The Skeleton Room (8 page)

Jackie started to laugh. ‘It’ll be from one of Brenda’s fancy men. I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. Plenty more where
that came from, if what I hear about Brenda Dilkes is true.’

Pam smiled. Jackie’s words made her feel better. The necklace had probably been a gift from some admirer: the Royal Oak in
the centre of the town attracted tourists, sometimes wealthy ones. Or perhaps Brenda’s domestic duties at the hotel or in
private homes involved more than dusting and polishing.

Pam began to write, uncomfortably aware that Jackie was watching her. The necklace was still in her bag . . . and it seemed
that was where it would stay for the time being.

Wesley let Rachel ring the doorbell of 5 Westview Way. He looked around but the close was quiet. No net curtains twitched
in the double-glazed windows. There weren’t any net curtains full stop. The inhabitants of Westview Way probably considered
them old fashioned.

The door opened to reveal Trevor Gilbert, unshaven and red eyed. He stood aside to let them in, and Wesley noticed that his
shirt was stained with something that at first glance resembled blood but was probably tomato ketchup. Wesley went ahead of
him into the living room. The place was a mess.

Rachel, forgetting her feminist principles for the moment, offered to make a cup of tea. Trevor looked as though he needed
it. Wesley saw an empty whisky bottle on the coffee table, a sticky glass beside it. Trevor had been seeking oblivion, but
by the look of him he hadn’t found it.

‘We’re sorry to disturb you again, Mr Gilbert. We just thought we ought to tell you the result of your wife’s postmortem.’
Wesley studied his feet, feeling he was intruding on the man’s grief. But it had to be done. He just hoped that Rachel would
hurry up with the tea.

She appeared, carrying a tray. As she handed round the brightly coloured mugs made by an exclusive local pottery
– obviously Sally’s choice – Wesley decided he couldn’t delay the bad news any longer.

‘I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, Mr Gilbert, but it looks as though your wife’s death wasn’t an accident.’

‘You mean she topped herself.’ Tears began to well in Trevor Gilbert’s eyes. ‘She had no need to do that. I would have had
her back. I . . .’

Rachel intervened. ‘What Inspector Peterson’s trying to say is that Sally’s death might not have been suicide or an accident.
I’m sorry.’

Trevor almost spilt his tea. He stared at Rachel as though she’d uttered an obscenity. ‘What?’

‘We’re treating her death as suspicious,’ Wesley said gently.

‘What does that mean?’

‘We think she might have been murdered.’

‘Only think?’

‘The pathologist was pretty sure. I’m sorry.’

Trevor put his hot cup on the coffee table and cradled his head in his hands.

‘I’m afraid this changes things a bit, Trevor. I’m going to have to ask you a few questions. They’re just things we need to
know . . . nothing to worry about,’ he said reassuringly, knowing that his last statement wasn’t necessarily true.

Trevor raised his head. He had aged ten years since Wesley had first met him. ‘She wasn’t . . . she wasn’t interfered with,
was she?’ He spoke almost in a whisper.

‘There was no evidence of sexual assault,’ said Rachel, omitting to mention that a couple of days spent in the sea may have
obliterated any telltale signs.

Trevor nodded as though, to him, this was a small comfort.

‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to account for your movements on the afternoon Sally disappeared. I’m sorry.’ Wesley
hoped he sounded sympathetic. He felt
genuinely sorry for this man. Even if he had murdered his wife in a fit of rage, who knew what anguish had driven him to
it . . . and what agonies of guilt he was experiencing now?

‘I wasn’t due in work till seven. I was on the late shift, you see,’ Trevor began, his voice hoarse. ‘I went into Tradmouth
for a paper and some milk and . . . I don’t think I did much after that. I watched the cricket on the telly in the afternoon.
Did some washing. That’s it.’

‘Did you see anybody who can confirm this? Did anybody call or did you see any neighbours?’

He shook his head. ‘Didn’t see a soul. The neighbours here hardly say a word to you and I can’t remember seeing any of them.’

‘Did the postman call with a parcel . . . the milkman come for his money? Anything. Did a neighbour see you hanging the washing
out?’

‘Used the tumble dryer, didn’t I?’ He gave Wesley a sad smile, as though he knew he was doing his best.

‘Is there anybody we can call?’ Rachel sounded concerned. ‘A relative or friend? Your sister?’

