The Skeleton Room (26 page)

Wesley stared at Steve for a few moments, taking it all in.

‘Do you think we might be on to something?’ Steve asked, hoping Wesley wasn’t going to receive all the credit if something
came of it.

‘I don’t know. See what else you can find out. And well done,’ he added. It looked as if Steve had a chance of becoming a
good CID officer after all – or maybe it was just a flash in the pan.

Sebastian Wilde was due at Tradmouth police station at four o’clock to identify his stolen computers, which had been brought
in and stored in an empty office, carefully catalogued as evidence.

It was all over for Robin Carrington. Tomorrow he was due to return to London, under arrest for conspiracy to murder. Tonight
the Tradmouth police were just babysitting, if that was the appropriate word: Gerry Heffernan couldn’t think of anything better.

Heffernan looked up from his cluttered desk when Wesley burst into his office, a look of cautious excitement on his face.

‘Can I have a word?’

‘’Course you can, Wes. Sit yourself down. Any sign of that Brenda Dilkes yet?’

‘No. I rang Carole Sanders’ place to see if she was there but she seems to have disappeared. Carole’s looking after her little
girl but Brenda’s not been to pick her up.’

‘What about Masters Kilburn and Wilde?’

Wesley shook his head. ‘They’re not at home. But I’ve a feeling they won’t have gone far.’ He leaned forward in his seat.
‘Steve Carstairs had a word with me earlier. Harry Marchbank told him that there was a death in 1998 that was very similar
to Sally Gilbert’s.’

Heffernan looked puzzled. ‘Remind me.’

‘A girl called Marion Bowler fell off a cliff at Little Tradmouth in July 1998 – evidence of a struggle on the cliff top .
. . just like Sally Gilbert. It was one of Stan Jenkins’ cases.’

‘Oh yes, now that you mention it I remember that one. Wasn’t it the boyfriend only there wasn’t enough evidence to prosecute?’

‘That’s right. Now I asked Steve to see if he could find any other similar deaths and he managed to unearth a few more. None
of them was treated as suspicious at the time and they were dealt with by uniform or other stations.’ He paused. ‘But now
I’ve had a chance to look at the reports, I think there might be some sort of pattern emerging.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘None of the victims told anyone where they were going and some of the relatives’ statements mention that the
victims seemed excited about something. Marion Bowler said she was going to meet someone but wouldn’t say who. Remind you
of anything?’

‘Sally Gilbert. Go on.’

‘At first glance the deaths look completely unrelated but . . .’

Heffernan looked him in the eye. ‘Do you think it’s worth following up?’

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘There’s no harm in doing a bit of digging. And there’s something else. I found a carpark ticket
in Robin Carrington’s car – he was at Monks Island at the time of Sally Gilbert’s death.’ He watched Gerry Heffernan’s face
for a reaction. ‘And that’s not all. I’ve not checked the dates yet but Carrington comes to this area on his own every year
at around the same time. He says he comes to get away from London and do some work: this solicitor mate of his lends him his
cottage. This year he claims to be tracing someone’s family tree: that’s what he does for a living – he’s a genealogist who
runs a business through the Internet, or so he says.’

Heffernan caught on quick. ‘And you think he might have been down here adding a few names to the deaths register?’

‘It’s worth checking out.’

‘Then get on with it. We’ll tell Marchbank he can get off back to London till we’ve finished with Carrington.’ Heffernan slouched
back and put his feet on his desk, sending a couple of sheets of paper fluttering to the floor.

Wesley looked at his watch. ‘I mustn’t be too late. I said I’d pick Rachel up from the hospital and I’m taking Pam out for
dinner tonight.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘The Tradfield Manor. They’re doing a special offer.’

‘Nice. Have to try it myself.’

But before Wesley could comment, Trish Walton opened the office door. ‘Sir, I just thought you should know. Mr Wilde’s waiting
to see you about his stolen computers.’

‘Thanks, Trish. Come on, Wes, let’s go and tell Wilde the good news. And let’s see what he says about his lad, eh.’

Sebastian Wilde was not a happy man. He had examined his recovered property solemnly, showing no hint of relief that at least
some of his lost goods had been found.

Jason, he said, was out with friends: he didn’t know where. He promised to let the police know when he turned up but assured
them he could have had nothing to do with the theft of his computers. Jason was his son. He knew him. Anything he wanted he
only had to ask for. He had no reason to steal, he said with genuine conviction. But his face remained a mask of polite inscrutability:
he was giving nothing away.

