The Skeleton Room (7 page)

He nodded, watching her assemble the sandwich. ‘I’m a student. I’m just working for them in my vacation.’

‘What are you studying?’

‘Veterinary Science up in Liverpool.’

She smiled with approval. ‘So you’re going to be a vet? Very worthwhile job. Would you like to work around here?’

‘Yes. I think I’d prefer to work with farm animals rather than just pets.’

She handed him the sandwich, neatly cut in two, on a white china plate, and watched him devour it hungrily. ‘Want another?’

Sam nodded. He was a growing lad. And at that moment he preferred Carole Sanders’ company to that of Andy and Keith.

He looked around the kitchen: it was large and expensively fitted with all the appliances concealed behind polished-oak cupboard
doors.

‘Sam, could you fetch me a loaf from the pantry over there?’ She pointed to a closed door in the far corner of the room. ‘It’s
on the bottom shelf. You can’t miss it.’

Sam hurried over obediently. The pantry was large and in the corner a trapdoor stood propped open – a wine cellar perhaps.
He licked his lips as he located the sliced whole-meal loaf: he could have drunk a glass or two of wine with his sandwich,
although he doubted that his hostess’s hospitality would extend that far. But he couldn’t complain.

As soon as Carole Sanders had made the second sandwich, she looked at the kitchen clock and announced that she was going out
to work – she worked part time in an office in Tradmouth – but he had no need to rush and give himself indigestion: he could
take as long as he liked.

When she had gone, Sam sat for ten minutes alone in the cool calm of the large kitchen, enjoying the break, enjoying not having
his every remark smirked at by Andy and Keith. But he’d get used to it. He had to: he needed the money.

He walked over to the pantry and peered down into the space beneath the open trapdoor. In the gloom he could make out a wooden
staircase and what looked like racks lining the underground walls. The bases of bottles glinted, reflecting the dim light
of the forty-watt bulb in the pantry above. A wine cellar: Mrs Sanders was a woman of taste.

When he heard the sound of a key in the front door, he left the pantry quickly, closing the door behind him. If Carole had
forgotten something and returned, he didn’t want her to think he was prying . . . or planning to help himself to a bottle
or two.

But it wasn’t Carole Sanders who appeared in the kitchen doorway. It was a woman in her late twenties, pale, with a turned-up
nose. Her fair hair was scraped back off her face into a limp ponytail. She wore a light-coloured shapeless cardigan over
a Lycra top and a miniskirt that showed off a pair of long, pale legs.

‘Who are you?’ she asked. Her tone was aggressive and her accent decidedly local.

Sam could have asked her the same question. But he didn’t dare.

‘I’m, er . . . working on the garden. And you are . . .?’

The woman stepped into the kitchen and edged her way around the cupboards, looking at him with suspicion. He noticed she had
taken something off the worktop by the bread bin, something she had quickly shoved into her cardigan pocket. ‘I’m Brenda .
. . the cleaner. When will Carole be back?’

‘She said she wouldn’t be back till five. She’s gone to work.’

The woman thought for a moment. ‘If she comes back before you go can you tell her that I’ve only been able to do an hour today
’cause I’m doing some overtime at the hotel. And tell her Kayleigh’s finished school so I’ll have to bring her next time I
come.’

‘Kayleigh?’

‘My daughter. Though I don’t know what business that is of yours.’ Then, without another word, she scurried away.

When Sam had first entered the kitchen he had noticed a ten-pound note nestling amongst some unpaid bills on the worktop near
the door and thought this rather trusting of Mrs Sanders, considering there were strangers in the garden and the back door
was open.

He fixed his eyes on the worktop and realised the money wasn’t there any more.

The cleaner, Brenda, had looked furtive, guilty. He knew she’d been up to something. And he was as sure as he could be that
the money was in her cardigan pocket.

But once the money was found to be missing it would be a matter of his word against hers. And Sam didn’t know which one of
them Mrs Sanders would believe.

Trevor Gilbert sat in his newly decorated front room, a glass of whisky clutched in his hands. He didn’t usually touch the
stuff but the sight of Sally’s mangled body in the mortuary was still etched on his brain. At least alcohol dulled the pain
a little, but Trevor knew the effect would be temporary.

He looked around the room he had decorated for Sally. That had been before he learned of her affair. He would have done anything
for her then. His brother-in-law said that he allowed her to walk all over him. But he had loved her, so what else could he
do. Until the end he had hoped she would come back. Until he had seen that official-looking letter. The letter in that crisp,
expensive envelope marked ‘Strictly Private and Confidential’, which looked as if it was from a solicitor; the letter he had
meekly forwarded to Lisa’s address. Perhaps he should have torn it up. But it was too late for regrets now.

