The Skeleton Room (3 page)

The chief inspector turned and marched off down the beach.

The doors of Tradmouth police station swung open and a woman walked in. She hesitated and then made for the front desk.

‘Er, my friend’s gone missing,’ she began nervously. ‘What do I do? I mean, do I just tell you or . . .’

The large, bearded desk sergeant drew himself up to his full height. The woman standing on the other side of the reception
desk was what Sergeant Bob Naseby would have described as a bit of all right. She wore tight white trousers, a short striped
T-shirt and the golden sandals on her dainty feet revealed a set of perfectly painted scarlet toenails. A pair of sunglasses
was perched on top of her golden-blonde head like a tiara.

He turned to the filing cabinet behind him and pulled out the appropriate sheet of paper slowly: Bob Naseby was never a man
to be rushed.

‘Right, madam, if you could give me a few details. Who is it that’s missing?’

‘It’s my friend. She’s been staying with me. She went out last Friday and never came back. We’d arranged to go out that evening
so she would have let me know. I’m really quite worried about her.’

The police station door swung open and a man entered, clutching his motoring documents nervously. He stood behind the woman,
and Bob feared that he’d soon have a queue on his hands.

Fortunately for Bob, a young woman emerged from a door marked ‘Private’. Her fair hair was scooped back in a ponytail and
she was neatly dressed in a navy linen suit which looked cool in the warmth of the July day.

Bob called to her. ‘Sergeant Tracey, can you have a word with this lady?’

Detective Sergeant Rachel Tracey looked in the woman’s direction. She had been going out to fetch a sandwich. But if she wanted
a figure like the woman she was about to escort to the interview room, perhaps it was for the best that her plans had been
foiled. She pulled in her stomach and forced herself to smile reassuringly.

She led the way to the small ground-floor room, and when they were seated the woman gave her name as Lisa Marriott and lit
a cigarette. Rachel pushed an unwashed ashtray towards her, trying to hide her disapproval.

‘So tell me about your friend,’ she began. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Sally . . . Sally Gilbert.’

‘Address?’

‘She was staying with me.’ The woman recited her address and Rachel wrote it down. ‘We work together, me and Sally. She left
her husband a couple of weeks ago and she needed a bit of space; some time to think things over. I offered her my spare room.’

‘How do you know she’s not gone back to her husband?’

‘That’s the first thing I thought of. I rang him and he said he hadn’t seen her since she left.’

Rachel watched the woman’s eyes. There was un mistakable anxiety beneath the heavy layers of eyeshadow and mascara. ‘I’d better
have her husband’s name and address.’

Again they were recited without hesitation. She had obviously known the missing woman well.

‘Where do you work?’

‘The Tradfield Manor Hotel. Sally works on reception and I’m a beautician at the health club. She didn’t turn up for her shift
today and that isn’t like her – she’s usually very reliable. I think something might have happened to her.’

‘So when exactly did she go missing?’

‘Friday, just after lunch. She said she was going to meet someone.’

‘Who?’

‘She didn’t say.’

‘Where was she going to meet them?’

‘I don’t know. She said she’d be a couple of hours and I was expecting her back by five. We were going out for dinner at Languini’s
– a bit of a treat. It was Sally’s idea: she said she might have something to celebrate.’

‘Any idea what?’

Lisa shook her head.

‘Did she take anything with her?’

‘Only her handbag, I suppose.’

‘Was she driving?’

‘Yes. She went off in her car. It’s a white Renault Clio – R reg, but I can’t tell you the registration number.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Rachel. ‘And you’re sure you’ve no idea who she was meeting?’

‘No. I thought it might be . . .’ She hesitated and sucked on her diminishing cigarette.

‘Who?’

Lisa Marriott studied her long scarlet nails. ‘She was seeing this man but it finished a few weeks ago. I just thought she
might be seeing him again but . . .’

‘Do you know his name?’

‘She just called him Mike. I never met him.’

Rachel sat back to avoid a plume of cigarette smoke. ‘Do you know where he lives or where he works or . . .’

Lisa Marriott stubbed out her cigarette and shook her head. ‘She said he lived in Neston and he worked funny hours . . . shifts.
I don’t know anything else.’

‘So let me get this straight,’ Rachel said, preparing to write it all down. ‘Your friend Sally Gilbert was having an affair
with a man called Mike. Her husband found out and she left him and she’s been staying with you for a fortnight. Is that right?’

‘No. Her and Mike finished before she left her husband. Mike had nothing to do with them splitting up. Trevor found out about
it but he forgave her. She just got bored with Trevor.’