‘Still think Wilde’s a possible for Sally Gilbert’s murder?’ Wesley asked Heffernan as soon as Wilde had left the police station.

‘He was on Monks Island for that meeting. What about the son, Jason?’

‘That hardly fits in with this new theory about people getting shoved off cliffs every year. Jason would have been a kid when
the first few happened.’

‘But do you see Sebastian Wilde as a serial killer?’

Wesley smiled. ‘When you put it like that, it does sound far fetched.’

‘Found any link between the victims?’

‘Nothing obvious yet. At the time they were all treated as straightforward, unrelated cases.’ He shrugged. ‘And perhaps they
were. The cliffs around this part of the coast are dangerous and people do fall off them from time to time.’

They were interrupted by Paul Johnson, who gave a perfunctory knock before poking his head around the door. ‘There’s a lady
down at the front desk who says she wants a word with DI Peterson about the Chadleigh Hall case.’

Heffernan gave Wesley a nudge. ‘Go on, Wes. Don’t keep the lady waiting.’

‘Did she give a name?’ Wesley asked.

‘Yes,’ Paul replied. ‘She said her name was Stanes. Alexandra Stanes.’

I married Mary Anne Iddacombe to Captain Isaiah Smithers on the thirtieth day of May. It was a fine day and my two servants,
who acted as witnesses to the union, saw the couple exchange their vows as the bright rays of the spring sun streamed through
the stained-glass windows. I sensed the couple’s delight in each other, although they seemed nervous as they left the sanctuary
of the church, as though they were uncertain of the reception that would await them when the truth of their marriage was known.
But they need not have feared for I heard later that Mistress Mercy Iddacombe had indeed accepted their union and had begged
the pair to regard Chadleigh Hall as their home. I was pleased to see that my instincts about that lady had proved correct.
For surely she lived up to her name of Mercy, a kind and forgiving soul.

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

Wesley stood for a few moments, staring at her. She was looking down at her feet, avoiding his eyes as though she was ashamed
of the lies she had told. Lying to the police didn’t appear to have come easily to Sandra Bracewell – born Alexandra Stanes.

Her husband, Peter, stood behind her protectively. When Wesley invited them to follow him to the interview room, Peter put
his arm around his wife’s shoulders and shepherded her gently. Wesley ordered tea. The Bracewells looked as if they needed
it.

‘Sorry it’s not more comfortable,’ said Wesley as they sat down to face him.

He smiled to put them at their ease. He could tell they were both nervous. Peter, looking scrubbed and pink in his spotless
light slacks and powder-blue polo shirt, fidgeted with his wristwatch. Sandra sat, stiff and straight-backed, on the edge
of her seat – as she’d no doubt been taught to do by Miss Snowman all those years ago.

‘I think we should start from the beginning, don’t you?’

The couple glanced at each other, and Wesley saw Sandra give her husband a small nod.

‘There’s not that much to tell really,’ Peter began. ‘I met Sandra when I was working at Chadleigh Hall. Love at first sight,
you might say.’ He gave his wife a shy smile. ‘She was very unhappy there. She never got on with her parents and they were
only too glad to get rid of her at the first opportunity. She hated it at that school, didn’t you, pet?’

Sandra nodded but let her husband do the talking.

‘Anyway, we arranged to meet in secret and one thing led to another. Sandra never said anything to the other girls – if she
had she knew that word would have got round.’

Wesley found himself wanting to hear the woman’s version of events, but there was plenty of time for that. ‘So you ran away
together?’

‘Yes. We went to my sister’s in Weymouth and eventually we got married. It was my idea to send the letters from London to
keep her parents off our backs. My brother-inlaw went up there regularly and posted them for us.’

‘My parents never tried to find me,’ Sandra said in a quiet, husky tone. ‘I didn’t think they would but . . .’

Her voice trailed off. Wesley looked at her and saw the pain in her eyes. The girl who’d had everything except the
most important thing. And it had taken Peter Bracewell to give her that.

‘You never contacted your parents later, just to tell them where you were?’

‘No. I broke off all contact; it was better that way.’

‘What about Carole?’

Sandra gave a weak smile. ‘I met her by chance in the street about seven years ago and she recognised me at once. She’d moved
back to the area when her husband died and she was working in Tradmouth. We started meeting up sometimes on our days off and
. . .’

‘Do you work at the Tradfield Manor?’

She looked at him, surprised. ‘Yes. Just part time. How did you . . .?’

‘I thought I saw you there the other day. Did you know Sally Gilbert . . . one of the receptionists?’