He thought of her on top of the cliff, tumbling down, hitting the jagged rocks on the way down to the merciless sea. Then
he drained his glass and poured himself another drink from the half-empty bottle. All the trouble at work about the hijacking
and now this. Trevor felt tears prick his eyes. At least things couldn’t get any worse . . . unless the police started asking
questions again.

The phone on the window sill had rung a few times before Trevor registered the sound. He put his whisky glass down on the
polished coffee table – something Sally would never have allowed him to do – and stumbled towards the window. When he picked
up the receiver he grunted a hello, hoping it wasn’t the police again.

‘A bit of advice,’ hissed the voice on the other end of the line. ‘Keep your mouth shut or what happened to your wife might
just happen to you. Do you understand?’

Trevor opened his mouth to speak but, in his terror, no sound emerged.

‘Understand?’ the voice repeated.

‘I understand,’ Trevor whispered into the mouthpiece before the line went dead.

Young George Marbis watched as Matthew Kilburn lifted the woman’s lifeless body from the waves. He was certain then that he
had been mistaken in what he saw. Surely the blacksmith had been struggling to rescue her and her clothing had been caught
in some wreckage. Surely Matthew Kilburn was no callous murderer who deserved the gallows.

He watched Kilburn carry the woman ashore and place her gently on the sand. She did not move and looked as if she had passed
from this life (although George, being a child, had not seen much of our old enemy, death). He saw the glint of a knife and
held his breath as Kilburn grabbed the woman’s pale hand.

I could tell that the memory of what followed distressed George greatly, and he spoke of it in a whisper so that I had to
put my face close to his stinking breath. ‘He cut off her fingers,’ he whispered to me. ‘They had swelled in the water and
he cut ’em off for her rings. He threw the fingers away and turned the poor maid over for her purse. He robbed the dead. Such
wickedness,’ he said.

I uttered words of comfort to calm his troubled mind. Yet he knew the woman had not died in the sea. Matthew Kilburn had strangled
the life from her. Such wickedness.

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

Gerry Heffernan returned to the office looking rather pleased with himself.

Rachel Tracey looked up from her paperwork. ‘Good lunch, sir?’

‘You could say that, Rach. Wes about?’

Before she could answer Wesley Peterson appeared at the office door, a plastic-wrapped sandwich in his hand.

‘Come into the office, Wes. I want a word.’

Wesley smiled at Rachel as he passed her desk, a smile she returned. As he reached Heffernan’s office he turned round and
saw that she was watching them, no doubt dreaming of the day when she could summon underlings into her own office. She had
told him in an unguarded moment that she wanted to get to the top, to concentrate on her career. Work, she had said, was more
reliable than men.

Gerry Heffernan interrupted his thoughts.

‘I’ve been to see my old mate George at the coastguard station. I reckon I know where Sally Gilbert went into the water.’

Wesley sat himself down. ‘Where?’

Heffernan walked over to the large Ordnance Survey map of the area that hung on his wall, half obscured by a coat stand which
he moved to one side.

He pointed at Chadleigh Cove. ‘That’s where she was found. I told George when she disappeared and he worked out from the tides
and the currents where she was likely to have gone in.’

He consulted the scruffy sheet of paper he’d just pulled from his pocket and searched the map, frowning with concentration.
After a long silence he spoke. ‘Just about here. Monks Island. Popular tourist trap. There are lots of cliffs round there.
I reckon we should search the area.’

Wesley didn’t know whether to look impressed or sceptical. ‘How reliable is this friend of yours?’

Heffernan laughed. ‘It’s obvious you’re not a seafaring man, Wes. If you know what you’re doing it’s not hard to work out
where currents and tides would take a body. She went in around the Monks Island area, a couple of miles from where she was
found. No doubt about it.’

Wesley studied the map. ‘Have you ordered a search for her car?’

‘Already done, Wes. The uniforms are over there now. And I’ve asked a team to search the cliff path.’ He grinned smugly. ‘I
reckon we should nip over there and see how the land lies.’

Wesley sat himself down. He wanted to get things straight in his mind. ‘So what have we got so far? A lorry full of computer
equipment that Trevor Gilbert sees off Nestec’s premises is hijacked and stolen. Trevor’s estranged wife is staying with a
friend then she goes missing. According to the friend’s statement she received a letter last Friday, then she said she was
going out to meet somebody and might have something to celebrate when she got back. But she never came back. She had also
been having an affair with a mystery man. All sorts of possibilities there, I suppose.’