‘Did Trevor know she was staying with you?’

‘Of course he did. He was as good as gold. Forwarded her mail and everything.’

Rachel found herself feeling sorry for Trevor Gilbert, the man who had been so accommodating of his wife’s whims and infidelities.
But then perhaps the worm had turned. Worms often do when they’ve been pushed too far.

Lisa lit another cigarette. Rachel took a deep breath and coughed.

‘Did anything unusual happen before she disappeared? Did she receive any phone calls or . . .?’

Lisa shook her head. Then she remembered something. ‘She got a letter that morning. It was strange – she seemed sort of .
. .’ She searched for the right word. ‘Excited about it . . . and a bit secretive. Yeah, now that I remember, she read the
letter and then said she was going out to meet someone that afternoon. Then she said we’d go to Languini’s that night – she
said she might be celebrating.’

‘And she didn’t give you any clue about who she was meeting?’

Lisa shook her head.

‘Did she tell you what was in the letter?’

‘No. She just put it in her bag. I was a bit curious but you don’t like to seem too nosey, do you?’

Rachel, who had always been blessed with a healthy dose of curiosity, said nothing. She looked down at the missing-persons
form.

‘Right, Ms Marriott, I’d better have a description of Sally. What was she wearing when she went out on Friday?’

‘Cream trousers. And a bright red T-shirt. She’d just bought the outfit – spent a fortune on it. But then Sally never stints
herself. She likes to buy the best.’ She screwed up her face in concentration. ‘And I think she was wearing a gold necklace,
a locket, but I can’t be sure about that.’

‘Handbag?’

‘Blue leather. Brand new. Cost a bomb.’ There was a hint of envy in her voice.

‘What about her shoes?’

‘She was wearing red mules to match her T-shirt – stilettos. She always wears high heels – says it makes her look thinner.’

Rachel Tracey began to write everything down in her small, neat hand.

The front garden of Old Coastguard Cottage was a riot of anarchic colour. Tall hollyhocks and foxgloves tumbled
over the crumbling path that led to the green front door, an undisciplined mob of flowers lying in wait to attack the legs
of any passer-by.

The man stood at the cottage window and watched the scene outside. The archaeologist’s phone call had caused an invasion of
police and ambulance crews. But now things had gone quiet.

Some of the divers working on the shipwreck had passed the cottage on their way to the Wreckers Inn and he had asked them
what was happening. They’d told him that a woman’s body had been found in the water at Chadleigh Cove. But he’d known that
already by eavesdropping when the archaeologist had called the police.

He had stayed indoors as the police cars passed along the track. Not that the local police were anything to worry about –
he didn’t know them and they didn’t know him. Then, when the van bearing the woman’s body had passed by, he had watched from
the window. Death had always fascinated him; its rituals and its reality.

He looked at his watch. Now that things were quiet he could take a walk in the fresh air. When he left the cottage he made
sure the front door was firmly locked – you couldn’t be too careful, even in the beautiful Devon countryside. Once he was
satisfied that the cottage was secure, he stepped out onto the lane and strolled towards the chapel that was hidden in a hollow
behind a cloak of trees.

The lane soon petered out, dwindling into a cliff path. To his left lay the vast, glistening sea, and just ahead of him he
could see the little stone chapel built for the Iddacombes of Chadleigh Hall on the edge of their land. Now it was disused
and locked, visited only by the occasional walker and by the shades of the dead who slept in its tiny graveyard.

Nettles brushed against his legs as he walked towards the moss-covered memorial, little more than an over-large gravestone,
which stood on the south side of the chapel. He
pushed his way through the high grass and bindweed until he reached his goal. Then he squatted down and read the inscription.

‘To the memory of those who perished on board the
Celestina
, 24th July 1772.’

He read the names – twenty-eight in all, all buried here in the rich Devon earth. At the top of the list were Captain Isaiah
Smithers, Master, and his wife Mary Anne. The man smiled. It was a happy coincidence that he had found Captain Smithers here,
so close to where he was staying. A real piece of luck. Providence even.

He walked around the neglected chapel before heading back to the lane, stopping dead when he spotted a car parked between
him and the cottage. The gate leading into a field of crops stood open to his left and he darted in behind the tall hedge,
where he stood, statue still.

Concealed by foliage, he watched as two men climbed into the car. One of them was young, black and smart, and his companion
was older, slightly unkempt and a little overweight. They were chatting amiably: probably a pair of plain-clothes detectives.
The man knew the signs.