‘No, love. Thanks all the same. I wouldn’t be much company. I’m better on my own.’

Rachel nodded. She’d forgive him calling her ‘love’ this once. She had to make allowances.

As they walked out into the hallway, Wesley glanced back and saw that Trevor Gilbert was opening a new bottle of whisky.

Rachel Tracey drove through the narrow country lanes and at three o’clock they reached the carpark overlooking Monks Island.
The small island lay close to the shore, topped by its white wedding cake of a hotel. At low tide you could walk there but
now, surrounded as it was by swirling water, it could only be reached by a strange vehicle resembling a tractor on stilts
that reminded Wesley of a Victorian bathing machine. He watched, fascinated, as
it swallowed its passengers and disgorged them on the island’s shore.

Gerry Heffernan was standing, shirtsleeves rolled up, breathing in the salty air and staring longingly out to sea.

They climbed from the car and strolled over to join him.

‘You took your time. How did you get on at Trevor Gilbert’s?’ The chief inspector shuffled from foot to foot impatiently.
Something was annoying him.

‘He hasn’t been able to come up with an alibi for the time she disappeared. Where’s Sally Gilbert’s car?’

‘It’s been taken back to the nick. Forensics’ll give it a good going over. It was found in a side road up behind those white
bungalows.’

The officers who were to carry out the search of the cliff tops stood around in groups, talking quietly. A gaggle of curious
tourists loitered some way off, staring. A few families watched, licking ice creams, their holiday entertainment provided
courtesy of the local constabulary. Gerry Heffernan turned and looked at them and Wesley feared he was about to make some
witty remark that might damage relations between police and public. But he held his tongue for once.

‘Let’s get on, Wes. I can’t do with an audience. If I wanted to be watched while I was working I’d have gone on the stage.’

‘What about the search of the cliff tops?’

‘We’ve got all available officers on it. But it’s a big job. At least it hasn’t rained since Friday . . . which makes a change.’

‘Her car’s been found here so it looks as though your friend George was right. She must have gone into the sea somewhere near
by. What about the island?’

‘They’re searching the cliffs on the seaward side.’ Heffernan thought for a moment. ‘If someone arranged to meet her, the
island would be a good place. It’s popular with visitors but most of them stick to the hotel or the café and pub down near
the shore. If she met her murderer in
the café and he suggested they go for a walk round the island . . .’

‘Sounds feasible. We’ll just have to see what the search comes up with.’

Heffernan nodded as he looked longingly at a child’s chocolate ice cream. They would have to wait and see.

Detective Constable Paul Johnson drove out of Tradmouth with Steve Carstairs sitting silently beside him in the passenger
seat.

As they turned onto the Neston road Steve broke the silence. ‘Did you know Harry Marchbank’s back?’

‘Yeah. I saw him coming out of the office yesterday. How is he?’

Paul followed the signs to the Neston industrial estate.

‘Same as ever.’

Paul didn’t answer. He had been a probationer when Marchbank had left and he couldn’t say he was sorry to see the back of
him. DS Marchbank had been an arrogant sod: Paul much preferred his successor, Wesley Peterson.

‘What’s he doing down here?’

‘He thinks one of his villains has gone to ground on our patch . . . a bloke who murdered his wife.’

‘And?’

‘He’s looking for him, isn’t he?’

There was a note of sarcasm in Steve’s voice which Paul ignored. He knew Steve Carstairs too well to rise to his bait. ‘Here
we are,’ he said as he steered the car through an open pair of metal gates that bore the name ‘Nestec’. The building ahead
of him was long, low and glaringly new. Five years ago the Neston industrial estate had been green fields.

The two policemen parked in the designated area for visitors, and as they walked towards the main entrance they passed a lorry
that was being loaded with cardboard boxes. Paul remembered that Trevor Gilbert was warehouse manager here. Trevor Gilbert’s
wife was dead and, according
to Rachel Tracey, Trevor was at home. But this one man’s personal tragedy hadn’t slowed the wheels of commerce. Nobody was
indispensable.

They reported to the receptionist, a plain woman with frizzy hair whose spectacles dangled from a gold chain around her neck.
She asked them to wait, but they hardly had time to make themselves comfortable on the grey designer chairs provided for waiting
visitors before a tall, fair-haired man appeared, his hand outstretched in greeting. Paul shook the hand firmly and made the
introductions.