‘Mm. She could have been abducted to ensure Trevor’s silence; lured away by this mysterious letter . . . or the letter might
have had nothing to do with it. She could have been murdered by her long-suffering husband . . . or by her fancy man. Or by
somebody else altogether. But it’s usually the husband, isn’t it?’

‘That’s what the statistics say.’ Wesley didn’t sound too sure.

‘Trevor Gilbert arranges to meet her for a walk on the cliffs, just to talk things over. Then they have a row and he pushes
her into the sea. There are some dangerous cliffs around Monks Island.’

‘Where was he last Friday afternoon?’

‘He said he was on the late shift. In the afternoon he was on his own in the house. But we’ll have another go at him – he
could be hiding something.’ Heffernan sighed. ‘Now what about the body at Chadleigh Hall?’

‘Colin can’t tell us much about the bones, unfortunately, but I want to have another look at that room. I’d like Neil to give
his opinion, see if he picks up on anything we’ve missed. Do you remember that Della said there was building work done when
she was at school there – around the same time as one of the girls went missing?’

Heffernan nodded. ‘You reckon it could be the body of one of the schoolgirls? Taking school discipline a bit far, isn’t it?’

Wesley shook his head. ‘I’m not thinking anything at the moment. I’d just like to find out more about the hall’s past, that’s
all.’

‘But if the skeleton is as recent as the school, it means we’ve got to get the forensic team to go over it and start an investigation.’

‘Let’s not jump to conclusions. We don’t know how old it is yet.’

Heffernan looked at his colleague accusingly. ‘What’s the use of you having a ruddy archaeology degree if you can’t tell how
old a skeleton is.’

‘It’s hard to tell how old bones are just by looking, and radiocarbon dating takes a long time. But the context in which they’re
found can often give you clues,’ Wesley replied patiently. ‘That’s why I want Neil to have a look.’

‘It can’t do any harm, I suppose. Anything on the Nestec robbery?’

‘I asked Paul Johnson to have a word with any Nestec staff we haven’t spoken to yet.’

Heffernan looked at his watch. ‘We’d better get over to Monks Island and see how the search is going.’

The telephone on Heffernan’s cluttered desk began to ring. He picked it up and barked a greeting into the receiver. A few
seconds later he turned to Wesley, a wide grin on his
face. ‘They’ve found her car. It was parked outside a bungalow in the village of Littlebury on the mainland across from Monks
Island and the old couple who live there rang the local station to complain – they thought the car had been abandoned. What
did I tell you?’ he added, gloating.

Wesley said nothing.

‘Let’s get over there, then. What are we waiting for?’

Wesley hesitated. ‘We ought to call on Trevor Gilbert and tell him the post-mortem findings. Don’t you agree?’

Heffernan thought for a moment. ‘Okay. You go with Rach – she’s good with grieving relatives. Join me at the carpark at Littlebury
as soon as you’re finished.’

Wesley opened the door and watched Rachel as she worked. He wasn’t looking forward to telling Trevor Gilbert that his wife
might have been murdered. But someone had to do it.

Kayleigh Dilkes smiled up at Mrs Peterson, her favourite teacher. Pam smiled back, feeling slightly awkward.

‘Did you like the necklace, miss?’ Kayleigh, a nine-year-old with the small, pinched face of a wise pixie, spoke with a slight
lisp.

Pam hesitated. ‘It’s lovely, Kayleigh. Thank you. But . . . well, I was just a bit worried that it cost too much. It’s very
kind of your mum, but she really shouldn’t have spent that much money on me.’ She studied Kayleigh’s face for any sign of
disappointment. The last thing she wanted was to hurt the child’s feelings. Kayleigh was one of the more likeable children
in her class.

But Kayleigh smiled brightly. ‘Oh, it’s okay, miss. Someone gave it to my mum and she didn’t like it so she said I could give
it to you.’ Then the child’s face fell. ‘But if you don’t like it . . .’

‘Oh no, Kayleigh, I like it. I like it very much. Thank you.’

Kayleigh grinned with relief, displaying a set of crooked teeth. ‘That’s okay, then, miss.’

It was time for the children to go: as it was the last day of term, they were finishing early. Pam smiled benignly as Kayleigh
skipped out of the classroom to join her friends in the playground. At least she knew now that Kayleigh’s mother hadn’t spent
her own money on the present – but somehow that still didn’t solve the problem.

Pam watched Kayleigh out of the classroom window and saw that her mother was waiting for her; a vision in tight Lycra and
baggy cardigan. It would be embarrassing but she felt she had to do it and now was her chance. She shot out of the building
and hurried across the playground.

‘Ms Dilkes,’ she called cheerfully. ‘Can I just have a quick word?’