When the car had driven away he hurried back to Old Coastguard Cottage and shut the door behind him. If he kept his head nothing
could go wrong.

At 10.30 that night a white lorry sporting the bright red Nestec logo swung out of the factory gates and onto the road leading
to Exeter and the M5 motorway.

But before reaching Newton Abbot the driver pulled into a lay-by and lit a cigarette. He had promised his wife he was giving
them up but he was in urgent need of a dose of nicotine. And as he wouldn’t be home that night, she wouldn’t smell the tobacco
on his breath. It was a little sin she would never know about – along with a few others.

He sat there in the darkness, his engine switched off. The road was quiet but from time to time a car flashed past, a blur
of headlights like the eyes of some fast swooping
predator, intent on its goal. He inhaled the smoke and closed his eyes.

Then a sudden noise made him jump. The driver’s door was flung open and he felt strong hands dragging him out of the vehicle.
He flopped helplessly onto the cold, rough ground. Then the blow came and he knew nothing more.

Marbis grabbed my hand and held on to it tightly. Not wishing to cause offence I allowed it to rest in his as he spoke.

He was most insistent that I should not speak but listen to the tale he had to tell. I agreed, anxious as I was to be out
of that dreadful place, and hoped that his talking would be brief.

I set down here what he told to me upon that night. It was not a story that I shall easily forget.

George Marbis’s tale began in the year of Our Lord 1732 when he was but ten years of age. His father, old Josiah Marbis, was
a man over-fond of strong liquor who frequently absented himself of an evening from the cottage where he lived with George
and his mother. George noted his mother’s discomfort during his father’s absences and yet he suspected nothing amiss, rather
that his father was drinking away all the money he earned working on the land. Then, one October night in 1732, George’s mother
was heavy with child and her pains began when his father was away from the cottage. George was sent to fetch Mother Padley,
the midwife, and as he hurried to her cottage through the wind and the rain, he saw lanterns and the shapes of men in the
dark. Then he heard screams drifting inshore on the wind. The screams of terrified women and children.

Forgetting his mother’s plight for the moment, young George followed the glow of the lanterns in the darkness. They were heading
for the shore and George stayed some way behind. He watched from the cliff top as the men scrambled down to the sands, and
he saw that a ship had foundered on the rocks, her mast already afloat and her back about to break in the relentless waves.
The screams were those of the poor souls trapped upon the ship, and George’s first thought was that the men with the lanterns
would rescue the people and take them to safety.

But George Marbis witnessed no acts of heroism or Christian charity that night. Rather what he saw would stay in his thoughts
until his dying day.

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

On his way to Tradmouth police station the next day Wesley took off his jacket and loosened his tie: it was far too hot for
formality, even first thing in the morning. Gerry Heffernan, who had discarded his own jacket on the way to work, followed
him into the building and glanced back longingly at the busy river, where pleasure boats and private yachts were gliding over
the water in the sunshine.

Hungry seagulls circled above the fine array of scented flowers that bloomed in the Memorial Gardens and tumbled from baskets
on lamp-posts and window ledges. Even the police station boasted its own colourful display in the small flower beds either
side of the main door. Wesley breathed in deeply as he climbed the stairs to the CID office, contemplating another day at
work.

Tradmouth’s holiday atmosphere had crept through the open windows and invaded the office. A couple of the detective constables
were wearing brightly patterned shirts; hardly Wesley’s idea of plain clothes. Nobody had ventured
in wearing shorts yet, but Wesley suspected that if the weather kept up it would only be a matter of time.

Rachel Tracey had taken off her jacket to reveal a neat, but slightly see-through, white blouse. She was sifting through a
pile of reports, but when she saw Wesley she looked up at him and smiled.

‘Someone’s determined that we shouldn’t enjoy the weather. A lorry was hijacked last night between Neston and Newton Abbot.
The driver was knocked out and half a million pounds’ worth of computers were stolen.’

‘How’s the driver?’

‘He’s got a sore head but otherwise he’s fine. They kept him in hospital overnight for observation. What happened down at
Millicombe yesterday?’

Before he could answer Gerry Heffernan lumbered in and made straight for his office, shouting that he was in urgent need of
a cup of tea.

‘Well, at least the boss has got his priorities right,’ said Rachel in a low voice when she was sure he was out of earshot.

Wesley started to laugh, then he looked up and saw that Steve Carstairs was watching them with speculation in his eyes. He
straightened himself up in an attempt to look businesslike. There was nothing Steve would like better than to start a few
rumours.