‘Sebastian Wilde,’ he said with a wide smile. ‘I was expecting your DCI Heffernan or . . .’

‘I’m afraid DCI Heffernan’s busy, sir. You’ll have heard that your warehouse manager’s wife has been found dead.’

Sebastian Wilde’s broad, freckled face assumed an expression of sincere concern. ‘Terrible business. I’ve told Trevor to take
as much time off as he needs, of course. And I said if there’s anything we can do . . .’

‘We’re treating Mrs Gilbert’s death as suspicious.’

Wilde’s mouth opened in shock. ‘That’s terrible. We all assumed it was an accident. Do you mean she was murdered?’

‘It looks that way, sir. If we could have a word in private . . .’ Paul glanced at the receptionist, who was making a great
show of not listening.

Wilde ushered them into his office. ‘If I can help in any way . . .’ he began as he sat down in a large black leather chair.

Paul and Steve sat in smaller chairs on the other side of the desk. Paul sneaked a look around the office; a model of sleek
simplicity, designed by someone with a liking for grey and stainless steel.

Paul took out his notebook and Steve gave him a hostile glance. ‘How well did you know Mrs Gilbert?’

‘I met her on social occasions, of course. I often throw parties for my staff or take them out for dinner. I like to think
of Nestec as one big happy family. A happy
workforce is a successful workforce, you know. They deserve some reward for all their hard work.’

Paul looked Wilde in the eye. ‘Have you considered the possibility that Trevor Gilbert was mixed up in the hijacking of your
lorry? The man on the inside, as it were.’

Wilde shook his head. ‘Trevor’s been with me since I started the company. I’d say he was completely trustworthy.’

Steve sat forward. Paul was doing too much of the talking. ‘You see, our DCI reckons that Sally Gilbert’s death might be connected
with your stuff being nicked. What if her husband gave information to the villains and then they abducted Sally to keep him
quiet? What if it all went wrong and they ended up killing her? It happens.’

Paul thought Steve was pushing it a bit. He noticed that the colour had drained from Wilde’s face.

‘Surely not in this case. I told you, I’d stake my life on Trevor being completely trustworthy. Ask anyone here. Ask the warehouse
staff: they’ll all say the same.’

‘We might just do that,’ said Steve with a hint of menace.

Paul tried the gentler approach. ‘Do you know of anyone who might have a grudge against Mr Gilbert . . . or the company? Any
sacked employee or . . .’

Wilde spread his large hands on the desk, a gesture of openness. ‘Nobody at all. I always choose my staff carefully, Constable.
Most of them have been with me since Nestec started up. It’s a family firm and there’s never been any bad feeling: none at
all.’

‘We would like to talk to Mr Gilbert’s colleagues, if that’s convenient,’ said Paul as Steve shot him another hostile glance.

‘Of course. Anything to help.’

Wilde stood up, smiling helpfully. ‘If there’s anything you need just let me or my secretary know.’

‘Nice bloke that Mr Wilde,’ Paul observed as they made their way to Nestec’s warehouse.

Steve grunted and said nothing.

When Rachel got back from Monks Island she decided to take Trish Walton with her to the Tradfield Manor Hotel. Some instinct
told her that Lisa Marriott would talk more openly to a couple of women.

In days gone by the Tradfield Manor would have been described as a ‘gentleman’s residence’. But ten years ago, at the time
when the average gentleman couldn’t support twenty-three bedrooms and extensive stables, it had been acquired by Kilburn Leisure,
which had transformed the main house into a country hotel and the stables into a health club.

It was well known that Kilburn Leisure had just acquired Chadleigh Hall near Millicombe too. The company seemed to be spreading
its octopus-like tentacles all over the area. But then, with the difficulties faced by farming and fishing, leisure and tourism
were becoming the lifeblood of the region. And leisure was Kilburn Leisure’s business.

Rachel and Trish watched the well-heeled clientele saunter into the health club with something approaching envy. They too
longed to relax in the sauna, to swim in the azure waters of the pool or to be massaged and pampered by the team of well-manicured
beauticians. But they had a job to do.

As they entered the building music oozed from discreetly concealed speakers. The usual repertoire of light classics and songs
from a more leisured age added to the ambience of easy elegance – just what Kilburn Leisure had ordered.