Brenda Dilkes froze and looked at Pam suspiciously. To Brenda teachers represented authority, even the young, amiable and
pregnant Mrs Peterson.

Pam was pleased to see that Kayleigh had run off with a couple of her classmates. She hadn’t wanted the child to overhear
what she had to say.

‘It was very kind of Kayleigh to give me such a lovely present,’ she began. She felt her face redden with embarrassment
but it was as well to get straight to the point. ‘Only I was a little bit worried. It looked very expensive and I wondered
if Kayleigh had taken it without you knowing.’ She adopted what she considered to be an expression of innocent concern.

Brenda Dilkes put her hand to her throat. Pam noticed a red mark there: a love bite. ‘No, it’s okay, Mrs Peterson. I told
Kayleigh she could give it to you.’

Pam smiled. ‘Are you sure? It looks very valuable. I think it’s real gold.’

Brenda smiled as though amused by the thought of a teacher making a fool of herself. ‘Oh no. It’s not gold. Can’t be.’ Then
she hesitated as though she was having second thoughts.

‘If you want it back . . . if there’s been a mistake . . . I’m sure Kayleigh would understand.’

Brenda Dilkes shook her head. ‘No. It’s okay. I’m sure it’s not worth . . . Look, someone gave it to me and Kayleigh said
you’d like it,’ Brenda gabbled nervously. ‘She’s come on so well in your class and she wanted to give you something nice.’

That was it. Pam felt she had no choice but to accept the gift graciously. She made the appropriate noises of gratitude and
walked back to the school building, conscious of Brenda’s eyes on her. She was glad that was over.

She longed to nip down to the staffroom for a cup of tea but there was too much clearing up to do on the last day of term.
She was sitting at her desk, still feeling uneasy about what she knew Wesley would call ‘her moral dilemma’, when the door
opened and Jackie Brice walked in.

Jackie was Pam’s classroom assistant: a mother of five with a large bosom and a heart to match. She had left school with no
qualifications, had married young and had become a grandmother at the age of forty. She also lived on the Tradmouth council
estate not far from Kayleigh, and she was an expert on other people’s business.

‘Jackie,’ Pam began. ‘You live near Kayleigh Dilkes, don’t you? What do you know about her family?’

Jackie had been about to remove a child’s painting from the class notice-board. But she turned to face Pam, sensing gossip,
her favourite pastime.

‘Brenda Dilkes ain’t wed, I know that much. But that’s how it is these days, ain’t it. And I don’t know who Kayleigh’s dad
is . . . mind you, I don’t expect Brenda knows neither,’ she added with a ribald laugh. ‘She spends a lot of her evenings
in the Royal Oak and I’ve heard she’s not too particular about the company she keeps.’

‘Where does Brenda work?’

‘At that posh hotel – the Tradfield Manor. And I’ve heard she cleans for a few people around here and all.’

Pam nodded, wondering whether her new necklace belonged to someone she cleaned for or to one of the hotel guests. In which
case her mother would tell her to hold on
to it. Della was a great believer in the redistribution of wealth – especially if it was redistributed in her direction.
But Wesley, of course, held more conventional views.

‘Do you know the family well?’ Pam continued, encouraging conversation. She realised how little she really knew about the
children in her class: teachers tended to see the sanitised side; the side the parents wanted them to see when they turned
up in their best clothes to parents’ evenings – if they turned up at all.

‘Oh yes, they only live in the next street. Brenda’s mother was a bit of a girl when she was young – Brenda never knew who
her dad was, you know. And her mother before her – Brenda’s gran – she had a bit of a reputation: it was said she had more
Yanks than Eisenhower in the war.’ Jackie laughed. ‘Runs in the family, I reckon.’

Pam looked down at the pile of paperwork on her desk. ‘Would you say Brenda was honest? I mean . . .’ She didn’t really know
how to continue without implying that Brenda Dilkes was a thief.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Jackie sounded wary.

‘Do you know if the family’s ever been in trouble with the police or . . .’

‘Not that I’ve heard. Why?’

‘No reason. I just didn’t know much about them, that’s all. It, er . . . helps to know the children’s backgrounds,’ she said,
hoping she was sounding professional and convincing.

‘You look worried. What is it?’ It was typical of Jackie to come straight to the point.

Pam looked up at her and realised that it would be good to confide in someone. ‘It’s just that Kayleigh gave me a present
– a necklace – and I think it’s real gold. I asked Kayleigh’s mum about it and she said someone had given it to her and she
was quite happy for Kayleigh to give it to me. I feel really embarrassed about accepting it but I don’t want to hurt Kayleigh’s
feelings. I don’t really know what to do.’