trevor Gilbert. Give him a nice surprise.’

Wesley sighed. He’d told Pam he’d try to be home early so that she could visit her mother, who was now out of hospital and
struggling on crutches. But it couldn’t be helped – Della would just have to cope on her own. And Pam should be taking it
easy anyway, not running around after her mother. Perhaps his working late would give Pam an excuse to put her feet up.

They left the station and headed for Neston to see Sally Gilbert’s husband. Or was he more than a husband? Was he her murderer?

‘So the
Celestina
belonged to the owner of Chadleigh Hall?’ Jane asked as she struggled out of her diving suit.

Neil was sitting on the concrete steps outside the café, drinking from a can of Coke. ‘Yes. She was owned by a widow called
Mercy Iddacombe. She inherited seven ships from her husband when he died. He was mayor of Tradmouth at one time – a solid
citizen. They had a posh town house in Tradmouth – Ship Street, not far from the church. And when the money started rolling
in her husband bought an estate out at Chadleigh.’

‘Go on,’ said Jane. ‘What else have you found out?’

Neil took another swig from his can and made himself comfortable on his makeshift seat. ‘I found a book about Tradmouth shipping
in the library: it said that Mercy was
known as a bit of a dragon – knew everything that was going on aboard her ships. Her operation was certainly profitable.
She started off with seven ships and ended up with fifteen. Doubled her money.’

‘Good for her,’ said Jane.

‘Found anything interesting down there today?’

‘More of those iron bars, by the look of it. Not a sign of any treasure.’

‘Perhaps the Chadleigh wreckers found it – but if they did, we’ll never know.’

‘Or maybe Mercy Iddacombe was working an insurance scam – saying crates were full of treasure when they were really full of
old iron. It’s been known.’

‘Maybe. It’d be an interesting story if we can prove it.’

‘Have you noticed how Dominic Kilburn seems to have lost interest now it looks as though his treasure doesn’t exist?’

‘Mmm. And his son and his mate haven’t turned up to “help” for a few days. With the rights to the wreck Kilburn might have
been a rich man. Somehow it makes you glad we haven’t found that gold, doesn’t it?’

Jane smiled. ‘There’ll be no more diving today so Matt and I are going back to the cottage.’

Neil watched her go, climbing up the steep pathway to the top of the cliff. He’d work for a while then go back to the cottage
to play gooseberry. He wished Pam had stayed longer. He had enjoyed her company.

‘What is it?’ said Trevor Gilbert when Gerry Heffernan appeared at the door of his tiny office. The words came out in a nervous
squeak. Gilbert looked terrified. Dark patches underscored his eyes and he hadn’t shaved or ironed his shirt, as though the
effort of turning up to work looking reasonably smart had been too much for him.

‘We just thought you’d like to know that we’re questioning a man in connection with your wife’s death. Ever heard of a Michael
Battersley?’

‘Is that who . . . is that who she was seeing? Did the bastard kill her?’

Trevor spat out the question with controlled venom, but Wesley had the impression that the emotion was feigned, that the words
were half hearted; almost as though he had lost interest.

‘We’re still questioning him,’ Wesley said, noncommittally. He wasn’t sure but he thought he could detect a momentary wave
of relief pass across Trevor Gilbert’s face. ‘We’ll keep you up to date with any developments.’

Heffernan gave a discreet nod. It was time to go. They had relayed the news to Gilbert and now wasn’t the time to begin any
in-depth questioning. Wesley turned, and he could see curious faces staring at the office; Trevor Gilbert’s colleagues wondering
what the police had to say. Or perhaps wondering whether Trevor was being arrested for his wife’s murder. There was nothing
like a visit from the police to relieve the boredom of the working day.

The two policemen walked across the concrete forecourt, narrowly avoiding being hit by a white van with the Nestec logo on
the side which swept up to the loading bay too fast for safety. Gerry Heffernan mumbled something under his breath that Wesley
thought it best to ignore.

A familiar figure emerged from the office entrance. Sebastian Wilde was with a boy who bore a striking resemblance to him:
his son, no doubt. A chip off the old block. Wilde spotted them and strolled over, taking his time. He was smiling with his
mouth but his eyes weren’t joining in.

‘Chief Inspector, what can I do for you? Is there any more news about my computers?’

The boy with him stared at the ground, as though he would have preferred to have been elsewhere.

‘Not yet. We’ll let you know. We just called in to tell Mr Gilbert that a man’s being questioned in connection with the murder
of his wife.’

‘I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know you were on the premises in future, Chief Inspector.’ There was a more than
a hint of reproach in the man’s voice.