‘I only knew her by sight. I work in the wages office.’ She pressed her lips together tightly and studied her hands.

Wesley sensed that this line of questioning would get him nowhere. After a few seconds of silence he spoke again. ‘You knew
we were looking for you. What made you come forward now?’

‘I’ve been wondering what to do since you came round that day. Then Carole rang me and said you’d been round at her house
asking more questions but she hadn’t liked to say anything to you without asking me first.’ She looked down at her hands.
‘I thought I’d better come and get things straight.’

Wesley sat back in his chair and gave them a reassuring smile. ‘At least we know now that the skeleton at Chadleigh Hall doesn’t
belong to you, Mrs Bracewell. Thank you for coming.’

‘Is that all?’ Peter Bracewell sounded surprised.

‘Well, I can’t see that you’ve committed any crime, but I’d still like to ask you about the building work at the hall.’

Bracewell looked worried. ‘We didn’t think we were doing anything wrong. Jack had a few other jobs lined up
and he didn’t want any hold-ups. He knew there’d be a lot of fuss if it was found and . . .’

‘You’re talking about the skeleton, I take it?’

‘Yes. I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you now. The headmistress wanted her study extended into the next room but
we started knocking through and . . . well, you know what we found. It was me and Jack who found it – gave us the shock of
our lives. We found a torch and shone it in and saw this bloody skeleton sitting there grinning at us like something from
a horror film. We broke down the wall until the hole was big enough to climb through. Jack went in but there was no way I
was going in there.’ He shuddered.

‘So what happened then?’

‘Well, Jack Kilburn said we should just seal the room up again and tell the headmistress it couldn’t be knocked through. We
plastered it all up and that was that. Jack said not to mention it to anyone. He didn’t want it getting around.’

When the tea finally arrived, Wesley sat back, considering the implications of what Bracewell had told him. Jack Kilburn had
entered the sealed room back in the sixties and the coin Neil had found could well have come from his pocket. It looked more
and more likely that the bones were old – possibly from the eighteenth or nineteenth centuries. And if that was the case it
wasn’t his problem any more.

But Wesley felt this wasn’t the end. He still wanted to find out who had left the unknown girl there to die. And why.

‘So that’s that.’ Gerry Heffernan sat back in his chair. ‘The Chadleigh Hall skeleton’s not our problem.’

‘Probably not our problem,’ Wesley corrected. ‘There’s still a chance that she died less than seventy years ago. Neil’s met
someone who lived at Chadleigh Hall before the war – a man called George Iddacombe who lives in a lighthouse near Bereton.
I’d like to have a word with him, just in case he knows anything.’

‘But there’s only a slight chance of them being recent. I mean, they’re more likely to be a couple of hundred years old. That
chair’s pretty ancient.’

‘A sample from the bones has been sent away for dating so we’ll know for certain in a couple of months.’ Wesley hesitated.
‘You know those deaths I mentioned . . . people falling off cliffs?’

Heffernan scratched his head and nodded.

‘I’ve been looking through the files to see if I could find any connection between the victims, but as far as I can tell they
had nothing in common except that they were . . . well, just ordinary, I suppose.’ He shrugged. The people who had died either
by accident or violence in late July each year for the past five years had been remarkable only in their unremarkability.

Heffernan looked up. ‘But you still think it’s worth following up?’

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘There might be nothing in it but I’d like to dig a bit deeper. I think we should have a word
with the victims’ relatives and see if we can find some common denominator. I’d like to keep it low key at this stage.’

‘I’ll leave that in your capable hands, then.’ Gerry Heffernan fiddled with some papers on his desk, a faraway look in his
eye. ‘Did you say it was Carole Sanders who tipped Sandra Bracewell off that we’d been asking questions about her?’

‘Yes. She lied to us about not knowing what had happened to Sandra.’ He watched Heffernan’s face for a reaction.

‘I don’t suppose she saw it that way. She was just protecting her friend, that’s all . . . being loyal.’

Wesley noted the swiftness with which the boss had leapt to the lady’s defence. Something else to report to Pam that evening.
He looked at his watch. Almost five o’clock.

‘Let’s have a word with Robin Carrington about that carpark ticket before we hit the road, eh.’

They made their way down to the interview room, where Robin Carrington awaited them. He had been brought from the cells and
he had lost the worried expression he had worn when Wesley had first seen him. Now he just looked resigned, defeated.

Heffernan spoke first. ‘I believe the French police are still looking for your wife.’