Rachel glanced over in Steve’s direction and understood. She’d stick to police matters when he was about. ‘So what did you
find over at Millicombe?’

‘It was at Chadleigh, just outside Millicombe. Some divers working on a shipwreck spotted a body in the water and brought
it ashore.’

‘Suspicious?’

Wesley shrugged. ‘Don’t know yet. Probably an accident or suicide. We’ll know more when Colin Bowman’s done the post-mortem.’

‘Man or woman?’

‘Woman. And we had another call before that. Some
builders found a skeleton while they were working on a place called Chadleigh Hall. Heard of it?’

Rachel nodded. Being a local farmer’s daughter she knew the area well. ‘It used to be a girls’ boarding school – known locally
as “Virgins’ Retreat”.’

‘Well, it’s possible that one of the virgins had been tied up in a sealed room and left to die.’

A momentary expression of shock passed across Rachel’s face. ‘I didn’t know much about the place, not moving in those sorts
of circles, but I never heard of anything odd going on there.’

‘And if there was, your mother would know about it?’ Wesley grinned. Rachel’s mother, Stella, had a talent for uncovering
local secrets which the intelligence services would have envied.

‘Not necessarily. Millicombe’s fifteen miles away. My mother’s radar might not reach that far.’

‘Anything new to report here?’

‘Steve and Trish have been to interview the owner of the hijacked lorry but apart from that it’s been pretty quiet. A woman
came in yesterday to report that her friend’s gone missing but that’s about all.’

Wesley looked up. ‘Anything to worry about?’

‘I doubt it. The woman had an affair, left her husband and then went to stay with a friend from work. I can just imagine the
rest: a few tears, a few glasses of cheap plonk and a few “aren’t all men bastards” sessions.’

‘Has the man she was having an affair with been contacted? Isn’t it likely she’s gone off with him?’

‘According to the friend, Lisa Marriott, the affair finished a few weeks ago, but it’s always possible she could have had
second thoughts and taken up where she left off. She received a letter just before she disappeared, apparently, then she went
out and didn’t come back.’

‘A grovelling letter from the husband or the other man?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Have you checked it out?’

‘The friend said the boyfriend’s name was Mike but she didn’t know anything else about him. I’ve tried to get hold of the
husband but there’s been no answer. There’s one interesting thing, though. The husband’s called Trevor Gilbert, and guess
what . . .’

Wesley was hot and tired, in no mood for guessing games. ‘What?’

‘He works for Nestec. The computer firm whose lorry was hijacked last night. He’s the warehouse manager. He was the one who
saw the consignment of computers off the premises.’

‘So you think there could be a link between the hijacking and the woman’s disappearance?’ Wesley looked at Rachel with admiration.
She had deserved her recent promotion to detective sergeant.

‘Trevor Gilbert sees half a million pounds’ worth of computer equipment onto a lorry which is stopped by masked men on its
way to the M5. The driver’s knocked out, the lorry’s pinched, then it’s found abandoned near Exeter with all the valuable
stuff nicked.’

‘Which points to the hijackers having inside knowledge.’

‘And if they want to keep their man on the inside from talking, what better way than to hold his wife . . .’

‘His estranged wife.’

‘Perhaps they didn’t know that. Or maybe he still has a soft spot for her – that’s what Lisa Marriott implied, anyway. She
might have been kidnapped and held until the job was over.’

Wesley looked sceptical. ‘It’s possible, I suppose.’

Gerry Heffernan’s office door crashed open and he emerged with a mug of steaming tea in his hand, sleeves rolled up ready
for business.

‘Right, you lot. Some poor woman’s been found in the sea near Millicombe and we’ve got to find out who she is. I want details
of any women reported missing on our patch. Aged between twenty-five and forty-five. Come on. Look lively.’

There was a flurry of activity. Trish Walton made for the filing cabinets, beating her colleagues to it.

Wesley reached for the sheet of paper lying on Rachel’s desk.

‘Right age,’ she said.

Wesley didn’t reply. He was reading the description of Sally Gilbert. When Rachel had spoken of her, mentioning the probability
that she had run off with a lover or was involved somehow in the hijack, he hadn’t associated her with the mutilated corpse
that had been pulled from the water. But now, as he read her description in Rachel’s small, neat handwriting, he knew that
they might have a name for the dead woman – the lady from the sea.

‘Short dark hair. Last seen wearing a red T-shirt and cream trousers,’ he said softly. With a bit of imagination that could
describe the sea-sodden garments that had draped themselves around the woman’s drowned flesh. ‘It could be her.’