‘You mean they’ve not found her?’

‘Not yet.’

Wesley placed a plastic bag containing the carpark ticket on the table in front of him. ‘We found this in your car. You parked
your car at Littlebury, the nearest carpark to Monks Island, on the afternoon of Friday the twentieth of July.’

‘So?’

‘Can you tell us what you did there?’ Wesley asked pleasantly. It was best that the man should be at ease.

‘I’d read about Monks Island and I wanted to take a look.’

Heffernan leaned forward. ‘And what brought on this sudden urge to go sightseeing?’

Carrington’s body stiffened. ‘I’d been meaning to go for some time – it’s somewhere I’d never been before.’

Heffernan snorted. He didn’t believe a word of it. ‘How did you come to know Sally Gilbert?’

Carrington looked from one policeman to the other. Wesley watched him and detected early signs of panic.

‘Who?’

‘Sally Gilbert.’

Heffernan produced the dead woman’s photograph from his jacket pocket and threw it across the table. Carrington stared at
it for a few moments and shook his head.

‘I’ve never seen her before. Who is she?’

Wesley spoke next. ‘Now let’s go through exactly what you did from the moment you arrived at the carpark to the moment you
left.’ He glanced at his watch. This was going to take time.

Robin Carrington told his story, Wesley making notes as
he spoke. This was how it worked: the suspect told the story and then repeated it over and over again while the questioners
noted discrepancies; ambiguities to be pinned down and examined.

But even after he had recited his account of the afternoon of the twentieth of July three times, Wesley and Heffernan could
detect no hint that he wasn’t telling the truth. Perhaps he
was
telling the truth; or perhaps he was just an accomplished liar. Gerry Heffernan’s money was on the last option.

‘I believe you visit this part of Devon every year?’ Wesley asked casually as though he were just making conversation.

‘Yes.’ Carrington had fallen into the trap.

‘At the same time?’

‘Usually, yes. Middle to end of July. Jeremy, who owns the cottage, says it’s convenient. It’s quiet and gives me a chance
to catch up on work. There’s no Internet connection, of course, but that can sometimes be an advantage. Why do you ask?’

‘No particular reason,’ said Wesley.

Carrington looked tired and the duty solicitor examined his watch ostentatiously. Wesley caught Gerry Heffernan’s eye and
stood up. ‘We’ll want to speak to you again tomorrow. We’ve contacted the Met to say that you’re helping us with our enquiries,’
he said to Carrington, who merely nodded, resigned to his fate.

Heffernan followed Wesley out, uncharacteristically silent.

‘What do you think?’ Wesley asked when they had returned to the office.

‘I reckon he did it. But why he did it, I can’t tell you.’

Wesley nodded. Robin Carrington, already guilty of the murder of an unknown woman in London, was certainly up there on the
best suspects list. And if the earlier deaths turned out to be linked to Sally Gilbert’s, then it looked as though he had
been in the area every year at the appropriate time.

Heffernan slapped Wesley firmly on the back. ‘Come on, let’s call it a day.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Do you think I should
mention Sandra Bracewell to Carole next time I see her?’

‘That’s up to you. There’s no harm done.’

Wesley glanced at the clock on the office wall. He’d just have time to pick Rachel up from the hospital before his dinner
date with Pam. If he hurried.

Sebastian Wilde opened the front door of the plush barn conversion he called home. He stood for a few moments, listening.
The muffled thump of distant heavy metal music drifted down from upstairs; from Jason’s room. He was home.

Wilde didn’t take his jacket off and loosen his tie as he normally did on arriving home. He placed his briefcase and his laptop
gently on the polished wooden floor and climbed the great central staircase that had been hewn for him out of ancient timbers
by local craftsmen. The music was louder as he reached the top of the stairs. He walked to Jason’s bedroom door and stood
for a second, gathering his thoughts before kicking it open.

Jason, who had been lying on the bed with a magazine in his hands, jumped up and let the catalogue of glossy, naked women
fall to the floor. ‘Dad. You’re early,’ was all he could think of to say.

Wilde said nothing. He stared at the boy.

‘What is it, Dad?’ Jason tried to sound casual but his voice trembled slightly.

Wilde’s response was to raise his arm and strike his son a glancing blow across the face.

Jason’s hand shot up to his stinging cheek.

‘I’ve just been to the police station. They want a word with you about my bloody computers.’

Jason Wilde looked at his father. He had always got round him when he was young – his mother had been the disciplinarian.
‘Please, Dad . . . it was only . . .’