‘The woman who was found in the sea?’

‘I think we should pay this Trevor Gilbert a visit.’

Wesley stood up and made for Gerry Heffernan’s office, clutching Rachel’s report.

Detective Constable Steve Carstairs sat at his desk behind a pile of paperwork and watched at Wesley Peterson left the office
with Rachel.

They were on their way to see Trevor Gilbert, the warehouse manager at Nestec. As soon as Steve had heard about the lorry
hijacking, he had thought it smelt like an inside job – or at least a job that needed inside knowledge. Gilbert might be involved,
the man on the inside. Or, in view of recent developments, perhaps he’d done away with his missus. But whatever it was, it
was a shame that Peterson was going to get the credit . . . as usual.

Steve jabbed his ballpoint pen into the sheet of paper before him on the desk and twisted.

His telephone began to ring, making him jump. He
picked up the receiver and barked his name.

‘Steve?’

‘Yeah. Who’s that?’

The voice sounded familiar yet he couldn’t place it. Probably one of his grasses.

‘You free tonight?’

‘Who is that?’

He wished the speaker would give him a clue . . . or a name.

‘Meet me in the Tradmouth Arms . . . No, you’d better make it the Star. I don’t fancy bumping into Scouse Gerry. Eight o’clock.’

A grin spread across Steve Carstairs’ face. ‘Harry, mate. What are you doing down this way, my old son?’ He unconsciously
adopted a cockney twang when speaking to Harry Marchbank – he always had. Harry had been a detect ive sergeant in Tradmouth
CID before transferring to the Met, and when Steve had joined the department as a raw young detective constable he had thought
the sun shone out of Harry Marchbank’s nether regions.

‘Scouse Gerry still about, is he?’ Marchbank’s accent was now so firmly anchored in the Thames that nobody would have guessed
at his Newton Abbot roots.

Steve lowered his voice. ‘He’s DCI now.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘And the bloke who replaced you from the Met – he’s a bleeding graduate and a member of the ethnic minorities so he gets all
the promotion going: he’s made it to inspector. And the lovely Rachel hangs on his every word – bet it’s not long before he
gets into her knickers. She’s been promoted to sergeant and all. That leaves me still a humble DC, but I’m white and male
so I reckon there’s no chance of getting any higher. How’s the Met?’ he asked longingly.

From the time he’d joined the police force Steve Carstairs had yearned for armed stake-outs, fast cars and drugs busts in
some decaying inner city. But the reality of Tradmouth CID and the routine of paperwork meant that he
was usually disappointed. But then he had his own flat, new wheels . . . and a devoted mum, who took in his washing every
weekend and returned it, freshly ironed, on a Monday. His reasons for staying put were piling up with the years.

‘The Met’s fine,’ Marchbank said quickly, anxious to cut the chitchat. ‘Look, Steve, I’m down here on business . . . trying
to trace someone. I’ll have to come in and have a word with Stan Jenkins tomorrow.’

‘Inspector Jenkins has retired. Scouse Gerry’s in charge now.’

Marchbank swore under his breath. ‘Okay, it’ll have to be him, then, if he’s the guvnor. See you in the Star tonight. Eight
o’clock.’

‘Who is it you’re looking for?’

There was no answer. Harry Marchbank had put the receiver down.

Even though Wesley had seen the body of the woman who had been dragged ashore in Chadleigh Cove, he wouldn’t have recognised
her immediately from the photographs scattered around the living room at 5 Westview Way, Tradmouth. The woman in the photographs
was pretty, though inclining towards plumpness. She had dark eyes and sleek dark hair and gazed warmly at the camera, her
wide mouth set in a fixed eternal smile.

Wesley picked up one of the framed photographs that sat on the window sill – Sally in her wedding dress. There seemed at first
to be no resemblance between the hopeful young bride and the bloated, eaten creature that he had seen lying on the wet sand.
But he knew that it was her.

The house was on a brand-new estate on the very edge of Tradmouth on hilly land rejected as unproductive by the farmer who
had owned it and sold it to developers for a tidy sum. Number five was detached, expensively furnished, and boasted four bedrooms
plus an en suite bathroom. Wesley found himself wondering how much a warehouse
manager at Nestec would earn. Surely not enough to finance this little palace. Unless Sally Gilbert’s salary as receptionist
at the Tradfield Manor Hotel was substantial, which he doubted. Or maybe they just lived in considerable debt: a lot of people
seemed to these days.